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Chapter Text

The 1st of September came quickly, and once again, Harry sat through the Sorting Ceremony, the familiar hum of chatter and the Sorting Hat’s declarations filling the Great Hall. Yet, the day felt heavier than it should have.

Harry barely touched his food, prodding at it aimlessly. Cedric’s lifeless face lingered in his mind, the weight of his death pressing into him alongside the terrifying truth of Voldemort’s return. It had been months, but the graveyard, the green light, and the cold certainty of the Dark Lord’s return… it still haunted him.

“Harry, are you alright?” Hermione whispered, her brow furrowing as she leaned closer.

Harry gave a faint nod, unwilling to voice the turmoil within. He glanced up briefly at the staff table. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Antonio Selwyn, sat with an imposing air. His sharp, aristocratic features and the dark aura surrounding him made Harry feel uneasy, and from the way Dumbledore's lips were pursed, the Headmaster wasn’t really thrilled either. But… Harry guessed it was still better than a puppet of the Ministry.

“Victor Bennett!” Professor Flitwick called, and a nervous-looking first year stumbled toward the Sorting Hat.

“Where’s McGonagall?” Ron asked, glancing around. “Feels weird seeing Dumbledore and Flitwick doing the sorting instead of her.”

“Probably busy or ill. Or maybe she’s spying on the Ministry,” Hermione theorised as the first year was sorted into Ravenclaw.

The ceremony proceeded uneventfully until Dumbledore moved to remove the Sorting Hat, signaling the end. But then—

“Hold on a moment!” McGonagall’s voice rang out from the entrance.

The hall collectively turned, and there she stood with a tall figure in neutral Hogwarts robes at her side. The figure was far too tall to be a first year student.

“We have one more to sort,” she said firmly, leading the newcomer toward the front of the hall.

Whispers erupted across the room, echoing from the high ceilings. A transfer student? Those were practically unheard of. In Harry’s four years of being here there never had been one before.

Harry didn’t pay much attention at first, still caught in his brooding thoughts, pushing his food around, until… the murmurs turned to outright gushing.

“He’s so cute!” a girl squealed.

“Merlin’s beard, who is he?” a boy asked in disbelief.

“Shush, he’s coming this way!”

Even Ron choked on his food, his eyes widening as he looked toward the commotion. “Bloody hell… bloke’s magnificent,” he muttered.

Curious, Harry finally looked up.

And his breath caught.

Walking down the center aisle was a tall boy with jet-black hair that was styled meticulously, framing his face in the most perfect way. The sharpest jawline, broad shoulders, and features that radiated charm—his smile, though polite, seemed almost shy, as if overwhelmed by the attention he was receiving. For a split second, Harry’s mind failed to process the sight.

Then, their eyes met.

Harry froze. A sharp, visceral jolt shot through him as recognition struck.

Tom Riddle.

His stomach churned violently as he stared at the boy walking toward Dumbledore. But there was something off. This Tom looked startled by Harry’s reaction, his eyes flitting as if he did not recognise Harry at all. He hesitated, his smile faltering into a nervous expression that seemed misplaced on a face so familiar.

Dumbledore stiffened visibly at the boy’s approach, his normally serene demeanor replaced with something akin to horror. Professor Mcgonagall sent a confused look at the Headmaster’s reluctance. Yet the boy—no, Riddle—seemed unaware, his attention shifting to Professor Flitwick, who offered a kind smile and urged him toward the Sorting stool.

But then, something mind boggling happened. With a casual flick of Riddle’s hand—no wand, no incantation—the low stool expanded to accommodate him. Gasps rippled through the hall at the display of wandless magic, and Riddle sat expectantly, smiling at the professors, being pulled into a conversation by Mcgonagall and Flitwick.

“Hermione. Cast a spell so we can listen to him,” Harry whispered urgently.

“What?! That would be rude, Harry. Why would you—” Hermione began, but the pale, haunted look on Harry’s face stopped her mid-sentence. Without further protest, she muttered the incantation, her wand aimed subtly toward the professors.

“—you have to excuse our Headmaster,” McGonagall was saying, her voice calm and tinged with gentleness. “The last few weeks have been rather hectic for him.”

“It’s alright, Professor,” Riddle replied, his voice smooth, polite, and entirely too pleasant. “I’ve been dreaming of getting into Hogwarts. With my father returning, I can finally do so. I’m glad.”

“Father… what…?” Harry whispered, his voice tight and shaky.

“Harry? What’s going on, mate?” Ron asked, his voice filled with concern.

“Shush,” Harry hissed, his eyes locked on the boy sitting on the stool, his mind failing to comprehend what he was seeing.

Next to Riddle, Dumbledore’s gaze immediately sharpened. The usual twinkle in his eyes was absent, replaced by a piercing intensity. His voice carried a sternness that was rarely heard. If ever.

“Your name. Tell me your name,” the Headmaster demanded.

Riddle blinked, startled by the tone, his composure faltering briefly. McGonagall shot Dumbledore a warning glare, but remained silent.

“Um… Magnus Thomas Riddle, sir. Is… is something wrong?” Riddle asked, his polite demeanor now tinged once more with nervousness.

At that moment, Harry felt a chill run down his spine, one he was sure was mirrored by Dumbledore. For the briefest moment, the Headmaster’s usually unshakable calm cracked, but he recovered quickly, his expression softening.

“Ah, forgive me, Mr. Riddle. You reminded me of someone,” Dumbledore said, his voice regaining its familiar warmth.

“Oh.” Riddle’s brows knitted in concern before his expression cleared. “Um… I hope not my father, but it probably is my father.” He sighed softly, as if resigned to the connection.

Dumbledore chuckled lightly, though it was clear to Harry that it was forced. “Unfortunately, yes. We shall continue this conversation later then, Mr. Riddle?”

“Yes, Professor. I’d love to.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat and addressed the students, but Harry wasn’t listening. His focus was entirely on the boy—no, the thing—that had just walked into the Great Hall. Around him, whispers spread like wildfire, and Harry’s stomach churned as he noticed the lovestruck expressions on many of the students’ faces. Even Hermione seemed momentarily dazzled.

They didn’t know. They had no idea who—or what—they were looking at. This was Voldemort. Or at least, something close enough to him to set every nerve in Harry’s body on edge.

Were there more like the diary out there? How was this even possible? And more importantly—how was he supposed to stop it?

“Dear students,” Dumbledore’s voice rang out, commanding attention once more, “today we are sorting an additional student. A fifth-year to join you in your studies. Please welcome Magnus Thomas Riddle.”

The hall erupted into applause, though it faltered slightly among the Slytherins. The name ‘Riddle,’ a Muggle name, seemed to sour their enthusiasm. Riddle, however, appeared unfazed. He gave a graceful bow in his seated position, his charming smile firmly in place.

“Harry.” Hermione’s voice was low but urgent. “What’s going on? Why are you staring at him like that?”

“After,” Harry whispered, his voice clipped.

When the Sorting Hat was placed on Riddle’s head, Harry expected an immediate declaration for Slytherin, but instead, there was a long pause. Riddle’s expression grew focused, as if he were engaged in a deep internal conversation with the Sorting Hat.

It was a hatstall, Harry recognised. A minute… two… five…

Dumbledore was watching Riddle with eagle eyes, deciphering every line on his face. And Harry did too, but he was never quite blessed with the ability to read people. Finally, Riddle nodded, and the hat announced:

“Slytherin!”

The Slytherin table applauded, though the claps were noticeably subdued. Riddle didn’t seem bothered. His smile remained, and he moved with confident grace toward the table.

But before he left the platform, Riddle turned back to Dumbledore, his brow furrowed slightly. “Say, Professor,” he asked, his voice carrying an air of curiosity, “do you sort the students based on personality or… values?”

Dumbledore studied him for a moment, his piercing gaze meeting Riddle’s without flinching. “The hat first considers who you are on the inside, Mr. Riddle, before giving great weight to the principles you hold dear.”

Riddle nodded thoughtfully to the explanation. “It said that I would fit into any house but settled on either Gryffindor or Slytherin. It asked me whether I valued ambition or bravery more. I reasoned that since ambition often requires bravery… I chose ambition. Did I… choose wrong?” He asked as he glanced at the Slytherin table, his smile faltering slightly. “My foster family wanted me in Slytherin, and my father was a Slytherin, but they seem… rather unfriendly.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned in worry. “I’m sure you’ll do well in any house, Mr. Riddle,” she said as she gestured to Snape. “And if your housemates give you trouble because of your family’s Muggle name, do report them to your Head of House. Professor Severus Snape.”

The sallow man then stood, inclining his head slightly. Riddle’s smile returned, though it seemed more reserved. He followed Snape to the Slytherin table, his posture calm, his expression composed. Harry’s heart, however, was anything but calm.

Harry couldn’t focus. How could anyone concentrate on a feast when Voldemort himself—or something like him—was sitting just a few tables away?

Riddle, or whatever he truly was, sat at the Slytherin table, seemingly oblivious to the waves of adoration still rippling through the Great Hall. He was dining alone, a slight furrow on his brow as though puzzled by the empty space around him, the reluctance of the Slytherins. It wasn’t until Nott got up and took the seat beside him that Riddle’s face brightened, his smile making him look startlingly human. Startlingly normal.

Harry tore his eyes away, his heart pounding as he pushed his plate aside. “Are you two done?” he asked, his voice tighter than he’d intended.

Ron looked up mid-chew, his mouth stuffedwith food. He hurriedly swallowed, chugging pumpkin juice to wash it down, before giving a nod. Hermione glanced at Harry with concern but didn’t comment.

“Let’s go,” Harry said sharply.

The three of them entered the Gryffindor common room, which was still blissfully empty, the rest of the house lingering at the feast. Harry sank into one of the armchairs near the fire, his knees weak and his mind racing. Ron and Hermione followed, watching him carefully as he pressed his hands to his temples.

“Harry, what is going on?” Hermione asked softly after a moment of silence.

Harry lowered his hands, took a deep breath, and looked at them with an intensity that made both of his friends stiffen.

“That Riddle…” Harry started, his voice low but firm. “He’s Voldemort.”

“What?!” Ron and Hermione exclaimed in unison, recoiling as if he’d just sprouted another head.

Harry nodded grimly. “He looks exactly like him—the form that almost killed Ginny in the Chamber. The exact same. Except…” He paused, struggling to find the words. “His eyes. His smile… they’re different.”

“How? Different how?” Hermione asked, her voice hesitant, as if afraid of the answer.

“His eyes,” Harry explained, his voice quieter now. “They were dark when he came out of the diary. Brown, almost black. But this… this Riddle’s eyes are blue. And his smile—it seemed natural. It wasn’t cold or feral like the diary’s. It felt… real.”

“Could it be possible that…” Hermione started, trailing off as if the thought was too strange to voice.

“That he’s actually Voldemort’s son?” Ron finished, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah… but why? Why enroll him now? If it’s to spy on us, it doesn’t make sense. Voldemort would be sending his… son… straight into enemy territory. Dumbledore’s here, after all. No matter how powerful or gifted Riddle might be, it’s a risk.”

“Or he just doesn’t care,” Hermione suggested, her tone clinical.

Harry’s stomach churned. “Or he just doesn’t care…” he echoed, the words heavy.

“This is You Know Who we’re talking about. He might not care at all about the fate of his son,” Ron theorised. He then leaned forward, trying to inject some reassurance. “Look, mate, Dumbledore will know what to do. He always does. And he’ll make sure you’re safe.”

Harry didn’t feel reassured, but he nodded anyway. Ron continued, “We’ve got DADA first thing tomorrow—with the Slytherins. Maybe we’ll learn something about him then.”

Damn it. Harry’s stomach twisted again at the thought. He could practically feel the tension of the next day pressing in on him already. Riddle—no, Magnus, or whoever he was—would be there, just a few seats away.

Calm down, Harry, he told himself, repeating the mantra over and over in his head. Calm down. At least if Riddle tries to Avada Kedavra you from the back, they’ll be able to take a part of Voldemort down with you…

But he’d be dead. Dead.

Damn it.

Chapter Text

Without realising it, the next day had already arrived. Harry was barely asleep last night. Every time Harry closed his eyes, Cedric’s lifeless stare haunted him, the memory tethered to Voldemort’s triumphant sneer. It was relentless, and by the time he stumbled into the restroom, he felt hollow. 

“Morning!” A cheerful voice greeted him, breaking through his thoughts. Harry barely acknowledged it, responding with a noncommittal hum as he washed his hands.

“Are you Harry Potter? Must’ve been awkward seeing me yesterday evening, huh?”

Harry froze mid-rinse, a sinking feeling pooling in his stomach. What was this bloke talking about? He had no time for small talk, especially with Voldemort’s plans looming over him. His spawn—

Shit.

“Tom Riddle!” Harry gasped, spinning around so fast he nearly stumbled. His hands clutched the edge of the wash basin for support.

The tall boy startled, his wide blue eyes blinking in surprise. “T-that would be me,” Riddle said cautiously. Then, as if a switch flipped, curiosity and excitement flickered across his features. “Wait—how do you know they call me Tom at home?” he asked excitedly.

Harry’s blood ran cold. His gaze darted around the restroom, searching frantically for anyone—someone—but the room was empty. No witnesses,  nobody to see him get murdered.

“Y–you! S–shit!” Harry exclaimed, his voice cracking. His heart pounded as he stared at the boy—the impossibly familiar boy—before him.

Tom tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing. “I… um, I came to apologize,” he began hesitantly, his gaze dropping to the floor as if weighed down by shame. “My father… he tried to murder you when you were a baby. And he killed your parents too. I’m so sorry for that, Potter. I don’t know if I can ever do anything to make it right.”

With that, Tom bowed deeply, lowering his head to a full ninety degrees. The gesture was so unexpected, so utterly foreign, that Harry stood frozen in shock.

“W–what are you talking about? You’re literally him!” Harry finally blurted, his voice trembling.

Tom straightened slowly, and the light in his expression dimmed. “I really do look like him, huh?” he asked softly, a melancholy smile tugging at his lips. “I’m sorry… that’s why you’re spooked so badly...”

Harry tried to form words, but nothing came out. His mind reeled as he stared at the boy—the boy who should never, ever wear such an expression he was currently wearing.

When Harry didn’t respond, Riddle’s shoulders sagged, his disappointment palpable. “Come on,” he murmured, nodding toward the door. “Let’s get to class. We’ve got first period together.”

Harry stayed rooted to the spot, his mind whirling with confusion and unease. Just as Riddle turned to leave, he hesitated, his gaze flicking to Harry’s damp robes. Without a moment’s pause, he reached for his wand.

Harry yelped, instinctively raising his arms as if to shield himself. His heart thundered as the memory of green light seared vividly in his mind. But no curse came. Instead, Tom flicked his wand with practiced ease and cast a drying charm. Warmth spread through the fabric of Harry’s robes as they were instantly rid of moisture.

“There,” Tom said softly, slipping his wand back into his pocket. His blue eyes were downcast, his voice tinged with regret. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to startle you again. I’ll see you later, Potter.”

Harry could only stare as Riddle walked away, his tall frame disappearing through the restroom door. There was a strange heaviness to Riddle’s retreat, as though Harry’s reaction had wounded him.

What… what just happened? Harry thought, his heart still hammering in his chest. Why in the bloody hell did Harry feel bad for bloody Voldemort?

Harry arrived at the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, his stomach knotting with tension. His eyes were immediately drawn to Tom Riddle, seated alone at the very front of the Slytherin section. His posture was impeccable, his hands folded neatly on the desk, but his expression was strange—a mixture of indifference and faint disappointment. It was as though he didn’t care about the isolation but couldn’t entirely ignore it.

It was, once again, human.

Harry then frowned. Where was Theodore Nott? He had assumed Nott was Riddle’s friend, but the boy was conspicuously absent. What had happened?

Ron and Hermione waved at him, gesturing toward their usual seats, but Harry found himself disregarding their silent pleas. Against all logic, he walked straight to the front of the room and slid into the seat beside Riddle. The move sent ripples through the classroom, earning surprised glances from both Slytherins and Gryffindors alike.

Tom glanced up, his deep blue eyes widening in clear bewilderment. The expression on his face was unguarded, almost vulnerable, and it caught Harry off guard once more.

Before Harry could process his thoughts, a familiar sneer sliced through the classroom.

“Aww, poor Potter,” Malfoy drawled, his voice dripping with malice. “His boyfriend died in the tournament, and now he’s looking for a replacement. Halfblood Potter with his Mudblood boyfriend.”

Crabbe and Goyle erupted in their usual grating laughter, their amusement echoing obnoxiously across the room. Harry’s fists clenched, his anger simmering, but before he could open his mouth to retort, Riddle stood abruptly, his demeanor shifting in an instant.

“I’ve tolerated your shite long enough, Malfoy,” Riddle said, his voice low and cutting. The tone was eerily familiar, sending a chill down Harry’s spine. It was a voice he hadn’t heard since the Chamber of Secrets.

Malfoy, already standing, glared up at Riddle, but the comparison was laughable. Riddle towered over him, his frame tall and imposing, his presence commanding. Where Malfoy looked petulant and puffed-up, Riddle radiated an effortless command that silenced the room. The contrast was stark, next to Riddle’s striking, intimidating presence, he looked positively pathetic.

“You dare talk back to me, Mudblood?” Malfoy spat, his voice quivering with rage. The slur made Riddle’s jaw tighten, his blue eyes darkening like a gathering storm. It didn’t go unnoticed by Malfoy.

“I’ll have you know my father is a very powerful man,” Malfoy added, his tone gaining a desperate edge. “I can make your life in the Wizarding World utterly miserable.”

Tom’s lips curled into a sharp, humourless smile. “You? Make my life miserable? That’s rich,” he said, his voice dripping with derision. “You, who took hours to cast a simple Vomit Jinx? You want to challenge me?”

He leaned in closer, so close their foreheads were nearly touching. His eyes gleamed with an intensity that was almost unbearable, and Harry couldn’t help but be reminded of the Riddle he had faced in the Chamber of Secrets. The memory sent a shiver skittering down his spine.

“I can end your life without speaking a word,” Riddle hissed, his voice a deadly whisper. “Before you even have the chance to draw your wand. Want to test me, Malfoy?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Malfoy’s pale face turned ashen, his bravado disintegrating under the weight of Riddle’s gaze. With a muttered curse, he sank back into his seat, his expression a mix of humiliation and fury. It was a familiar scene—Malfoy’s bark proving greater than his bite—but watching Tom Riddle dismantle him was somehow even more satisfying.

Riddle sat down, his irritation still evident in the tightness of his jaw. Harry hesitated before speaking, the tension between them palpable.

“Uh… thanks for that, Riddle,” Harry said awkwardly, his voice uncertain.

Tom turned to him, his eyes still hard. “I didn’t do it for you,” he said sharply. “Malfoy’s been a pain in my arse, spitting ‘Mudblood’ and other rubbish. He even tried to curse me once, and Theo got hit instead. I’ve had enough.”

“Oh,” Harry replied lamely, unsure how to respond.

“But…” Tom added, his voice softening as his gaze flickered to Harry. “You’re welcome.”

Harry blinked, startled by the shift in tone. So that’s what happened to Nott, he thought grimly. Bloody Malfoy.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Antonio Selwyn, was… surprisingly normal. His demeanor was pleasant yet stern, a far cry from what Harry had braced himself for. Given the man’s aura—an unmistakable air of dark magic—Harry had expected someone cruel, intimidating, or outright oppressive. Instead, Selwyn was composed, professional, and disarmingly articulate. Still, there was an undeniable edge to him, a sharpness beneath the polished exterior that kept Harry on edge.

The lesson itself was uneventful, mostly theoretical, and Harry’s attention drifted almost immediately. He found himself watching Tom—Magnus Riddle, who was seated a few rows ahead. Riddle was entirely engrossed, scribbling notes with an intensity that bordered on comical. His brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue peeking out ever so slightly as if it might help him focus better.

The sight was so absurdly human that Harry almost laughed. How could this be the same person— or something like him —who had loomed over Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets, cruel and calculating? This bloke looked like a bloody child, and the contrast was so jarring that Harry found himself equally unsettled and oddly amused.

As he watched the bloke work, Harry’s own parchment remained pristine, untouched save for a few idle doodles in the margins. Writing notes seemed like an impossible task when his thoughts were so consumed by the bizarre reality of sharing a classroom with Riddle.

Selwyn began to pace the room, his sharp gaze scanning the students. When he stopped beside Harry and Riddle, Harry felt his stomach drop.

“Thomas,” Selwyn addressed, his voice warm yet commanding. “How’s your first day at school?”

Harry blinked, taken aback. The tone of familiarity was unmistakable. Did… did they know each other?

“It’s fine, unc—uh, sorry. Professor,” Riddle stammered, catching himself. A faint flush colored his cheeks.

Harry’s mind whirred. Had he almost called Selwyn ‘Uncle’? Were they already acquainted before?

Selwyn didn’t react, merely nodding. “Good. Let me know if anyone gives you trouble, understood?”

Harry nearly blurted out something about Malfoy but stopped himself. Riddle, calm and composed, answered smoothly. “Understood.”

Selwyn’s approving nod shifted toward Harry, his sharp gaze landing on the clean parchment in front of him. An eyebrow arched.

“Potter,” Selwyn began, his tone clipped. “Elements of a displacement jinx?”

Harry froze. His mind scrambled for an answer. “Uh… point and say the incantation?”

Selwyn sighed, disappointment dripping from the sound. “I am asking for the fundamentals, Mr. Potter. What is the basis of the spell? Where should you aim? Under what circumstances is it best utilised?”

Heat rushed to Harry’s face. “No notes?” Selwyn pressed, his voice tinged with disapproval.

Harry gulped and shook his head. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Riddle sliding his notes subtly toward him. It was a small gesture, but one that filled Harry with a flicker of gratitude.

Before he could even glance at the notes, preparing himself to answer, Selwyn had moved on, his voice rising as he launched into a pointed lecture.

“Shame,” Selwyn said, pacing the front of the room. “Your education is not a joke, Mr. Potter. Some of you may think this theoretical foundation is ‘boring’ or ‘irrelevant,’ but allow me to disabuse you of that notion. Poor preparation leads to poor execution. Poor execution leads to failure. And failure…”

He went on, and on, and on, painting vivid, dramatic scenarios of spellwork gone awry. His words were cutting, his delivery relentless.

“And… there he goes,” Riddle muttered under his breath, low enough for Harry to hear. The quiet comment nearly made Harry laugh, but he quickly smothered the urge.

Minutes stretched unbearably. The students sat in uncomfortable silence, unsure whether to take notes or simply endure the lecture. Finally, Hermione, whom patience was evidently also frayed, raised her hand.

“Professor?” she called out tentatively.

“Yes, Miss Granger?” Selwyn replied, his sharp tone softening slightly.

“The class ended three minutes ago,” Hermione said pointedly, though there was a note of weariness in her voice.

Selwyn blinked, glancing at the clock. His expression brightened almost comically. “Ah, yes!” he exclaimed, his tone turning pleasant. “Very well. Class dismissed. Please, carry on.”

He gestured toward the door with a flourish, and the students needed no further encouragement. They packed up quickly, eager to escape.

As Harry stuffed his things into his bag, he caught Riddle’s eye. The bloke’s expression was calm, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he stood and headed for the door, Harry following closely behind.

“See you later, Potter,” Riddle sing-songed as they exited the classroom, his voice light and teasing.

“Wait! Riddle!” Harry called out, surprising even himself. The bloke stopped in his tracks, turning back with a curious expression.

Harry didn’t know why he was stopping him—Voldemort Jr., of all people—but here he was. Maybe it was his unease about letting Riddle wander freely around the castle, potentially killing innocent Muggleborns.

Riddle turned fully, a searching look on his unfairly handsome face. His features, open and curious, made Harry second guess himself. 

“Want to… want to get lunch with us?” Harry finally blurted, his words awkward and rushed.

“Harry!” Hermione hissed, her voice sharp with disapproval. Her eyes darted between Harry and Riddle, clearly questioning his sanity.

At Hermione’s reaction, Riddle’s expression faltered. The subtle frown that crossed his face was almost enough to make Harry feel guilty. “Uh… I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Riddle murmured. His tone was hesitant, almost apologetic. “Might be awkward because of… you know. My father.”

Harry’s resolve tightened. He needed to act quickly—if Riddle stayed close, Harry could keep an eye on him. He could watch for any signs of danger, any hint of Voldemort’s influence creeping through.

“I don’t care about that rubbish,” Harry said firmly, waving off Riddle’s concerns. “Unless you turn murderous like your, uh… father, I wouldn’t care.” He hesitated, his voice dropping slightly. “You wouldn’t… would you?”

For a moment, Riddle stared at him, his blue eyes widening in disbelief. Then, to Harry’s surprise, he placed a hand over his chest in a grand, exaggerated gesture. “I swear, murder is the farthest thing from my mind!” he proclaimed dramatically, his voice laced with playful theatrics.

The sincerity in his over-the-top delivery was so unexpected, so ridiculous, that it managed to coax a small smile from Harry despite himself.

Lunch went far better than Harry had anticipated—or at least, it wasn’t the disaster he’d been bracing for. Tom Riddle sat amidst the Gryffindors, surrounded by curious and cautious faces. The Slytherins, for the most part, seemed indifferent to his absence. Some even looked relieved to have him sitting elsewhere.

At first, there were the expected stares, but Harry soon realised they weren’t wary glances—they were outright ogling. Lustful, admiring looks followed Riddle’s every movement, especially from the girls. Even Hermione, who usually had a sharper focus on her studies, occasionally stole glances at him when she thought no one was looking.

Harry shuddered. This was Voldemort’s son they were swooning over. It was surreal. He could almost understand now how Voldemort had amassed so many followers in his youth; his charm must have been just as potent as his magic. Harry could vividly imagine Voldemort using his good looks and charisma to sway the pureblood elite, manipulating them with ease.

Desperate to redirect his thoughts, Harry cleared his throat. “So,” he began, leaning forward slightly, “tell us about yourself.”

Riddle hesitated briefly, as though weighing how much to share. Then, slowly, he began speaking about his life with the Notts. His words were tentative at first, but as he grew more comfortable, warmth crept into his tone. He spoke fondly of Mrs. Nott, who had passed away nearly a decade ago, and of Mr. Nott, who had ensured he received the best magical education money could buy. Riddle painted a picture of a sheltered but well-prepared upbringing, one that had left him grateful yet isolated.

“And Theo,” Riddle added, his expression softening, “he’s been like a brother to me. He’s quiet, but he’s always been there.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he smirked. “That’s why Malfoy’s currently out of commission.”

Harry blinked. “Wait—what?”

Riddle’s lips curved into a mischievous smile. “We passed Malfoy on the way to lunch earlier. I might’ve… gently encouraged him to trip and hit his nose on the floor.”

Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, though Harry noticed the corners of her lips twitching. “Because he accidentally cursed Nott?” she asked, her tone caught between chastisement and amusement.

Riddle nodded, his smile fading slightly. “We're like brothers, as I said. Or at least, I hope he feels the same way about me. Uncle Nott kept me hidden for most of my life, so I didn’t grow up with many people. Theo’s been my only real friend.”

Harry frowned, an unexpected pang of understanding resonating in his chest. He, too, had grown up isolated, treated as though he were something to be ashamed of. He pushed the thought away, unwilling to dwell on it.

“Will you be offended if I say I’m still wary of you because of… well, your dad?” Harry asked cautiously.

Riddle shook his head. “You'd be mad if you weren’t,” he admitted. “Honestly, I don’t blame you. If you’ve got questions, feel free to ask. I’ll answer what I can, though I don’t really know much about my father.”

“Really?” Hermione leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. “What do you know about him, then?”

Riddle’s shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. “Besides the fact that he’s the darkest wizard who had ever lived? Not much. He started a wizarding revolution, practised the darkest of magics, killed people… and that includes babies, apparently.” He winced slightly, sending an apologetic glance in Harry’s direction.

“He doesn’t talk to me much. When he does, it’s usually about my magical progress or training. To be honest, he doesn’t seem like a murderous person when he’s speaking to you, pretty calm and all… but the appearance he chose? Yeah, definitely a monster,” he added with an awkward chuckle.

Harry narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “You see, here’s the thing…” he trailed off, watching Riddle nod eagerly, looking like the neighbour's overexcited labrador retriever next to the Dursleys’. “Why, of all names, are you called Magnus Thomas Riddle? He despises his name.”

Riddle rubbed the back of his neck, looking slightly sheepish. “Yeah… that’s all Uncle Theodorus’ doing. I don’t know the full story, but my father’s very touchy about his name. I’d rather not get Uncle Theodorus in trouble, so… sorry.”

Harry hummed in acknowledgment, his mind churning with questions he didn’t yet know how to ask.

“Well,” Riddle said brightly, standing and brushing imaginary dust off his robes. “Thanks for lunch. I need to check on Theo before afternoon class. See you lot tomorrow!”

He walked away with an easy cheerfulness, leaving behind a trail of sighs from besotted Gryffindor girls. Harry shook his head, exasperated. Of course Voldemort’s son would have an aura that charmed even the lions.

“Merlin, mate! You can’t just bring a Slytherin over like that!” Seamus burst out the moment Riddle was out of sight, his voice thick with disbelief.

“He seems fine. Nice bloke,” Dean replied with a shrug, casually reaching for another piece of roast.

“Still! A snake!” Seamus shot back, gesturing wildly as if Harry had just committed a cardinal sin. “You can’t just ignore centuries of house rivalries because he smiles nicely.”

Harry only half-listened to their back-and-forth, his attention drifting as a different conversation floated down the table. Lavender Brown, her cheeks flushed and eyes dreamy, leaned conspiratorially toward Parvati, her voice just loud enough to carry.

“Do you think red and green go well together?” Lavender asked, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger.

Parvati tilted her head, considering. “It might. Very bold, don’t you think? Gryffindor and Slytherin—opposites attract and all that.”

“Oh, it’s so romantic,” Lavender gushed, clasping her hands under her chin. “Imagine a Gryffindor girl sneaking around with a tall, dark-haired Slytherin prince, sitting under the stars—possibly snogging.”

“Imagine snogging him while he insisted that it’s not proper,” Parvati added, her own cheeks growing pink. “But he doesn’t pull away because he’s just so… needy.”

“Oh, stop it you!” Lavender squealed, smacking her friend’s arm lightly, though she was clearly enjoying the imagery.

“Ans his eyes,” another girl chimed in, practically sighing. “When he was looking at Potter earlier? So intense. I want him to look at me like that.”

The conversation spiraled into a chorus of giggles and squeals, each girl adding her own flourish to the fantasy.

Harry stared, dumbstruck. They were swooning. Over Voldemort’s son. Voldemort’s actual son.

Before he could dwell on the absurdity of it all, Hermione leaned in close, her voice a low whisper. “Harry, we shouldn’t let anybody know who he is for now, right?”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron added, his voice equally hushed. “If You Know Who finds out you’re exposing his kid—or whatever he is—he might target you even more. You don’t want that, do you?”

Harry nodded slowly, his thoughts tangled. It was exactly what he’d been thinking. Drawing attention to Riddle’s true identity could lead to chaos—or worse. For now, silence seemed like the only option.

“Yeah… let’s just stay quiet,” Harry murmured, his voice steady but resolute. “I’m sure Dumbledore’s already looking into it. In the meantime, I’ll keep an eye on him and try to figure out what’s really going on.”

Hermione nodded, though her unease lingered in her furrowed brow. Ron simply grunted in agreement, his expression grim. The trio exchanged a tense glance before the conversation at their end of the table shifted to lighter topics.

Still, Harry’s mind was far from at ease. His thoughts were consumed by the same questions that had plagued him since Riddle’s arrival: Who exactly was Magnus Thomas Riddle? And how much of his father’s shadow did he truly carry?

Chapter Text

It took only three days for Dumbledore to summon Harry to his office. The call came after History of Magic, his last class for the day.

Over the past few days, Harry had run into Riddle a few times, mostly during Potions, which they shared with the Slytherins. Yet, despite the frequent encounters, Harry hadn’t had the chance to properly ‘chat’ with him. Nott had returned, and instead of slinking to the back of the classroom like usual, the rabbity boy had been dragged straight to the front row by Riddle.

Harry had no idea whether Riddle realised nobody willingly sat in the front row of Snape’s class—or if he simply didn’t care. Nott, for his part, seemed resigned, letting out a long-suffering sigh as he took his seat.

What surprised Harry, though, was how… brotherly Riddle seemed toward Nott, just like he said they were. The two worked seamlessly together, like a pair of seasoned potioneer. Nott’s brilliance in Potions was no secret—he could match both Malfoy and Hermione in skill—but watching the two collaborate was something else entirely. Riddle’s cheerfulness stood out, his occasional laugh breaking through Snape’s usual imposed oppressive silence. Somehow, he managed to remain animated and lighthearted, even with the dour professor glaring daggers at their table.

Strangely, Snape didn’t say much. Maybe it was because they were Slytherins, or maybe… honestly it was probably because they were the most competent workers in the class. Either way, Snape left them alone, something Harry didn’t have the privilege of.

As usual, Harry’s potion was a complete disaster. The liquid was bubbling ominously, smoke curling from the surface in a way that practically invited Snape’s scorn. Harry was bracing himself for the inevitable cutting remark when, out of nowhere, Riddle intervened.

From his seat, Riddle twisted around to peer into Harry’s cauldron. The moment his eyes took in the swirling disaster inside, his entire body stiffened before recoiling dramatically. His face contorted into a grimace so exaggerated it looked like someone had just forced him to drink an entire vial of undiluted Bubotuber pus.

Harry glared at him, silently bristling. It wasn’t that bad.

But Riddle wasn’t finished. Raising seven fingers in the air, he began miming a series of clockwise stirring motions, his movements slow and deliberate as if explaining the concept to a toddler. His face was of determined focus, as though rescuing Harry’s potion was some noble calling.

Harry blinked, torn between bewilderment and the urge to smack Riddle’s face The over-the-top gestures only became more pronounced, his miming bordering on theatrical. Harry’s grip on the stirring spoon tightened. If Snape noticed them, it’d be an instant deduction—not to mention an invitation for Snape to shred Harry’s brewing skills in front of the entire class.

After a moment’s hesitation, Harry reluctantly picked up the spoon and began stirring, glancing warily between his cauldron and Snape’s prowling figure. Seven slow, clockwise turns. He waited, half-expecting the potion to erupt in a violent torrent, possibly killing Harry and keeping Voldemort’s hands clean.

Instead, the liquid slowly calmed. It was far from perfect—Hermione’s potion still gleamed like it had been brewed by Merlin himself—but it no longer looked like an outright disaster. It was… passable.

Harry dared to glance at Riddle and immediately regretted it. The bloke looked insufferably pleased with himself. His grin stretched wide, his expression practically glowing with self-satisfaction. Then, as if that weren’t enough, he raised not one, but two of his thumbs in an absurdly enthusiastic gesture of triumph.

It was ridiculous. Completely, utterly ridiculous. Harry tore his gaze away, burying his head in his hands to hide the twitch of a reluctant smile. He couldn’t risk letting Snape see even a flicker of amusement—it’d only draw more attention to his barely salvaged potion and, worse, to Riddle’s theatrical antics.

Harry’s thoughts dissipated as soon as he arrived in front of the gargoyles, and he leaned in to whisper the password Dumbledore had given him prior. 

Arriving at the top, he found Dumbledore waiting, his expression as gentle as ever, though Harry could see the strain behind his eyes.

“Harry, please, have a seat,” Dumbledore said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. Harry sat, clasping his hands together to steady himself.

“Harry,” Dumbledore began, his tone careful, “I imagine you are as perplexed as I was when… Magnus Riddle walked into Hogwarts. I have questions, as I’m sure you do too.”

Harry nodded silently, sensing the weight of what was to come.

“Forgive me,” Dumbledore said, his voice tinged with regret, “I know this may bring up unpleasant memories. But when you encountered Tom Riddle’s reflection in the Chamber of Secrets… what did he look like?”

Harry had been bracing himself for this question, but it didn’t stop the memories from rushing forward. “He looked like him, Professor. Exactly like him,” Harry replied, his voice steady despite the unease simmering beneath.

Dumbledore stroked his beard, his gaze distant. “And yet?” he prompted gently.

“There are differences,” Harry admitted. “His eyes—they’re not the same. His voice… I think it’s deeper. And he… he’s kind. He’s extremely kind. I don’t understand.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Yes… I would like to see what Tom looked like when you encountered him in the Chamber of Secrets. Harry, may I view your memories?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry agreed without hesitation.

Dumbledore stood, summoning the Pensieve from a nearby cabinet. Its silvery fog swirled hypnotically as he placed it on the desk. “Recall your memories of Tom Riddle,” Dumbledore instructed gently. “When you’re ready, I will extract them.”

Harry closed his eyes, letting the memories take shape in his mind. Slowly, he focused on the Tom Riddle he had faced in the Chamber of Secrets.

He saw himself kneeling by Ginny’s still form, looking up at the impossibly handsome boy with jet-black hair and sharp features. It was a face designed to charm, a mask of perfection—but Harry knew better. Behind those features lurked something far darker.

And then there was the smile. That inhuman smile.

In his mind’s eye, Harry saw Tom drop all pretenses, his voice dripping with malice as he revealed his plans. The boy who had saved Ginny—Tom Marvolo Riddle, a hero in her diary—was no more. What remained was Voldemort’s younger reflection, exulting in his cruelty.

How could the same face belong to Magnus Riddle?

Magnus smiled too, in his mind, but his smile was… open. Human. There was a warmth to it that disarmed people, even Harry. The aura around him wasn’t menacing; it was inviting. Where diary Tom had drawn people in with cold calculation, Magnus seemed to do so without effort, without intent.

And yet… how could he trust that?

The thought gnawed at Harry as he felt Dumbledore extract the memory. He opened his eyes, watching the silvery strand of thought swirl into the Pensieve. Dumbledore leaned over, his long fingers gripping the basin as he peered into the memory.

As Harry waited, his thoughts churned. He couldn’t reconcile the two versions of Tom Riddle. Both shared the same striking features, but their essence—Magnus’s cheerful kindness versus diary Tom’s chilling malevolence—was like night and day. Was it even possible for Voldemort’s whatever they were to manifest such starkly opposing personalities?

A soft trill broke his spiraling thoughts. Fawkes, perched nearby, let out a gentle note before settling back into sleep. Harry’s spiralling thoughts were stilled as his lips twitched into a faint smile. The phoenix looked so peaceful, and for a moment, Harry wanted to flick at his beak or ruffle his feathers, just to be annoying.

Dumbledore straightened, drawing Harry’s attention. The Headmaster’s expression was contemplative, his blue eyes distant.

“Yes… the memory you provided shows Voldemort as he was during his school years,” Dumbledore said, his voice tinged with melancholy. “And yet Magnus… Magnus is different enough. I have checked for spells and illusions; his appearance is no fabrication.”

Dumbledore returned to his seat with a soft groan, his hands folding atop the desk. “The Tom Riddle you encountered in the Chamber of Secrets… he was closest to the Voldemort we know now. His ambition, his brilliance—it burned in his eyes. Even now, I do not know whether his brilliance drove his ambition or his ambition drove his brilliance. But in the end, it led to the same result.”

Harry remained silent, nodding as Dumbledore continued. “Magnus Riddle’s arrival is curious, to say the least. His presence raises questions—what he is, what Voldemort is capable of… so many questions…”

Harry hesitated for a moment before asking, “Professor, could it be that Voldemort just simply has a… son?”

Dumbledore regarded Harry thoughtfully before answering. “It is not impossible, Harry. But consider what we know of Tom Marvolo Riddle—a man who sought absolute control over everything and everyone. Do you believe he would see a son as a blessing? Or competition?”

Harry’s brows furrowed for a moment as he processed Dumbledore’s words. But then, a slow nod from the headmaster, and his brain caught up to it, his breath hitching at the implication. “Are you saying that he sent Magnus here to… to get rid of him? Of Magnus?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“I am saying nothing, Harry,” Dumbledore replied, his voice heavy with sadness. “But Magnus Riddle’s sudden appearance, coinciding with Voldemort’s resurgence… especially during the period that you and I are at our most paranoid… it is no coincidence. Of that, I am certain.”

Harry slumped in his seat, his thoughts racing.

“There is more,” Dumbledore added, his tone grave. “Magnus Riddle’s guardian is one Theodorus Cantankerous Nott. Not Voldemort. Nott is a man deeply tied to Voldemort—perhaps his most loyal follower, dating back to their school years.”

Harry nodded along at the information, his grip on the armchair tightening. “Riddle—I mean Magnus… if he was sent here to kill me, he had the chance,” Harry blurted. “I was alone with him in the bathroom. No witnesses. He could’ve done it then. He’s powerful.”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed, his hand stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Yes… how curious,” he murmured. “We must remain vigilant, Harry. I ask you to take great care. This is all we can do for now. I will keep searching for answers.”

Harry nodded, his throat tight. “I understand, Professor.”

Harry, of course, didn’t understand, not really. Since when had he ever truly followed advice, especially from authority figures?

Dumbledore’s plea to ‘take great care’ had barely lingered in his thoughts before he threw himself headfirst into his own method of vigilance—watching Riddle’s every move like a hawk. He told himself it was for the safety of the school, a necessary precaution. But deep down, Harry wasn’t entirely sure why he was doing it.

To his greatest frustration, ‘Tom’—as he insisted on being called—seemed to relish the attention. When Harry had first called him ‘Magnus,’ Tom had laughed and waved it off.

“Too pretentious,” he’d said, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “I much prefer something more common.”

He had never called him ‘Tom’ ever since, but the irony hadn’t escaped Harry. The diary version of Tom Riddle had despised his Muggle father’s ‘common’ name, treating it like a curse. And now, here was this Tom, fully embracing it with a kind of careless charm. The contrast felt almost like a cruel joke.

But that wasn’t even the strangest thing. Tom acted like… well, a normal schoolboy. A diligent, hardworking, absurdly charming schoolboy, yes, but still a schoolboy.

A schoolboy who had somehow managed to capture the adoration of the entire school, even surpassing the likes of Cormac McLaggen, Roger Davies, and, to Harry’s utter discomfort, even Cedric Diggory.

The comparisons to Cedric gnawed at Harry. He hated the way the other students casually put Tom on a pedestal, calling him ‘the handsomest boy to ever walk the halls of Hogwarts.’ They whispered about his perfect features, his impeccable manners, and his magnetic presence. Even Gryffindors weren’t immune to the charm of the so-called ‘Slytherin Prince.’

“He’s not just handsome,” Harry overheard a Hufflepuff sixth-year whisper one day in the library. “He’s… elegant . Like he stepped out of love novels.”

Another chimed in, “I thought Cedric Diggory was the best looking boy Hogwarts had ever seen, but Riddle… he’s something else.”

Harry’s stomach churned at the comparison. The memory of Cedric’s lifeless body was still too fresh, too raw. To hear people casually pit him against Tom in a contest of looks felt wrong on so many levels.

What struck Harry most, though, was that Tom didn’t seem to enjoy the attention. If anything, he looked uncomfortable with it. Harry often spotted him trailing behind Nott, seeking solitude in quiet corners of the library. It was in those moments that Tom seemed most at ease—content to sit in silence, surrounded by books, away from the noise and the gawking stares.

And yet, Tom always politely invited Harry to join him. Whether it was to study, finish assignments, or just sit nearby, he would gesture for Harry to come over. They rarely spoke during these sessions, but Harry could always feel Tom’s gaze. Watching. Studying.

It wasn’t subtle, either. Tom’s eyes were on him constantly, to the point where Harry couldn’t help but notice. It was unnerving, feeling the weight of that stare—almost like being under a microscope.

But the strangest part? It wasn’t plotting or cold. If Voldemort had ever studied Harry like this, it would have been with chilling precision, every glance a move in a game of manipulation. Tom’s gaze, though, was different. It wasn’t detached or analytical. It was… almost soft. Curious, even.

Harry tried not to think about it too much, but it gnawed at him all the same.

One day, as Harry was heading back to the common room after Herbology, he overheard a loud conversation in the hallway. Cormac McLaggen’s booming voice echoed through the stone corridors, drawing the attention of nearby students.

“I’m not letting that pretty boy steal my thunder,” Cormac declared, puffing out his chest like a rooster. “He thinks he’s so great, swanning around with that stupid, bloody smile of his. I’ll show him who the real man around here is.”

Harry paused, his brow furrowing. He moved closer to the group, staying just out of sight.

“Please,” a Gryffindor girl scoffed, her tone dripping with disdain. “You can’t even be compared to him, Cormac. Have you seen Riddle? He’s—”

“Perfect,” her Hufflepuff friend interrupted, practically swooning. “He’s elegant. Sophisticated. He’s not like you, McLaggen. He’s… well, he’s the Slytherin prince.”

Cormac bristled at the comments, his face flushing an angry red. “You lot act like he’s Merlin reborn! He’s just another Slytherin with an overinflated ego! One you lot are stoking! I bet I could take him in a duel. One good right hook and that smug smile of his would be gone.”

The girls exchanged incredulous looks, then burst into laughter.

“You? Take him in a duel?” a Ravenclaw said, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t last two seconds against him. Didn’t you see what he did on his first day? He extended the stool for the Sorting Hat without even lifting his wand.”

“Come on, Cormac, you can’t be serious,” the Gryffindor girl laughed.

Cormac hesitated, clearly caught off guard by the reminder. But his bravado quickly returned. “So what? A little party trick. Doesn’t mean he’s unbeatable.”

Harry decided he’d heard enough. He stepped out from the shadows, his gaze fixed on Cormac.

“McLaggen,” he called, his voice firm.

Cormac turned, raising an eyebrow when he saw Harry approaching. “What do you want, Potter?”

“Stay away from Riddle,” Harry said bluntly, crossing his arms. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Cormac sneered, puffing himself up again. “What’s it to you? Are you his boyfriend or something?”

The girls giggled, but Harry didn’t flinch at the taunt. His expression remained cold and serious. “No. But I know what he’s capable of. They know what he’s capable of,” Harry said, gesturing to the girls. “Wandless and wordless magic.”

Cormac rolled his eyes, dismissing the thought. “Big deal. I’ve seen plenty of wizards pull off a wandless charm.”

“Really?” Harry countered, stepping closer. His voice dropped, taking on an edge. “Tell me, McLaggen, how many wizards do you know who can do both? Magic without a wand. Without saying a word.”

Cormac faltered, his bravado dimming slightly.

Harry pressed on, his green eyes narrowing. “I’ll give you a hint. There are only two that come to mind: Dumbledore… and Voldemort.”

At Voldemort’s name, Cormac visibly shivered, and the girls gasped. The bravado drained entirely from his face, replaced by unease. He glanced around nervously, as if expecting the Dark Lord himself to appear.

“You’re mad,” Cormac muttered, his voice less steady now. “He’s just a fifth year. Like you.”

Harry leaned in slightly, his voice low and firm. “A fifth year who could curse you into oblivion without even trying. He didn’t say a word but he already made Malfoy slip and break his nose— twice . Do you really think he’d hold back with you?”

Cormac swallowed hard, his confidence crumbling. For a moment, he seemed to weigh his options. Finally, with a muttered curse under his breath, he turned and entered the Common Room, his tail metaphorically between his legs.

The girls, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes, broke into a chorus of giggles once Cormac was out of earshot.

“I can’t believe he thought he could take on Riddle,” one of them said, shaking her head.

“Honestly, Riddle wouldn’t even need to lift a finger,” another added, her tone admiring. “He’d just look at McLaggen, and McLaggen would probably run away crying.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t have the energy to argue with them. The last thing he wanted was to add to the growing mythos surrounding Tom Riddle.

“Anyway, what’s Riddle to you, Potter?” The Hufflepuff girl asked curiously, a smile on her face. “You seem pretty concerned actually.”

“A friend,” Harry answered.

“Oohh… a ‘friend’, he said,” the Gryffindor girl giggled.

“I want to be ‘friends’ with Riddle too, probably friends that snog or sneak off to broom closets,” the Ravenclaw giggled.

The girls sauntered away. And Harry, meanwhile, was having an existential crisis. He hadn’t realised that the word had slipped out so easily, so naturally, and it left Harry stunned. Friend? Tom Riddle was his friend ?

The realisation hit him like a rogue Bludger. He tried to laugh it off, to brush it away as a slip of the tongue, but the truth of it refused to be ignored. Was that what they were now? Friends? Was he actually friends with Voldemort’s son?

The more he thought about it, the more absurd it seemed. How could he have let this happen? How had he let his guard down so easily? And yet… there was no denying it. Tom’s presence, as strange and unsettling as it was, had become oddly comforting. His easy smiles, his casual invitations, even the ridiculous way he’d cringed at Harry’s botched potion—it all felt so normal.

And that terrified Harry.

What was he thinking? Had he gone mad? How could he, of all people, befriend someone like him? The son of his parents’ murderer? Every fibre of his being told him it was wrong, that it was dangerous, that he should be keeping his distance.

And just when he was doubting himself even more, something changed.

Chapter Text

It had been a month since Tom’s arrival at Hogwarts, and Harry found himself spending the late afternoon in the Herbology greenhouse once again, repotting a particularly stubborn batch of Flutterby bushes. It wasn’t exactly by choice. Neville was out of commission with a bellyache, and Professor Sprout had dangled an irresistible reward: not five, not ten, but twenty house points. Considering Harry had recently lost ten for a snarky comment directed at Snape, the deal seemed worth an hour or two of effort.

Humming under his breath, Harry gently parted the bushes and sprinkled a delicate aguamenti, taking care to direct the water to their roots. The leaves quivered faintly at his touch, and he reminded himself of the delicate balance needed—water them enough to thrive, but not so much that their roots would rot.

Satisfied with his work, Harry straightened and surveyed the rows of thriving plants before him. He placed his hands on his hips, feeling a small, unexpected surge of pride. He could see why Neville enjoyed this kind of task; there was something oddly gratifying about nurturing life, even if it was just plants.

As he exited the greenhouse, he spelled the dirt off his hands and inhaled deeply. The crisp early evening air filled his lungs, and the grounds were bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. It was peaceful—so peaceful, in fact, that it made Harry feel slightly uneasy, as if his thoughts should be busier, louder.

And then, something unusual caught his attention.

A sound. A melody.

Harry paused mid-step, his ears straining to catch it. A guitar. The soft, unmistakable strumming of an acoustic guitar. He stood frozen for a moment, trying to remind himself why the strumming felt… iconic. It was an intro to a song, and Harry kept tugging at his memory until it clicked.

It was Sweet Child o’ Mine . Guns N’ Roses.

Harry’s brows furrowed in confusion. Guitars were quite rare at Hogwarts, and someone playing a Muggle song was practically unheard of. Intrigued, he followed the sound, his steps light on the slightly damp cobblestone, until he rounded a corner near the Black Lake.

Andthere he was. Of course it was him.

Tom.

The bloke sat cross-legged on a broken wall overlooking the water, an acoustic guitar balanced on his thighs. His long fingers moved effortlessly across the strings, coaxing out the familiar melody. His deep blue eyes were closed, his head swaying as he fell into the lull of the melody, and when he opened his mouth to sing, Harry was struck silent.

“She’s got a smile that it seems to me,
Reminds me of childhood… memories,
Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky…”

The tenor of Tom’s voice was rich, warm, and utterly spellbinding. It carried across the still water, blending with the gentle rustling of the trees, as if his voice was blending with nature itself. Harry felt an odd pang in his chest—admiration? Confusion? He couldn’t quite name it.

Tom continued to sing, the lyrics flowing beautifully from his lips, his expression almost serene. He looked completely at ease, as though this corner of the lake was his sanctuary, undisturbed by the chaos of the school.

“Now and then when I see her face,
She takes me away to that... special place,
And if I stared too long, I’d probably break down and cry…”

Harry lingered at the edge of the clearing, unsure whether to interrupt. But when Tom’s voice swelled into the chorus, Harry found himself joining in, unable to resist the pull of the familiar lyrics.

“Whoa~oh~oh sweet child o’ mine…”

Tom’s back stiffened slightly, his head turning just enough to glance over his shoulder. When their eyes met, Tom’s lips curved into a small, joyful smile. His hands never faltered, strumming with the same ease as before, and he let Harry take the second line.

“Whoa~oh~oh sweet love o’ mine…”

Harry was never the best singer, but Tom didn’t speak or laugh. Instead, he simply turned his attention back to the guitar and took the lead again, his voice carrying the rest of the song.

Harry sat down on the broken wall without a word, watching as Tom played. The boy seemed completely in his element, his fingers gliding over the strings as though he had been born with a guitar in hand. His voice wove effortlessly through the verses, rising and falling with a practiced ease that spoke of countless hours spent mastering the craft.

Harry couldn’t take his eyes off him—not out of fascination, mind you , but because he couldn’t reconcile this version of Tom Riddle with the dark legacy he supposedly should carry.

As the final chords faded into the stillness, Harry realised he hadn’t felt this relaxed in ages. The combination of the sunset, the calm lake, and Tom’s music had lulled his mind into a rare moment of peace.

“Didn’t know the son of the Dark Lord would like Muggle music,” Harry remarked once Tom had finished playing the song, his tone teasing but light.

Tom laughed softly, strumming absent chords on the guitar. There was a hint of sadness in his expression, but he masked it well. “He’d probably kill me if he knew the songs were Muggle,” Tom said, his voice quiet. “Or… maybe he wouldn’t care at all. Who knows?”

Harry returned the smile easily, turning his gaze toward the setting sun. “How did you learn, Tom?” he asked.

Hearing his preferred name, and the only time Harry had spoken it in front of him, Tom’s back straightened, his expression lighting up with an almost childlike glee.

“You called me Tom,” he noted, his voice soft with delight.

Harry chuckled, nodding. “Reminds me a bit of your dad, so… I thought I’d rather erase that and associate Tom with you. Besides, I’ve been calling you that in my head anyway,” he admitted with a wry grin.

Tom laughed, the sound light and carefree, like a soft breeze on a warm day. It wasn’t the kind of laugh Harry expected to hear from someone bearing the Riddle name—it was disarming, joyful, and utterly contagious. Harry felt his spirits lift despite himself.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Tom said, his voice carrying an easy, light tone. “I asked for something to do other than all the spellwork growing up, and my caretakers offered me the guitar. I took to it faster than a niffler to a galleon.” He cocked his head to the side, his lips curling into a self-satisfied smile that managed to be endearing rather than smug.

Harry let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “A bit of humility, perhaps?” he teased, his grin widening when Tom’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Well, when you’re this good…” Tom replied playfully, strumming a quick riff before his smile softened. “You’ve got a song you’d like to sing? Maybe I know it.”

Harry hummed in thought, tapping his chin. “Know how to play Livin’ on a Prayer ?”

Tom’s brows furrowed as he considered the request, his left hand instinctively moving along the neck of the guitar. He plucked a few chords experimentally, the sound resonating in the air.

“Hmm… is that an E minor or…?” he mused aloud, before his face broke into a grin. “Got it,” he said, nodding as he adjusted his fingers.

Harry couldn’t help but grin back.

They sang together, one song after another, as the hours slipped away unnoticed. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm palette of oranges and reds across the Black Lake before surrendering to twilight. The shifting light reflected off the water, but neither of them paid it any mind.

Tom’s hands moved fluidly over the guitar, blending rhythm and melody in a way Harry couldn’t wrap his head around. It wasn’t just strumming, and it wasn’t just plucking—it was both, somehow, and far more. His fingers danced across the frets with a precision and grace that left Harry mesmerised, the music feeling almost alive in its intensity.

There was a life behind Tom’s every note, a burning passion that shone brighter than the setting sun. The music wasn’t just something Tom played; it was something he was.

It struck Harry then—the stark contrast between Tom and his father. Voldemort’s passion had been for destruction and death, but Tom’s was for creation, for life, for the simple joy of music. It was impossible to deny the difference.

Harry’s thoughts drifted as they continued to sing. Maybe it was his Gryffindor side, but he felt… at ease. Comfortable in a way that should have been impossible. He was sitting here, singing his heart out with the son of the man who had tried to kill him.

It was absurd. Utterly insane.

But there was a strange comfort in knowing that the apple hadn’t just fallen far from the tree—it had landed on a different continent altogether.

Tom was softly strumming, humming a gentle melody as Harry leaned back against the wall, letting the breeze play with his hair. The moment felt suspended in time—peaceful, serene, and for once, free of burdens. Harry closed his eyes, savouring the feeling.

“You know what, Tom?” Harry asked after a moment, breaking the silence.

Tom hummed in response, carefully setting the guitar down beside him as he glanced over.

“This feels… nice,” Harry said, his words tumbling out before he could stop himself.

Tom chuckled softly, the sound almost bittersweet. “Yeah,” he whispered, his voice heavy with an emotion Harry couldn’t quite place. “It is nice.”

The weight in Tom’s tone made Harry turn, observing his new friend more closely. Tom was staring out at the dark water, his expression thoughtful, even pained.

“I wish it could stay like this,” Tom confessed, his voice low. “Just playing the guitar, singing, enjoying school…” He trailed off, his gaze now fixed on his hands. “I’m new to the wizarding world, and yet my father is already looking to ruin it.”

Harry stayed silent, sensing that Tom needed to let his thoughts spill. He wanted to understand what went on behind those brilliant blue eyes.

“I never understood,” Tom began, his voice distant. “What made muggles so inferior, what made muggleborns so inferior. No matter how much my tutors drilled it into my skull… or how much he drilled it in… I just couldn’t see it. Never could, I think.” He studied his fingers, the indentations from hours of playing pressing into his skin.

Tom curled his hand into a fist, letting it fall into his lap with a soft sigh. The tension in his posture was palpable.

“I just want to live in the moment,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “But expectations… his expectations… they’re suffocating. I don’t even know him, Harry,” he said, his tone strained. “He just appeared one day and expects me to bow down, to listen, to follow orders like I’m just another servant. He’s a stranger to me.” Tom’s jaw tightened, though his eyes drooped with weariness. “And I… I don’t know.”

Harry glanced at Tom, the moonlight highlighting the conflict written across his face. Pain lingered in every word, and it struck Harry that, despite everything… Maybe Tom was as much a victim of Voldemort as anyone else. Perhaps nobody knew the truth of who Tom was, but… Harry knew, and he had been so quick to judge. What if the entire world knew? What would happen then?

Sighing, he opened up conversation once more. “You don’t agree with his ideals then?” Harry asked cautiously, his voice steady.

Tom scoffed instantly, the sound sharp and full of disdain, as if the question itself was offensive. He picked up his guitar once more, idly plucking at the strings as he mulled over his response, seemingly trying to hold himself back from snapping.

“What ideals?” he whispered bitterly. “Ramblings of a madman, more like.” The words carried a simmering anger. “I can’t trust someone who tried to kill a baby , Harry. A baby the same age as his own son.” Tom’s strumming grew more deliberate, his fingers pressing harder against the strings. “No matter the justification—I just can’t. He’s insane,” he finished, his voice thick with conviction.

Harry turned to Tom, a small, genuine smile on his face. “Glad you’re a decent bloke, then, mate,” he said lightly.

The comment wasn’t particularly funny, but Tom threw his head back and laughed, the sound full and genuine. It caught Harry off guard, making his smile widen.

Harry reckoned he really liked it when Tom laughed. His features softened, his eyes creased with mirth, and his lips curved into a smile that lit up his whole face. His long, elegant neck tilted back as he laughed, the motion graceful and effortless. He looked… nice.

“Am I though, Harry?” Tom teased, his grin turning sly, cocking his head. “What if I’m just an assassin sent by him to kill you when you least expect it?”

Harry froze, his mind stuttering to a halt. Tom, realising his mistake, began scratching the back of his neck nervously.

“That was… a joke,” Tom said quickly, his voice faltering. “You know. Just a joke.”

“Ah. Yeah. A joke. Funny,” Harry deadpanned, though he couldn’t stop the corners of his lips from twitching.

Tom let out another laugh, this one softer, as he nursed his guitar close to his chest like a protective charm.

“You know Wonderwall? Oasis? Just came out last October,” Tom asked, coaxing Harry’s attention back to the present.

Harry tilted his head in thought. “Don’t… remember the lyrics, but… try,” he said, leaning back once more.

T om smiled, his fingers effortlessly finding the chords. He began to play, his hands gliding over the strings, and just like magic, the familiar intro filled the air. Harry chuckled when Tom started singing and instantly mimicked the Mancunian accent and the distinctive raspiness of the lead singer… what was his name again? Liam? Noel? Or were they both the singers? Harry couldn’t quite recall, but it hardly mattered.

He found himself humming along, occasionally chiming in with the lyrics he could remember, the words weaving seamlessly with Tom’s masterful playing.

“And all the roads we have to walk are winding,
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding,
There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don’t know how~”

As the verse ended, Tom’s fingers flew over the strings, throwing in an unnecessarily elaborate riff. His fingers blurred with practiced precision, and he looked directly at Harry while playing, as if intentionally showing off. Harry rolled his eyes fondly but couldn’t help the faint grin that tugged at his lips.

Then, the chorus hit, and Harry joined in without hesitation, their voices blending effortlessly into the cool night air.

“Because maybe…
You’re gonna be the one that saves me…
And after all…
You’re my wonderwall…”

Tom sang the lyrics with a smile, his eyes half-lidded, soft and focused on Harry. There was a kindness in his gaze, a gentle warmth that seemed to peel away every ounce of Harry’s wariness. When someone looked at you like that—with such unguarded sincerity—what else could you do except smile back?

Harry almost forgot that Tom was the son—or double—of Tom Riddle. It was strange—really strange. Their faces were nearly identical, yet somehow… Harry would forget. Easily.

The truth was, Harry got along with Tom like hot water and a tea bag—though he wasn’t sure if that metaphor made any sense. The point was, they just clicked. Most afternoons, after classes, they’d find a quiet spot to sit, and Tom would play his guitar while Harry sang along. It was simple. Fun. For a moment, it felt like they were just two regular boys without a care in the world.

But Tom wasn’t just good at guitar—he was exceptional. Harry often overheard the Slytherins whispering about him, their voices reverent. Magnus—yes, that’s what they were calling him now, not Riddle—was becoming something of a sensation in his house. They spoke of how he’d play in the common room after dinner, singing alongside Nott. Even the seventh years, notorious for their disdainful airs, had been moved to silence by his performances.

The disdain many had once held for Tom—born of his supposed ‘Mudblood’ origins—seemed to melt in the face of his undeniable charm and charisma. Tom had an uncanny ability to draw people in. Combine that with his natural good looks, and it wasn’t surprising he’d won them over so quickly.

Just like… well, Harry didn’t really want to talk about him , this was about Tom.

Nott’s gruelling library sessions meant that Tom was free to spend afternoons with Harry instead, and Harry had to admit… he enjoyed their little routine. Tom had a way of brightening the mood, even on the gloomiest of days of mounting schoolwork.

But of course, the bloke wasn’t all that perfect. In fact, the bloke can be utterly insufferable . Harry had heard the bloke go on and on and on— repeatedly —about his wicked enchanted electric guitar back home. Apparently, his dear Uncle Nott had given it to him for his thirteenth birthday, and it was the exact same expensive guitar the Weird Sister’s guitarist, Kirley Duke, would use on their performance.

Tom seemed endlessly proud of it, and when he did not boast about his electric guitar, he would recount all the differences between acoustic and electric guitars to Harry, the unique tone of different string types, and his plans to expand his skills to include the bass.

It was as riveting as listening to Ron talk about Wizard’s Chess. Which was to say, not riveting at all.

Harry often sat through these monologues with a patient smile on his face… and a burning desire to smack the bloke right in his ridiculously handsome face. That , he figured, was proof of how close they’d become. Only good friends could annoy you that much while still managing to make you feel good and laugh.

And made Harry laugh, Tom did—a lot. Whether it was Tom’s occasional snark, a stray comment about Hogwarts life, or even the simplest of jokes, Harry’s laughter was always warm and full-bodied. Always.

But all good things came to an end, and Tom’s fans inevitably found them.

It started like any other session by the Black Lake. Tom strummed the final notes of a song, and Harry leaned back on the grass, soaking in the cool breeze and the golden hues of the setting sun.

Then he heard it.

Laughter. Light, teasing, and alarmingly close.

Both boys froze, their heads snapping toward the sound.

It wasn’t just a group of giggling classmates. No, this was worse. A dozen or more seventh-year girls were strolling toward them, all confidence and smiles, their robes swishing with each step. Harry immediately recognised the tall brunette leading the group as one of the Hufflepuff Chasers—far too bold for her own good.

“Oh. H–hi,” Tom stammered, his fingers tightening on his guitar. His blue eyes darted nervously between the girls, his usual composure crumbling.

“Hi, Riddle,” they replied, giggling and clutching at each other’s arms.

The brunette stopped a few steps away, her lips curving into a slow smile. “So, you’re the Magnus Riddle, huh?” she asked, her voice lilting. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Tom blinked. “Y–yes, that’s me,” he muttered, his face heating as he clutched his guitar a little closer.

One of the other girls, a blonde with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, stepped forward, her gaze flickering upwards, craning her neck, pleased with what she was seeing. “You’re taller than I thought,” she mused, her tone casual but pointed. “Fifth year, right?”

Tom nodded hesitantly, his cheeks burning. “Yes, ma’am—I mean, uh, yes.”

Harry snorted softly. “Ma’am,” he muttered under his breath, biting back a grin. It was adorable. Utterly adorable.

But then, it went downhill faster than he expected.

The blonde’s lips twitched in amusement, but it was the third girl—a petite Ravenclaw with striking hazel eyes—who leaned in, her voice dropping to a teasing purr. “You know, Riddle, you’re really talented with your hands.”

Tom’s face turned a deeper shade of red. “Uh… thanks?”

The brunette crossed her arms, her smile widening. “Ever thought about trying something… different with those fingers? I could show you a few tricks.”

“Y–yeah?” Tom asked innocently.

The brunette knew that she had the chance to pounce. “Yeah. You know… a different kind of instrument…”

“A… a different kind?”

Oh, Merlin…

“So innocent! Talia, you’re corrupting him!” A girl giggled.

“Yeah, Magnus,” the girl named Talia continued. “A different kind of instrument," the girl said, her voice dropping. "You can play me like your guitar. Would you like that?”

Tom gripped onto his guitar even tighter, as if to shield himself from the sheer audacity of the comment.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his friend’s arm, shouting “Run!” As he pulled Tom away.

Tom stumbled after him, saving his guitar for a moment before dashing with him, leaving the girls disappointed.

“Aww, you can join us if you want to, Potter! Just say it!” One of the girls shouted behind them.

They didn’t stop running until they were well away from the lake, hidden in the shadows of a quiet corridor.

Tom leaned against the wall, panting as he carefully set his guitar down. “Didn’t know Hogwarts was so… uh, musically deprived,” he muttered, still catching his breath.

Harry stared at him incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Well… yeah? Why else would they be, um… acting insane?”

Harry was in disbelief, gesturing at him. “Mate. You’re the fittest bloke in the entire school, even beating Cedric Diggory if he were still alive! Your dad’s fault, by the way.” Harry added unthinkingly.

“Oh. Thanks… and sorry?” Tom replied, still visibly flustered, though his cheeks remained a deep shade of pink.

They stood in silence for a moment, catching their breath, until Tom turned to Harry with those mesmerizing blue eyes and asked, “You think I’m fit?”

Harry scrunched his face. “I have eyes, Riddle.”

“Oh!” Tom exclaimed, his blush deepening. “I think Theo’s more handsome than I am, though.”

Harry grimaced, recoiling slightly. “Mate. He’s practically your brother.”

Tom spluttered, his face heating further. “Not like that! I mean objectively!”

Harry couldn’t hold back his laughter. “No. With eyebags that atrocious, I don’t think so.”

Tom groaned in mock despair. “Harry. He’s handsome! Just like you—he just doesn’t know how to clean up after himself.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, then paused as the hidden compliment registered. “You think I’m handsome?”

Tom gave a sheepish smile, his cheeks still pink. “I have eyes,” he countered.

Chapter Text

On the night of his lord’s disappearance, Theodorus Nott did not participate in the Muggle raids. No, he had pleaded the frailty of his health, his old age, and thankfully, had been given pardon.

Theodorus and his wife had thought their time for parenthood had long passed. Yet, late in life, they were blessed with a miracle—a son. Theodore was their pride and joy, cherished beyond measure. That night, like so many others, they stood together in the nursery, watching their one-year-old sleep peacefully. His small chest rose and fell with each steady breath, and Theodorus exchanged a quiet, fond glance with his wife.

The sight of his small son made Theodorus long for a time of peace—a time of reflection. This crusade they had waged… it wasn’t worth it. It had brought guilt that gnawed deep at his heart. A thought arose that shook him to his core: How many children like Theodore had fallen victim to their cruelty?

And tonight… his lord was going to kill a child. A child the same age as Theodore. The thought made his blood run cold, for his flames of hatred had long gone dim.

In that quiet moment, he allowed himself to simply love his son. To admire the miracle of life, to marvel at how the gods had favoured him even after all his crimes. It was a fragile peace, a fleeting glimpse of what life could be.

Then, the peace was shattered by a piercing cry.

Startled, Theodorus turned sharply toward the sound. Theodore, startled awake, began to wail as well, his tiny fists clenched in distress.

“Stay here,” Theodorus instructed his wife firmly, drawing his wand as he followed the sound. The cries, sharp and panicked, echoed through the empty halls, leading him to his study.

There, he froze.

In the corner of the room, enclosed in the airtight glass case that housed the journal entrusted to him by his lord, was not just the leather-bound book. There was also… a child.

The boy couldn’t have been older than Theodore—perhaps even the same age. Jet-black hair fell in messy waves around his face, and large brown eyes, shimmering with tears, stared out at Theodorus, pleading silently. The child’s small hands pressed against the glass, desperate to be let out.

For a moment, Theodorus could do nothing but stare, his mind racing. The child was suffocating—his breaths shallow, gasping with each cry.

Without hesitation, Theodorus shattered the glass with a muttered spell, careful not to harm the boy. As soon as the enclosure was broken, the child reached for him, lifting his arms in silent desperation for comfort. Theodorus hesitated only a moment before pulling the boy into his arms.

The child clung to him immediately, his tiny fingers gripping Theodorus’ robes with surprising strength. His cries quieted into soft, shuddering hiccups as Theodorus carried him, his heart pounding, back to the nursery.

When his wife saw the boy—Theodore already soothed and dozing—her hands flew to her mouth. “My love… where did he come from?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“From the study,” he replied, his own voice tinged with disbelief. “He was… there, with the Dark Lord’s journal…”

He gently passed the child to his wife, and she instinctively cradled him close. The boy burrowed into her embrace, seeking warmth and comfort. She murmured soothing words, casting gentle charms to calm him. Slowly, the boy’s sobs faded, his body relaxing in her arms.

Theodorus stayed silent, watching as his wife clothed the boy with tender, motherly care. 

The child… he looked too much like his lord. Handsome features, even though they were softened by the roundness of youth, wide brown eyes, and jet-black hair…

“He looks so much like him,” Theodorus whispered.

His wife, after laying the boy down beside Theodore, turned back to her husband. “What do you mean, love?”

Theodorus gestured toward the boy, his voice low and thoughtful. “He has not always looked like a monster, my love. He was once… the most beautiful man you could ever gaze upon. He could dismantle a person with just a single look. And he…”

Theodorus’ voice faltered as he gestured to the sleeping child.

“Looks so much like our lord… how I imagine him as a child, or… if our lord had chosen to sire a child.”

His wife brushed the boy’s hair back, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Speak plainly. What are you implying?” she asked softly, her voice laced with unease.

“Something has happened,” Theodorus murmured, his tone grave. “I do not know what, but something has happened. I remember the day he entrusted the journal to Abraxas and me as if it were yesterday…”

They were sitting in the Room of Requirement back in Hogwarts, a place that seemed to mould itself into a cosy, intimate study, lit only by the warm glow of the fire. It was just the three of them—Theodorus, Abraxas, and his lord—seated in overstuffed armchairs that faced the hearth.

His lord sat with his usual poise, his long fingers idly spinning the heavy ring on his finger, his gaze thoughtful. The flickering firelight cast half of his face into shadow, while the other half was illuminated with a brilliance that made him look angelic.

It was a sight Theodorus would carry with him forever, for this was the last time he would see his lord’s beauty unmarred. On that night, he was still Tom Marvolo Riddle, the prodigy, the enigma, the leader they adored.

“You two are among those I trust most,” his lord began, his voice low and commanding, yet carrying a softness that made it all the more captivating. “And so, I gather you tonight to entrust you with something… instrumental.”

With a flick of his hand, a demonstration of effortless brilliance, his lord summoned two identical journals, their twin leather covers gleaming faintly in the firelight. He studied them for a moment, his brows knitting together in rare contemplation, before holding one out to Abraxas and the other to Theodorus.

“To you, Theodorus,” he said, his sharp gaze meeting Theodorus’, “I entrust a piece of my magic. But more than that—my weakness.”

Theodorus blinked, his confusion carefully masked, though his hands trembled slightly as he accepted the journal. Weakness? The word echoed in his mind, but he would not question his lord. Not here. Not now.

“Keep it safe, Theodorus. Your vow shall bind you to it,” his lord continued, his tone softening, but the weight of command unmistakable. It was not a request. It was an edict, one laced with subtle, unspoken threat.

Turning to Abraxas, his lord’s gaze sharpened. “And to you, Abraxas,” he said, handing him the second journal. “I entrust a piece of my strength, to be protected with your life.”

Abraxas’ lips curled into a small, satisfied smirk, his posture straightening with a distinct air of superiority. His silver-grey eyes glinted with pride, as though this was a personal reward, a testament to his loyalty and standing in their lord’s eyes. Theodorus glanced at him briefly, silently disapproving of the reaction. Abraxas might have seen this as an honour, but Theodorus saw it for what it truly was: a responsibility. A duty.

It was not for personal glory. It was for their lord.

The room was silent save for the crackle of the fire as their lord looked between the two of them, his expression unreadable. “Do not fail me,” he said simply, his voice as smooth and commanding as always. “Guard it always.”

“Yes, Tom,” Theodorus whispered, the name escaping his lips with a finality.

His lord’s expression flickered, something harsh and fleeting crossing his face, but it was gone in an instant. It was the last time Theodorus would be permitted to address him so familiarly. The last time he would see him as Tom .

Years later, when their paths crossed again and time was high for their true calling, his lord’s features had melted into something monstrous, his once-brilliant eyes now burning red with hatred and power. Tom Marvolo Riddle was no more. He had returned… completely as Voldemort.

As dawn broke, Theodorus was startled by frantic Floo calls. The inner circle had summoned him to an emergency meeting—one he could not avoid, no matter how much he might have wished to.

His suspicions were confirmed, something did happen.

His lord… had disappeared. Left behind were the lifeless bodies of James and Lily Potter, and the Potter child, Harry, inexplicably unscathed save for a lightning-bolt-shaped scar on his forehead. A mark of the Killing Curse itself, frozen mid-cast.

The resistance celebrated the child as a hero, the saviour of the Wizarding World. The Boy Who Lived, they called him—the only wizard ever to survive the Killing Curse. Their victory rallied the world against the Dark Lord’s followers, crushing morale among the inner circle.

Theodorus, however, remained calm. He had prepared for this day, distancing himself from the war and its cruelties. He had kept his hands clean, or at least clean enough. 

While others panicked, scrambling to protect themselves from the coming backlash, he silently excused himself and returned home, saying nothing of the new resident now tucked safely within his walls.

When he stepped into the nursery, he froze at the sight before him.

The two boys—his son and the child who had appeared the night before—had become entangled in their sleep. The dark-haired boy had one small arm draped over Theodore, holding him as though he had always belonged there. Theodore, in turn, slept deeply, his little face nestled into the other boy’s neck.

Theodorus’ heart melted at the sight.

It struck him deeply. He could not recall his lord, even as a young man, ever making such a gesture of affection. All the softness he might once have held seemed to have vanished by their later years at Hogwarts, replaced by a ruthless ambition. His lord had always been cruel, yes—but there had been a shift. He thought back to the night of the Muggleborn Warren’s death, the night something in his lord had changed irrevocably. He had become more distant, more… monstrous.

The boy stirred, breaking Theodorus’ thoughts. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes with small, chubby fists. When his wide, tearless brown eyes locked onto Theodorus, the man felt an odd pang in his chest.

Theodorus said nothing, his breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t look away, studying the boy’s every move, waiting for some glimpse of his lord in the child’s demeanour, a hint of recognition, perhaps. But then…

The boy extended his arms toward him, a silent plea to be held. To be loved.

Theodorus hesitated for only a moment before reaching out and lifting the child into his arms. The boy immediately clung to him, his little arms wrapping tightly around Theodorus’ neck. He buried his face into the man’s robes, seeking comfort, seeking warmth.

Whatever—whoever—this child was, he held no memory of his creator. He wasn’t the Dark Lord. He wasn’t Tom Riddle. He was a child, a fragile and innocent child begging for love. Theodorus held him close, his arms steady, his heart trembling.

“P–pah!”

The sound startled him, drawing his attention. Both he and the boy looked toward Theodore, who had sat up in his crib, his sleepy eyes widening as he noticed the new addition before him.

Theodorus chuckled softly, his fondness for his son washing over him. He adjusted his hold, lifting Theodore into his other arm so that he held both boys. Theodore squirmed slightly but quickly settled, his curious gaze fixed on the dark-haired boy.

And then, with the unfiltered curiosity of children, Theodore smacked the boy lightly on the cheek.

The dark-haired boy soon giggled, a sound so pure and joyous that it sent warmth flooding through Theodorus’ chest. The laughter was infectious. Theodorus laughed softly as Theodore, encouraged by the reaction, poked the boy’s nose. The dark-haired boy retaliated by tugging Theodore’s sleeve, eliciting another round of giggles.

When the boy tugged on Theodorus’ mustache with surprising determination, the man let out a startled laugh, bouncing both boys on his hips to their delighted squeals.

Whatever darkness had touched their lives, here in this room, in this moment, there was only light. Only love.

And for now, that was enough.

In his heart, Theodorus understood a painful truth: his lord’s greatest weakness that was sealed inside of the journal. Humanity. 

It was something he had cast aside, entrusting it to Theodorus in a moment of calculated detachment. And now, whether by design or fate, that humanity seemed to have returned in the form of an innocent child. An incredibly loving, innocent child.

Theodorus couldn’t be certain if his lord had intended this outcome, but one thing was clear—this child, this fragment of his lord, had been entrusted to him. And he? He would raise him. He would nurture him into a brilliant man. A man greater than his predecessor.

He named the boy Magnus Thomas Riddle. Magnus , to inspire greatness—greatness through love and compassion. Thomas , to honour the man Voldemort had once been, before ambition and cruelty consumed him. Theodorus enchanted the boy’s eyes with potions, turning them Nott blue, to ensure he felt a sense of belonging within their family.

This child was a chance for a restart. The world had needed someone like Tom Marvolo Riddle—a visionary, a leader—but not his darkness. As Magnus Thomas Riddle, Theodorus believed the boy could one day lead not through terror, but with humanity and strength. Strength his lord had once cast away as weakness.

Magnus grew up alongside Theodore as his brother, the two boys inseparable from the very beginning. Where Theodore was quiet and studious, Magnus was vibrant and endlessly curious, his laughter echoing through the halls of Nott Manor like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

From his first steps to his first words, Theodorus watched Magnus grow, his heart swelling with pride at every milestone. Magnus—who preferred to be called Thomas—was bright and eager, his natural affinity for magic nothing short of extraordinary.

He wielded wandless magic effortlessly, often using it to sneak desserts from the top shelf for himself and Theo, help the house-elves with chores, or mischievously rearrange Theodorus’ meticulously organised shelves as a harmless prank. It was innocent—so innocent—but the raw power behind it was undeniable.

Then, one afternoon, Theodorus and his wife found their two boys sprawled on the grass in the back garden, their bellies pressed to the earth, giggling uncontrollably. Theodorus approached with a smile, but it faltered when he realised what Thomas was doing.

The peculiar boy was speaking to a garden snake, coaxing it gently. The snake slithered closer, hissing softly, pressing its head onto the boys' head, stunning both he and his wife to silence. Thomas, with uncontainable delight, declared, “He’s giving us kisses!”

A deep shudder ran through Theodorus as he grasped what he had just seen. His lord's ability. Parseltongue.

Moving quickly, he knelt beside Thomas and gently took his small hands. “Thomas,” he said firmly, though his voice remained soft, “promise me you will never, ever show this to anyone else.”

Thomas blinked up at him, confused but compliant. “Alright, Uncle,” he said earnestly. “It’s just for me and my funny snake friends!”

Theodorus exhaled in relief, brushing the boy’s hair back. He hoped Thomas’ innocence would shield him from the weight of what this ability meant.

The contrast between Thomas and his ‘father’ was striking. Where Voldemort had been cold, calculating, and manipulative, Thomas was warm and genuine. His small acts of kindness came without agenda or expectation, a natural extension of who he was. He cared deeply—something his father had never allowed himself to feel.

And bearing such a resemblance to his father, Thomas possessed a charm that disarmed everyone he met. Whether it was house guests, gardeners, house-elves, or even the snakes he befriended, Thomas treated them all with the same kindness and respect. Theodorus couldn’t help but smile proudly, his heart full of hope as he watched his son grow into someone far greater than his origins might have dictated.

But life was not without its hardships. The day Theodorus’ wife passed—her heart finally failing her—was the worst day of his life. In that moment, it felt as though half of him had shattered, leaving him hollow and directionless. He barely had the strength to face each day.

Theo and Thomas, only six years old, had witnessed her passing right before their eyes. Too young to fully comprehend the weight of the loss, they still felt her absence keenly. And when Theodorus faltered, it was his boys who anchored him. Night after night, they would sneak into his room, curling up on either side of him. Thomas on his left, Theo on his right. Their warmth, their love, gave him just enough strength to get through each day.

It was in those quiet, tender moments, lying between the two boys, that Theodorus’ resolve solidified. Whatever his lord had intended, he vowed to ensure that this child grew into someone the world could look up to, far from his shadow. Someone brilliant, compassionate, and kind. Someone who could embody the strength of humanity rather than the cruelty of ambition.

And perhaps, in doing so, Theodorus could find a way to atone for his own sins.

The day the Hogwarts letter arrived was bittersweet. Theo’s excitement was infectious—the way his wide smile lit up the room, the way he danced around clutching the parchment, already dreaming of the Great Hall and enchanted staircases. But the absence of a second letter sent doubt flickering across his face.

Theo turned to his brother, his joy faltering as he looked at Tom’s empty hands. “Maybe… maybe it’s just late… there must be a mistake. Father?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty as he glanced at Theodorus.

But there was no mistake. Thomas shouldn’t exist in this world; he was born in a way that defied possibility. The letter was never coming.

Before Theodorus could answer, Tom clapped Theo on the shoulder, ruffling his brother’s hair with the ease of someone who had always taken on the role of the older sibling. “You’re going to love it, Theo. Write to me every week, yeah?” His voice was warm, his smile so genuine that it almost fooled Theodorus.

“I don’t want to go without you, Tom,” Theo whispered, his excitement giving way to unease. “I’m pants at making friends,” he added, his wide eyes betraying his panic.

Tom shushed him gently, pulling him into a hug. “You’re going to do great! I just know it,” he said, his tone filled with unwavering confidence.

Theodorus saw the way Tom’s eyes lingered on Theo’s letter, the faint flicker of something unspoken in their bright blue depths. He smiled, but it was fragile—thin and brittle. Beneath it lay the disappointment he couldn’t quite hide.

That evening, after Theo had gone to bed, Theodorus found Tom in the library, curled up in an armchair. A book lay open in his lap, but his gaze was distant, lost in thought.

“Thomas,” Theodorus began softly as he sat across from him. “I know this must be difficult.”

Tom blinked, as if surfacing from deep waters, and offered a small, tired smile. “It’s fine, Uncle. I know it’s no mistake. I’m not… I’m not a Nott.”

Theodorus hesitated. How was he to tell the boy this truth? How could he reveal enough to offer clarity without unravelling everything? He drew in a deep breath.

“You’ve always been too bright for your own good,” he said, attempting a faint smile. “You notice everything. Question everything.”

Tom tilted his head, curiosity sparking despite his obvious sadness. “And?”

“And…” Theodorus gestured for him to move closer. When Tom obligingly shifted to sit beside him, Theodorus looked him in the eye, his voice soft. “You’ve known, haven’t you? Far before this moment.”

Tom frowned slightly. “Known what?”

“You’ve never called me or your aunt ‘Father’ or ‘Mother,’” Theodorus said, his voice trembling slightly. “You’ve always known you weren’t ours.”

Tom didn’t deny it. He looked down at his hands, his fingers absently twisting the loose threads on his sleeve. “I’ve always… felt empty,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t look like you or Theo. My hair, my face… even my eyes don’t feel like they’re mine. And then there’s my name… and the way you always glamour me when we go out…”

Theodorus sighed heavily, the weight of the truth pressing on him. “You deserve to know.”

Tom lifted his head, his bright blue eyes locking onto Theodorus with a mix of fear and quiet resolve.

“Your father,” Theodorus began carefully, “was a powerful dark wizard. The most powerful. Brilliant, yes, but also cruel. Ruthless. He sought to reshape the world through fear and destruction.”

Tom stiffened, his lips pressing into a thin line. Theodorus could see the boy piecing everything together, his sharp mind working at a pace that startled even him.

“Voldemort,” Tom whispered, his voice barely audible.

Theodorus flinched at the name, but before he could speak, Tom’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” he said gently, his voice trembling with earnestness.

Theodorus shook his head, trying to steady himself. “I did not register your existence in the Ministry records because I’m afraid,” he lied, the words burning his tongue. “Few know the Dark Lord’s true name. But if they ever connect it to you, if they see your name—”

He couldn’t finish, his throat tightening with emotion. But before he could falter, Tom moved. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Theodorus in a hug. For a moment, Theodorus was too stunned to react, but then he held the boy close, his hands trembling as they cradled his son's back.

“I understand,” Tom whispered. “You wanted to protect me. Thank you.”

Theodorus swallowed hard, feeling the tears prick his eyes. By Merlin and Salazar, was this the first time he had lied to his son? It hurt more than he could have imagined. To think of all that Tom would miss—Hogwarts, the camaraderie of friends, the joy of simple, mundane classes, of finding a sweetheart. Tom had always been the kindest boy, a boy who sought connection like he was starved for it. And now, he was being denied the chance to find it.

“You’ve always been mine, Thomas,” Theodorus whispered, his voice breaking. “You and Theo are my sons. Both of you. And I love you equally.”

Tom squeezed him tighter, his voice muffled against Theodorus’ shoulder. “I love you too, Uncle.”

In that moment, Theodorus resolved once again to protect this boy at all costs. He wasn’t just sheltering a child. He was nurturing a spark of light, one that could outshine the darkness from which it had come.

Theodorus knew he needed to shield Tom from the world more fiercely than ever before.

Whispers of Voldemort’s return were spreading among the old inner circle, hushed yet charged with anticipation. Theodorus confided in only one person: Antonio Selwyn, the sole other surviving member of the original Knights of Walpurgis. Antonio was younger by a few years, but his wisdom, tempered by age and experience, made him a reliable confidant.

The day Antonio saw Tom without the glamour for the first time, he had been rendered silent. Theodorus had always introduced the boy as Magnus Thomas Nott, and Antonio had been as doting as any uncle might be. But seeing Tom’s true face—the sharp angles, the jet-black hair, the striking blue eyes enchanted to match the Nott family—Antonio understood. The realisation of why Theodorus had chosen the name dawned on him as he uttered the words: ‘my lord…’

Tom, standing with an uncertain wave, had only looked at Antonio nervously, his intelligent gaze flickering with awareness. He understood now why his uncle had reacted this way.

Antonio turned to Theodorus, his expression grave. Without words, they both knew the truth: Thomas had to be protected, even from the Dark Lord himself, should the whispers of his return prove true. They made an unspoken vow that day. It wasn’t about the Dark Lord, nor the cause they had once followed. It was about Thomas. Only Thomas.

Together, they became his mentors, the only two souls who truly knew who Tom was. They poured their knowledge into him, nurturing his brilliance while shielding him from the shadows of his origins.

Theodorus could have sent Tom to Hogwarts the following year as a transfer, but Antonio advised against it. The whispers were growing louder. Rumours of the Potter boy being a Parselmouth—of him speaking the Dark Lord’s name and hinting at his return—spread like wildfire. It was too dangerous.

And so, Theodorus kept Tom hidden.

He offered the boy something to fill the void left by his brother’s absence—something other than wandwork or books: music. Tom took to it effortlessly, as though he had always been meant to play. His fingers danced over the guitar strings with the same natural grace he wielded magic. His voice, rich and heartfelt, paired with his masterful playing, brought life to the manor in a way nothing else could.

On Theodorus’ worst days, Tom’s music soothed him in ways words never could. His songs filled the halls with a warmth that chased away the ghosts of Theodorus’ past.

When Theo returned for the holidays, the boys picked up where they had left off, their bond unshakable. They spent hours laughing, talking, and playing together, their time apart forgotten. For a while, Theodorus dared to feel that his life was whole.

Until it wasn’t.

In Theo’s fourth year, a few months before summer, Theodorus watched with a fond smile as Tom played a lively tune on his electric guitar. The boy had been eager to show off what he had learnt, his energy bouncing off the walls.

He had grown even stronger, taller, more handsome. And his magic? Even stronger than his father’s at his age.

And then, Theodorus felt it.

The Dark Mark on his arm flared to life, the pain searing and undeniable.

“Uncle!” Tom cried, his voice sharp with alarm.

Theodorus raised his hand, motioning for the boy to stay where he was. “Thomas! Stay!” he commanded, groaning through the pain.

But Tom was too kind, too caring. The guitar slipped from his grasp as he rushed to Theodorus’ side, his blue eyes wide with panic. “Uncle? Are you okay?!” he cried, his voice trembling.

Theodorus clutched his arm, his mind racing. He hadn’t answered the summons in years. He thought he was free. But now… now his past was clawing its way back.

Fighting through the pain, he stumbled to his storeroom, wrenching open the door to reveal the dusty remnants of his former life. He reached for his old Death Eater mask, his hands trembling as they closed around it. The weight of it felt unbearable, suffocating.

He loathed what he had been.

“Uncle, please, don’t go,” Tom pleaded, his voice breaking, his hands hovering as though unsure whether to reach out or not.

Theodorus turned to him, his heart aching at the fear etched into Tom’s face. His son. His brilliant, kind, innocent son.

The Mark flared again, the pain sharp and unrelenting, a reminder of the chains he had never truly escaped. Slowly, he raised the mask, its cold metal pressing against his skin that felt like judgement rendered. He hesitated, the weight of it all heavier than ever before.

“Stay safe,” he whispered, his voice cracking, barely audible. “Don’t leave the manor. Promise me “

Tom swallowed, eyes still wide in panic. “I promise.”

And then, with a crack, the warmth of Nott Manor disappeared.

He landed in a dark clearing, the air thick with the stench of damp earth. Shadows loomed, figures cloaked and waiting. At their centre stood him, tall and terrible, his crimson gaze piercing the night, and a boy, a boy his sons’ age writhing and screaming against a statue’s hold.

‘Tom Riddle.’ The gravestone read.

Theodorus bowed his head, his knees trembling. He had returned to the devil.

Chapter Text

“My lord,” Theodorus said, his head bowed low, his voice trembling as he knelt.

Voldemort turned slowly, his crimson eyes narrowing as they fell upon his oldest follower. He regarded Theodorus with cold detachment, though a flicker of irritation crossed his expression. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he gestured for the man to rise.

“What is it, Theodorus?”

Theodorus hesitated, his gaze darting upward for a fleeting moment before falling again. His shoulders trembled, and Voldemort could sense it at once—the hesitation, the fear radiating from him like a miasma. 

How disappointing. Even Theodorus, his most loyal servant, seemed consumed by cowardice.

“Speak,” Voldemort commanded, his voice sharp with impatience.

Theodorus opened his mouth, but no words came. The silence stretched, taut and grating, as Voldemort’s eyes narrowed further. He probed lightly at the man’s mind, brushing against thoughts clouded by fear and guilt. What he encountered made him pause.

A deep reluctance. Something more than fear—a heavy weight, resignation perhaps. Voldemort’s curiosity sharpened. Whatever haunted Theodorus must be significant to provoke such behaviour.

“I confess, my lord,” Theodorus began at last, his voice trembling. “I did not… I did not try to search for you.”

Voldemort’s crimson eyes grew colder. Just like the others.

“Because there is something I must tell you,” Theodorus continued, his voice breaking on the last word.

And then, to Voldemort’s faint surprise, Theodorus dropped to his knees. It was a graceless, desperate motion, his head bowing low to the stone floor as his shoulders heaved. He sobbed—a broken, unrestrained sound that echoed faintly in the chamber.

The sight was jarring. Voldemort remembered Theodorus decades ago, enduring the Cruciatus Curse with a kind of stoic grace even as his screams filled the air. Back then, the man had knelt in acceptance, calm even in the face of agony, no fear to be detected inside of his heart. And yet now, here he was, sobbing at Voldemort’s feet. Whatever had driven him to this must be… significant.

“Please, my lord,” Theodorus choked out. “You entrusted him to me. I… I know that I cannot hide anything from you. So, I beg you—please, please do not harm him.”

Voldemort remained perfectly still, his face impassive as he studied the pitiful figure before him. His curiosity deepened. 

Him . Who? What violation could this loyal servant have committed to provoke such desperation?

“Get up, Theodorus. This is beneath you,” Voldemort said coldly, his tone cutting through Theodorus’ sobs.

The man hesitated, his trembling hands pressing against the floor before he pushed himself upright, though he kept his head bowed. Voldemort’s gaze bored into him, unyielding.

“There is… someone, my lord,” Theodorus whispered, his voice hoarse, “someone I have kept hidden… kept safe… for almost fifteen years.”

Voldemort’s expression did not change, but his curiosity sharpened further. “Fifteen years?” he repeated, his voice soft and cold, already drawing conclusions. “Since the day I fell?”

Theodorus nodded weakly. “Yes, my lord. He… appeared… from the item you entrusted to me. The journal. The one you gave to me, and its counterpart to Abraxas.”

The mention of the journal tugged at something distant in Voldemort’s memory—a fragment of himself, deliberately severed and entrusted to his most loyal followers. His gaze grew more piercing, his thoughts moving quickly.

“You told me, my lord,” Theodorus said, his voice barely audible, “that he was your weakness. That he was the part of you you cast aside.”

Voldemort… remembered that night as though it had happened only yesterday.

His plans had been unfolding perfectly. One by one, the mudbloods had been petrified, their terror spreading through the school like wildfire. Soon, the school governors would have no choice but to act, purging Hogwarts of the unworthy to keep the safety of the school. Victory had felt… oh, so tantalisingly close.

But he had been careless. So, so careless.

He had not checked the bathroom properly. He had not ensured that they were alone. The magnificent beast he had summoned, the creature that had stirred under his command, startled in its surprise, and its powers amplified for but a moment.

The result?

The mudblood hadn’t been petrified. No. Her body had crumpled instantly, her wide, frightened eyes staring into nothingness. A true death. A murder.

Voldemort had felt fear. True, utter fear.

He had not intended for murder, not then. Fright, yes. Fear, yes. But this? This was an error. A failure .

As he knelt over Myrtle Warren’s corpse, his mind reeled. He despised how utterly terrified he was, how his mind was already imagining Dumbledore’s satisfied expression when Dippet would announce his expulsion. And perhaps—Azkaban.

It was weakness, he realised. Weakness . The word clawed at him, slithering around his brain. He could not allow it. He would not allow it. Fear, care, uncertainty—these were liabilities, chains he could not afford to carry if he truly wished to rise. He needed to purge himself of them.

Dumbledore’s words had lingered in his mind, unbidden. “Your ability to love, Mr. Riddle, it is what makes you human. Do not forsake it.”

Love . Another chain . Another weakness.

He remembered a ritual that he read in a chapter that also detailed the creation process of a horcrux. The ritual to rid the caster of their biggest fears, their biggest weaknesses.

And so, that night, as he forged his first horcrux, he split himself once more—this one not out of his own volition, but necessity. His soul had fractured anew. His weakness, his humanity, his care—they had been stripped from him, severed and cast aside.

His logic, sharp as ever, had assured him it was the right course of action. His humanity was no longer his. It had become a fragment, just as his horcrux had. One had been imbued with his will to live, his hunger for power, his strength. The other? A vessel for all that he despised within himself.

He felt his transformation almost immediately. His heart was dull, his mind sharpened. With no fear and doubt yet in his mind, he pulled the strings once more, framing the half-breed Hagrid for his crimes. Only Dumbledore was suspicious, and it was the best outcome he could’ve hoped for.

That day was the true ascension of Lord Voldemort. Disposing of his enemies had never been easier. 

But now…

Now, years later, Voldemort’s crimson eyes bore into Theodorus, his thoughts churning with disdain. 

Sentimentality . 

That was the word painted on his follower’s face, no need for legilimency to read. It was the same weakness Voldemort had excised that night. 

“Do you believe that I would destroy my own creation, Theodorus?” Voldemort asked, his voice soft yet dangerous.

Theodorus’ head snapped up, his tear-streaked face filled with sudden, overwhelming relief. “No, my lord,” he said fervently. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you!”

“Take me to him,” Voldemort commanded.

Theodorus froze, his shoulders tensing as if the weight of the world had just been placed upon them. His eyes shifted nervously, panic flaring in their bright blue depths over Voldemort’s request.

The man nodded slowly, the movement heavy with resignation. “Yes, my lord,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

With his head bowed low, Theodorus gestured toward the Floo. Voldemort’s gaze followed as his servant led the way.

Voldemort did not falter, his mind sharp with anticipation. The piece of himself he had discarded—the fragment he had deemed weak, useless, pathetic —awaited him. And though he would never admit it, a part of him burned with curiosity. What form could his discarded humanity have taken? What pitiful shape had his sentimentality become?

Whatever it was, he would see it with his own eyes.

Voldemort arrived at the grand manor, its white walls, tall windows gleaming against the pale morning sky, unyielding to the passage of time. The air of Nott Manor, usually so light and unburdened, seemed to ripple under the weight of his arrival. As he stepped through the grand doors, his power spilled forward, dimming the brightness of the place. The tall windows still let in a flood of sunlight, but it felt subdued now, as though the very house bent to his presence.

And then… music.

The strumming of a guitar, steady and deliberate. The notes floated through the air, rich and vibrant, carrying a voice with them—a voice that was melodious, warm, and disarmingly… heartfelt.

"And though I make mistakes, I’ll never break your heart~"

Theodorus, trailing behind, hesitated for a moment before whispering nervously, “My lord, your… appearance—”

Voldemort didn’t slow his stride, his robes sweeping across the polished floors with effortless grace. “I have nothing to hide,” he replied smoothly, his tone cool and dismissive, as though the question itself was an insult.

"And I swear, by the moon and the stars in the skies~"

The music grew louder as they approached the sitting room. Voldemort could feel a pull, faint but insistent, as though something deep within him was responding to the sound—or, the presence beneath. His mind quickly dismissed the sensation, though his curiosity sharpened with each step. 

What form could his discarded humanity have taken? What shape could weakness mold itself into?

Theodorus led him into the room, where sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting the space in a golden glow. In the centre of the room, sitting cross-legged on a rug, was a boy. His back was to them, his posture relaxed as he strummed his guitar. The sun framed him, outlining his figure in soft light.

Black hair caught the sunlight, strikingly familiar in its gloss and texture. The pull he had dismissed earlier intensified—a faint, gnawing sensation that he couldn’t quite place.

"I’ll be there."

Theodorus cleared his throat gently, and the boy’s fingers faltered, though he continued to pluck a few final notes. He stopped singing, but there was no rush to acknowledge them. Instead, he lingered in his world of sound, unbothered by the tension now filling the room.

“Thomas,” Theodorus said softly, his voice tight with tension.

Voldemort’s crimson eyes flicked to Theodorus, catching the instant unease in his follower’s demeanor. How fitting that Theodorus would name his precious creation after him—a weak and sentimental tribute.

“Yes, Uncle?” the boy’s voice broke through the tension, bright and casual, entirely unbothered by the room’s oppressive atmosphere. “It’s a lovely day. Perfect for tea, don’t you think?”

The voice struck Voldemort like a whisper from the past. Familiar, yet deeper, somehow even more assured. 

“Yes, it is,” Theodorus replied stiffly. He gestured toward Voldemort. “Someone would like to see you, Tom.”

The boy began to turn, and as their eyes met, a rush swept through Voldemort from the depths of his fractured soul—sharp, unexpected, and unsettling. The boy froze, his breath hitching audibly as recognition flickered across his face. But there was no fear in his expression. His gaze was steady, unflinching.

It was like gazing into a reflection from decades ago. The boy’s features were unmistakably his own, softened by youth but unmistakably familiar. His eyes, however, were not dark and calculating like his own had been at that age. They had been altered—

“You…” the boy began, his voice faltering before he steadied himself. “I–I know you—sir.” He added the ‘sir’ quickly, as though to appear polite, though his tone carried a note of curiosity rather than deference.

“You do. You do know me.”

The boy didn’t look away. “Your father was a powerful dark wizard. The most powerful,” he said softly, the words careful, as though weighing Voldemort who stood before him. The boy lifted his right hand, placing it on top of his heart. “I feel… something,” he admitted, his voice growing quieter. “My father… could my father be you?”

Voldemort studied him for a long moment, his crimson eyes sharp and searching. “Father,” he said, his lips curling faintly into a mirthless smile. “Is that what Theodorus has been telling you?”

At this, Theodorus stiffened, his head lowering further, his fear palpable. But the boy’s reaction was different. His expression hardened in an instant, his posture shifting as he straightened. His feet planted firmly, and his hand hovered near his pocket, fingers flexing slightly.

“Do not threaten him,” the boy said, his tone firm, his voice dipping into something deeper, commanding. It was so recognisable how his brows furrowed, how he sneered.

A flicker of amusement crossed Voldemort’s face. He raised a hand, a gesture of mock reassurance. “Settle down, child,” he said evenly, taking a step forward until he loomed over the boy.

The boy did not flinch, his gaze unyielding. Good . He was not as weak as Voldemort thought.

“Yes,” Voldemort said, his voice calm and deliberate, “I am, in a way, your father. And I have returned.”

Theodorus shifted nervously beside them but remained silent, his head still bowed. The boy, meanwhile, broke eye contact for the first time, his gaze darting briefly to the side—not in fear, but in nervousness. His feet scuffed against the rug as he adjusted his stance.

“O–oh,” the boy stammered, his hands clutching together as he spoke. “I’ve always dreamed of meeting you, fat—Voldemort, sir.”

Theodorus gasped audibly, his shoulders stiffening at the name. The boy, however, seemed oblivious to the gravity of what he’d said. “But now that it’s happened…” He trailed off, lowering himself to pick up his guitar again, holding it protectively against his chest.

“Do you… do you have a favorite song, father?” the boy asked hesitantly. “Perhaps I could play it for you.”

For a moment, Voldemort simply regarded him, crimson eyes narrowing slightly. The boy’s nervousness was evident—his gaze darted about as though searching for an escape. Yet, beneath that, there was a strange… boldness, a resilience that piqued Voldemort’s curiosity. He looked so much like Tom Marvolo Riddle, yet his mannerisms were unguarded, even childlike.

“Play me your best,” Voldemort said.

The boy’s nervous energy evaporated, replaced by a bright, unrestrained joy. His face lit up, his smile unguarded and pure—a stark contrast to the weight in the room.

Without hesitation, the boy gestured for Voldemort to sit. The casual, unthinking motion left Theodorus visibly baffled. 

Voldemort scoffed, unimpressed by such outward displays of childishness. He sat down, watching as the boy settled into position and began to play.

Voldemort followed the boy's movements with sharp eyes, observing the ease with which he handled the guitar. The boy’s fingers danced over the strings, and the melody began to unfold—a rich, enchanting tune that seemed to fill the room. It was unexpectedly sophisticated, far removed from the lightheartedness of his earlier performance. The music was evocative, tugging at something deep within Voldemort’s fragmented soul.

He felt it again—that pull. It was faint but insistent, as if the boy’s presence stirred a resonance in the pieces of himself he had long since discarded.

The boy was utterly absorbed in his playing, his earlier nervousness gone, replaced by an unguarded focus that bordered on reverence. Voldemort’s crimson gaze narrowed as he watched, the edges of his mind buzzing with a strange, unwelcome sensation. It was not emotion—he would not allow that—but a sense of… familiarity, an echo of possession, the same he felt when he would look upon his familiar.

The boy finished the piece with a flourish, his fingers lingering on the strings as the final note faded. His eyes lifted, meeting Theodorus’ first. The older man’s expression was proud, offering a faint smile of encouragement. Then, the boy turned his gaze to Voldemort, searching for something—approval, perhaps.

Voldemort remained silent, his crimson eyes unreadable.

“Well,” the boy ventured after a moment, his voice tentative but hopeful, “did you like it?”

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, as though weighing the question. “It was… adequate,” he said at last, his tone measured.

The boy’s lips twitched briefly, but he masked his disappointment quickly. With a quiet nod, he set the guitar aside, his shoulders straightening. “Thank you, sir,” he murmured, his voice subdued.

Voldemort stepped forward, his robes flowing like shadows around him. “You play well,” he said, his voice low, almost contemplative. “But tell me, child… who taught you to play?”

The boy blinked, clearly unprepared for the question. “Uncle Theodorus encouraged me to start, but I mostly taught myself,” he admitted, his hand brushing the edge of the guitar. “Music… it feels right. Like it’s the only thing that truly belongs to me.”

Voldemort’s gaze sharpened, his mind dissecting the boy’s words. There it was again—that pull, that strange, insufferable tether that bound them. It was a thread Voldemort had deliberately severed decades ago, yet it lingered, alive and defiant.

“And what of magic?” Voldemort asked, his tone colder now, his curiosity edged with command. “Does that not ‘belong’ to you?”

The boy hesitated, his gaze dropping momentarily before he spoke. “It does,” he said softly, “but magic feels… different. Like it’s borrowed. Like it’s not mine, not really. Music feels more honest.”

Voldemort’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Not yours?” he repeated, his tone sharper. “Elaborate.”

The boy’s eyes met his again, unflinching. “Magic comes… easily to me,” he began, his voice steady but quiet. “But music? I started from nothing. I struggled at first, but I enjoyed figuring it out—deciphering its mysteries. How it flows differently depending on my mood, how it sounds when I play it to impress someone.”

His gaze lingered on Voldemort, a faint hope flickering there, but it dimmed when Voldemort’s expression remained indifferent.

“Your sentiments are… misplaced,” Voldemort said, his voice carrying a subtle edge of disdain. “Magic is your birthright. It is the ultimate expression of power over oneself and of the world. Music, for all its…” He gestured with a flick of his hand, as though dismissing an afterthought. “...charm, is a distraction. A weakness.”

The boy’s posture stiffened at the words, his eyes narrowing slightly, though he remained silent.

“Why do you hesitate, child?” Voldemort pressed, stepping closer. His towering presence loomed over the boy, and Theodorus gasped softly from his place by the window. “Do you fear disagreeing with me?”

The boy’s lips parted as if to respond, but he closed them again, visibly wrestling with his thoughts. After a moment, he straightened his shoulders, meeting Voldemort’s gaze with a steady intensity that mirrored his own. “No, I’m not afraid,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m only searching for the words that will offend you the least.”

Voldemort’s magic flared subtly, the air in the room growing colder. His displeasure was palpable, radiating outward, but he did not lash out. Not yet.

“Excuse me?” Voldemort said, his tone low and threatening.

“Balance,” the boy replied simply.

Voldemort’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed. “Balance?”

The boy nodded, moving past Voldemort with an audacity that would have earned anyone else the Cruciatus Curse. He carefully placed the guitar over a vacant armchair before turning back, his tone casual, almost nonchalant. “Just because I spend time on music doesn’t mean I neglect my magic, father,” he said lightly. “I’d say I’m quite advanced for my age, even though I enjoy playing the guitar.”

A faint smirk tugged at the boy’s lips, his tone taking on a faint hint of smugness. “I’m actually rather good.”

Voldemort’s crimson eyes glinted coldly. “Can you summon lightning without the use of an atmospheric charm?” he asked sharply.

The boy blinked, clearly taken aback. “Well… no.”

“Enchant a mirror as a means of communication? Transfigure items with nothing but your will and your gaze?”

“Uh… no, sir,” the boy said, his voice quieter now. “But I’m still good at transfiguration and charms work! Just not—”

“I mastered all of that before my fifteenth birthday,” Voldemort said, his tone icy. “You have much to learn,” he added with finality. “And learn you shall.”

The boy’s gaze didn’t falter, though his shoulders tensed. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice subdued.

Voldemort studied him for a moment longer before turning sharply, his robes sweeping the floor as he moved toward the door. Theodorus, who had been standing silently by the window, bowed his head as Voldemort passed.

At the doorway, Voldemort paused, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “Theodorus, have the house-elves prepare me a room. I shall remain here for the time being.”

“Yes, my lord,” Theodorus replied immediately, his head lowered.

As Voldemort strode through the manor’s grand halls, his mind honed in on the task ahead. The boy was raw potential, a blade yet to be sharpened, weakness that can be transformed into strength. He would mold him, bend him, break him if necessary. Yet that insistent pull between them lingered, gnawing at his control, like an echo of something he had long sought to destroy.

Theodorus watched as Tom’s face lit up with a sunny grin, his expression so carefree it tugged at something deep in his chest. 

His son… all grown up.

He sighed heavily, willing himself to focus. “Why did you lie, Tom?” he asked softly, his tone both curious and weary.

“Lie? No…” Tom repeated, his grin unfaltering. “Why would I lie?”

Theodorus raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the boy’s feigned innocence. “You enchanted your first mirror with Theo last year. You wordlessly transfigured your snake friend into a bird because he ‘said’ that he wanted to ‘fly.’ And let’s not forget that you’ve mastered all the atmospheric charms your Uncle Tony taught you. Including its offensive variance.”

Tom’s grin widened mischievously. “Well, maybe I was just gauging the terrifying dark lord! He really is an arse, isn’t he? Smug too.”

Theodorus choked on his breath, his composure slipping. “Thomas…” he warned, his voice low, the edge unmistakable. “Don’t overstep a line.”

Whether Tom understood the gravity of those words or chose to ignore them, Theodorus couldn’t tell. The boy simply picked up his guitar, plucking a few casual notes as he regarded him with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Will do, Uncle! I mean, I’ve got my father back. Isn’t that swell?”

Swell was far from the word Theodorus would use. Guilt weighed heavily on his chest. If Voldemort’s reaction had been anything less than favorable, if the encounter had gone wrong in the slightest… Theodorus might as well have doomed his own son. And yet, he knew he had no choice. Not telling Voldemort everything would have brought consequences far worse—especially for Thomas.

“Come here,” Theodorus said, his voice softer now as he opened his arms.

Tom hesitated for only a moment before sliding into the embrace. His tall frame folded easily into Theodorus’ arms, already matching his height. He had inherited his father’s stature, though there was a distinct warmth to Tom’s presence that Voldemort utterly lacked.

“I’m happy for you, son,” Theodorus whispered, his voice barely audible as he held the boy close.

Tom chuckled lightly, the sound warm and teasing. “Thanks, Dad.”

Theodorus smirked faintly and poked Tom’s side, eliciting a surprised laugh from the boy. The playful address was a game Tom indulged in from time to time, much to Theodorus’ supposed irritation. He always claimed to hate the word, saying it sounded far too plebeian.

But it wasn’t true.

It was a deliberate manipulation on Theodorus’ part, and Theodorus knew it. If he protested, Tom would use the term more often. And the more Tom called him ‘Dad,’ the more Theodorus’ heart lifted, the weight of his hardest days momentarily forgotten.

Because deep down, he craved it. He craved to hear his son call him father—not Voldemort.

Of course, his mischievous son did not grasp the gravity of Theodorus’ warnings.

It was two days after the Dark Lord’s return, and the man—no, the monster—was seated in an armchair, surrounded by parchments detailing the events of the past fourteen years. He read meticulously, his serpentine eyes narrowing as he absorbed every detail.

Nearby, Thomas played a simple, soothing tune on his guitar. It seemed almost intentional, as if to ease Theodorus’ tension and provide a calm background for his father’s reading.

And then, Tom spoke.

“Father.”

Voldemort responded with a distracted hum, his attention barely shifting from the parchment in his hands. His crimson eyes skimmed over the account of Harry Potter’s return to the Wizarding World during Theo’s first year at Hogwarts.

Then came the question. Sharp, unexpected.

“Why did you try to kill a child?”

Theodorus froze, his eyes widening above his newspaper as he gaped at Tom’s audacity. He lowered the paper slowly, his breath catching.

Voldemort’s gaze lifted from the parchment, peering at Tom over its edge with a measured silence before he answered. “There was a prophecy,” he said evenly, his tone calm yet cold. “It foretold the child would be my vanquisher. And so, I sought to destroy him.”

He returned his focus to the parchment without further elaboration, leaving Theodorus to exhale a subtle sigh of relief.

“But… you failed,” Tom continued, unrelenting. “Because now he’s famously called ‘The Boy Who Lived.’”

The air grew colder, the temperature dropping so suddenly that Theodorus felt the breath knocked from his lungs. He folded his paper hastily, standing as though ready to shield his son from the inevitable Cruciatus Curse.

Tom, however, remained unfazed. He didn’t look afraid—only slightly unnerved, as if he’d said something mildly impolite. “Oh! Um, sorry, father!” he said quickly, his tone light and guilty. “He must’ve been a very powerful baby. A super baby, even!”

Voldemort’s crimson gaze flickered briefly in Tom’s direction, but he said nothing. With a scoff that sounded more like a sigh, he let his dark magic recede and returned his attention to the parchments.

Theodorus released a long, quiet breath, relief washing over him. But his relief was short-lived.

Tom tilted his head, his curiosity still burning. “Do you… think that by pursuing the baby, you might’ve actually activated the prophecy?” he asked, his tone thoughtful. “It’s weird that a baby could end you so suddenly. Sounds like instant karma. Do you believe in karma, father?”

Theodorus could only gape at his son in disbelief.

Without a word, Voldemort rose from his seat. The parchments on the table floated behind him in an elegant sweep as he exited the sitting room, his robes billowing. He didn’t spare a glance for either Tom or Theodorus.

Tom pouted as he watched Voldemort leave, his expression reminiscent of a boy sulking over being denied a treat. It was the same look he’d worn years ago when Theo received an extra blueberry lolly, even though Tom despised blueberries.

“Thomas! Watch your words!” Theodorus snapped, his tone sharp.

Tom, to his eternal frustration, merely looked confused. “Why? He’s my father. Fathers don’t hurt their children—it’s what fathers do.”

Theodorus clenched his fists, exasperated. “The Dark Lord is not a normal father, Thomas. Just… just look at him,” he hissed.

Tom stifled a snort, covering his mouth with his hand as his shoulders shook. “You just insulted my father,” he teased, his voice light with amusement.

Theodorus’ heart leapt into his throat. “Thomas—”

“I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! I promise I won’t tell him, Uncle!” Tom said quickly, desperation coloring his tone.

Theodorus sighed heavily, pinching Tom lightly on the arm in reprimand.

“Ow!” Tom whined dramatically, clutching his arm like a wounded child. “That really hurt, Uncle! Oww…” he added, his mock pained noises reminiscent of his antics as a seven-year-old.

This boy, Theodorus thought, exasperation and fondness mingling in his chest, is going to be the death of me.

Chapter Text

The next time Tom saw his father, he was fully immersed in practicing his electric guitar. The solo in Tornado of Souls had become his newest obsession, its intricate composition both a challenge and a thrill in his quest to master the electric guitar. It was the hardest thing he had ever attempted, but Tom was determined. He was so close to nailing the guitar solo—just one more run, and he’d have it.

It was exhilarating, almost like the rush of performing magic.

As Tom’s fingers flew over the fretboard, every note seemed to brighten the room around him, filling his vision with colours, each nailed pass a testament to his hours of practice. The sound from the enchanted speakers boomed across the room, wrapping around him like a passionate embrace, drowning out the world outside. It felt as though time slowed, making everything else fade away.

Magic had always been second nature to him—a gift, no doubt, from his father—but this was different. This was all him . Every arpeggio, every sweep, every precise vibrato was a result of his relentless dedication and countless hours of perfecting his craft.

But just as Tom let go to relax himself, he fumbled.

“Damn it,” he muttered as his fingers slipped, the note wavering during the crescendo of the solo. Frustration tightened in his chest, but he didn’t let it consume him. He exhaled deeply, adjusting his grip. “One more time. You got this,” he whispered to himself, determination steeling his resolve.

He turned toward the speakers and cranked the volume higher, the vibration of the sound resonating deep in his bones. He closed his eyes, letting the music guide him as he began again.

The solo unfolded beneath his fingers, the notes cascading beautifully like a majestic waterfall, a force of nature. As he nailed the melody, his heart lifted once more. His head moved in time with the music, his hair damp with sweat, and for that moment, there was nothing but him and his music.

Freedom. Power. Pure exhilaration.

“Mag—nus!”

So close. He was so close!

“Magnus!”

With a flourish, he struck the final note, letting it ring out dramatically. The sound filled the room once more, the reverberations lingering in the air. But just as the last note faded, an exasperated voice cut through the moment, louder than even his enchanted speakers.

“ Thomas !”

Tom’s eyes snapped open. The speakers buzzed faintly in static as he turned toward the doorway, blinking at the chill that he had not noticed had seeped into the room. The air had grown unreasonably cold, the shadows deepening and— oh .

His father had been standing there... for how long?

The man’s serpentine features were drawn into a scowl, crimson eyes blazing with irritation. His very presence seemed to weigh down the room, the dark magic around him thick and oppressive.

But honestly? For Tom, the way his father looked right now was a little bit funny.

“What in Salazar Slytherin’s name was that noise?!” his father demanded, his tone sharp and heated.

Tom grinned, unfazed by the chill in the room. If anything, the cool air was a relief after the adrenaline of his playing. “Afternoon, Father!” he chirped, holding up his guitar proudly. “It’s my electric guitar! Uncle Theodorus got it for me. He said it’s the same one the Weird Sisters use. Do you like it?” he asked, his voice brimming with pride.

His father snarled audibly, the sound more beast than human.

“Desist, boy. I am trying to concentrate,” his father said, narrowing his crimson eyes. The temperature dropped even further, and Tom shivered despite himself. “Was,” he added pointedly.

Tom’s grin faltered, guilt creeping in as he realised how loudly he’d been playing, completely forgetting that the manor wasn’t empty. “Oh! Right, sorry. I—uh—usually Uncle Theodorus is out and about, and I forgot that you’re here now, and—”

His words stumbled to a halt as his father’s unimpressed expression cut him off mid-ramble. Swallowing hard, Tom raised his hand, swiping it through the air. With a flick of his fingers, he willed his magic to form a soundproof barrier around the room.

The charm answered instantly, a shimmering veil of silence falling into place. Tom glanced back at his father, hoping the gesture would appease him, but his father’s expression remained unreadable.

Ah, shite. That can’t be good , Tom thought, clutching his guitar closer as nervousness settled in.

“Did you just cast the charm without your wand, boy? Without the incantation?” his father asked, his voice low and cutting.

Tom gulped. “Yes…? Uh… you—you don’t use incantations or wands for basic magic either, right, Father? I—I mean… yeah…”

The silence that followed was suffocating, his father’s crimson gaze boring into him. Finally, he spoke, his tone cold and accusatory.

“Did you lie to me yesterday, boy? About your skill in magic?”

Tom’s heart sank. Oh. Shite.

“I—um! I didn’t mean to! It was just—” His father’s challenging expression stopped him in his tracks. Shoulders slumping, Tom confessed, “Yes, sir… I did. I’m sorry…”

His father let out a low, considering hum, the sound stretching uncomfortably long. When he finally spoke, his response caught Tom completely off guard.

“We shall begin your training tomorrow.”

Tom blinked, startled. But before he could say anything, his father turned sharply, his billowing robes sweeping out of the doorway without another word.

Huh… okay.

Tom exhaled, shaking off the tension as he adjusted his guitar. The room was silent now, but the music still burned within him, a fire that refused to be snuffed out. Smiling faintly, he began to play again, letting the rhythm carry him into the evening.

Tom hummed to himself, his footsteps light as he strolled through the halls of the manor. The promise of summer filled the air, warm and fragrant, carrying a sense of freedom he hadn’t felt in what seemed like ages. His lips curled into a grin at the thought of summer’s arrival—and of the return of his best friend. Having someone to talk to, someone who actually understood him, was a comfort he deeply missed.

He passed the sitting room, the enticing aroma of honey roast drawing him toward the dining room.

Dinner time. If his memory served him right, Uncle Theodorus should already be home—and if Tom guessed correctly, he’d probably brought Uncle Tony along as well. The thought of his stern uncle finally delivering on the dessert Tom had requested made him grin wider. He began singing under his breath, the tune spilling out naturally in his good mood.

"You'll grow to loathe my name

You'll hate me just the same

You won't need your breath

And soon you'll meet your death—"

As the final line left his lips, Tom froze mid-step. His grin vanished, replaced by wide-eyed shock as his gaze landed on the figure seated at the head of the dining table.

His heart jumped into his throat.

“Merlin’s beard, who are you?!” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Uncle Theodorus and Uncle Tony snapped their heads toward him, their expressions alarmed. They gestured frantically for him to lower his voice, their subtle warnings clear as day. But Tom barely noticed. His attention was locked on the man at the table, who had lowered the newspaper he’d been reading with an air of deliberate calm.

The face behind the paper made Tom’s breath catch.

He looked… he looked just like Tom.

If Tom were older—perhaps forty—this would undoubtedly be how he looked. The sharp jawline, the straight nose, the sleek, jet-black hair—it was all there, mirrored back at him with uncanny accuracy. But it wasn’t just the resemblance that left Tom so shaken. It was the detail that made all the difference.

The eyes. Crimson.

The man was his father.

“Sit, boy. Dinner shall be served soon,” his father said, his tone measured as he gestured to the seat closest to him.

Tom swallowed hard, every nerve in his body screaming at him to retreat. Ignoring the gesture, he moved instead to the seat beside Uncle Theodorus, instinct driving him closer to the man he trusted. His father didn’t seem to mind—or, if he did, he gave no indication, calmly returning his attention to the newspaper.

As the house-elves began serving dinner, Tom stole glances at the man at the head of the table. His father looked so human like this, so real, that it left him feeling... far more unsettled than any serpentine visage ever could.

Which one was his father’s true face?

Was the serpentine form his reality, or was this? Was this the face of the man before he became the Dark Lord? The questions churned in Tom’s mind, twisting and knotting with every unsubtle glance he sent his father’s way.

“Magnus.”

The sound of his father’s voice made Tom jolt upright in his seat, his heart racing. He straightened his posture, meeting his father’s gaze with forced composure. “Yes, Father?” he asked, his voice steady despite the nerves clawing at him.

His father’s crimson eyes were piercing, unyielding, and far more unnerving in their humanity than in their monstrous guise. He opened his mouth, his words calm yet edged with something Tom couldn’t quite place.

“You are my investment,” his father said, his tone even. “I am devoting a large part of my day to teaching you what I know. Do not disappoint me.”

Tom’s stomach twisted, the weight of his father’s words pressing down on him like a leaden cloak. “I—uh, yes, sir,” he stammered, his voice quieter now.

He cast a pleading look toward Uncle Tony, who sat directly across from him, hoping for some kind of explanation. But Uncle Tony refused to meet his gaze, his eyes firmly fixed on his plate.

The realisation struck Tom hard. They feared his father.

These men—his father’s most loyal followers, who had stood by him through the worst of times—were cowed in his presence. What kind of monster was his father to inspire such fear in them?

“Eat, Thomas,” Uncle Theodorus murmured, his voice unusually subdued. “You will need all the strength you can get.”

Tom bit his lip, his uncle’s words sounding more like a warning than the familiar, insistent reprimands of ‘eat more, you’re too thin.’ The atmosphere felt suffocating, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

Summoning the tray of roast closer with a flick of his hand, Tom served himself a generous portion. He felt his father’s sharp gaze boring into him as he performed the spell, the scrutiny unnerving but inescapable. He forced himself to focus, cutting into the roast with deliberate motions.

Each bite felt heavy, as though the tension in the room had seeped into the food itself. He chewed slowly, methodically, doing his best to appear calm even as his thoughts raced.

His father’s gaze never wavered, watching his every move, and Tom could feel the unspoken weight of expectation hanging in the air.

The midsummer heat pressed down on the manor like a smothering blanket, but within the training room, the air was chilling. Tom stood shivering at the center of the chamber, his wand trembling in his grip as mist curled around him. The frost wasn’t external; it crept from within, sinking icy claws deep into his soul.

It had been a month of relentless magical training, and this session was by far the harshest yet.

His breaths came in short, visible gasps, each one a stark reminder of the unnatural cold that dark magic brought. Every attempt to summon his strength only drained him further, leaving his limbs leaden and his spirit frayed.

“Again,” his father commanded, his voice smooth but unforgiving, cutting through the chill like a hot knife through butter.

Tom tightened his grip on his wand, willing himself to suppress the tremors that betrayed his exhaustion. Shadows flickered faintly in the corners of the room, clinging to the edges where the sunlight dared not reach. He locked his focus on them, willing the darkness to obey.

But they resisted. The tendrils wavered, unstable and insubstantial, stretching feebly toward the training dummy before collapsing into nothingness.

“You are too tense,” his father observed, crimson eyes unblinking as they tracked Tom’s every movement. “Dark magic does not yield to brute strength. It is will. Will sharper than steel, colder than ice.”

Tom gritted his teeth, a frustrated growl escaping him. He raised his wand again, but the frost in his chest seemed to tighten, constricting his focus further.

“I can’t!” Tom snapped, his voice cracking under the strain. A wave of uncontrolled magic burst from him, scattering the flickering shadows entirely. “How am I supposed to control darkness in the middle of the day? This is absurd!”

His father’s lips twitched, whether in amusement or annoyance Tom couldn’t tell. He stepped closer, his gaze sharp and unreadable. Instinctively, Tom straightened his posture, forcing himself to stand tall, refusing to let his father see how deeply his exhaustion had taken hold.

“It is not the environment that hinders you, Magnus,” his father said, his tone measured but unyielding. “It is your hesitation. Your lack of conviction.”

Tom bit back the retort burning on his tongue, his chest heaving as he forced himself to meet his father’s gaze. This was the man he yearned to impress, the man whose approval he craved more than anything. The man he desperately wanted to believe could love him back.

But it was also the man he resented. The man whose very name struck fear into wizards and Muggles alike. The man who had killed indiscriminately—even children.

Unable to hold those crimson eyes any longer, Tom glanced away. His father moved beside him, and for a fleeting moment, Tom’s heart swelled with a strange, painful longing. Here, in the isolation of the training room, his father dropped the serpentine glamour he wore before his followers. Without it, he looked... human.

Too human.

The sharp cheekbones, the strong jawline, the straight nose—Tom could see so much of himself reflected in his father’s face. It was like staring into an older version of himself, a mirror tainted by time and experience. Even their hair, though Voldemort’s was shorter, shared the same jet-black sheen. The resemblance was undeniable.

This was why Tom cherished these fleeting moments, despite the torment. Here, stripped of the fearsome mask of the Dark Lord, his father felt tangible. Real. Not Voldemort, but someone Tom could imagine being loved by.

But that hope was fragile, fleeting. No matter how human his father seemed in these moments, Tom could never forget the darkness that surrounded him. The darkness that was him.

“Again,” his father commanded, his voice colder than the frost creeping through Tom’s soul. “Picture your enemy. Picture them torn to shreds before you. Will it to happen.”

Tom swallowed hard and raised his wand once more. He forced himself to focus, summoning the shadows from the corners of the room. The cold deepened, wrapping around him like chains, but he pushed through.

He pictured the training dummy—not as a dummy, no. He pictured Voldemort.

Not his father. Voldemort.

Tom loved his father more than anything. But he hated Voldemort. He hated the darkness, the cruelty, the destruction that name carried. He wanted to tear it away, to peel back the layers of monstrosity until only his father remained.

The shadows flickered and writhed, finally responding to his will. Slowly, agonisingly, they coalesced into sharp, jagged tendrils. With a flick of his wand, he lashed out.

The tendrils struck with a crack like thunder, slamming into the dummy with such force that it was thrown across the room, bursting apart in a spray of straw and splinters.

Tom collapsed to his knees, his wand slipping from his trembling fingers as he gasped for air. The frost in his chest ebbed slightly, but the weight of exhaustion clung to him like lead.

His father tilted his head, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Almost,” he said, his tone clipped. “But better than I expected for a novice.”

Tom blinked up at him, startled by the faint note of approval. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to ignite a flicker of pride. He wanted so desperately to make his father proud.

“You are capable of far more,” his father continued, his crimson gaze boring into Tom. “You carry my blood, my magic. Do not disappoint me.”

Tom nodded weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, Father.”

“That concludes today’s training,” his father said, turning to leave. But before crossing the threshold, he stopped.

“Magnus.”

Tom’s head shot up, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest. “Yes, Father?”

The room darkened abruptly as shadows surged to life once more. Tendrils, sharper and more deadly than Tom’s, erupted with terrifying precision. One dummy exploded into splinters, while another hung suspended midair, impaled by multiple thorny shadows.

“This is the spell at its full potential,” Voldemort said, his voice calm, yet laced with icy finality. “You will find your darkness eventually, Magnus. Just as I have.”

As the shadows dissipated, the sunlight returned, piercing through the room like a cruel reminder of his inadequacy. Tom remained on the floor, trembling, his wide eyes fixed on the destruction left in his father’s wake.

Voldemort left without another word, his serpentine glamour snapping back into place like a mask.

Tom stayed there for a long moment, frozen, unable to move. He longed for his father. But in that moment, all he could see—all he could hate—was Voldemort.

Chapter Text

The next month of training with his father was different. Not because it was easier—if anything, Voldemort’s expectations had only grown higher and higher with each feat of magic Tom aced—without him realising it, the focus of their meetings started to shift. Slowly, insidiously, the lessons became less about the mechanics of magic and more about something Tom hated the most.

Pureblooded worldview.

Tom noticed it at first in passing comments, veiled remarks about the inferiority of muggles or the ‘ lesser blooded,’ his father saying that no one except wizards with blood as strong as theirs could ever hope of mastering magic this deeply. 

But, somehow, as the days stretched on, the small remarks that Tom would always dismiss with a roll of his eyes, turned into monologues, and soon, Voldemort’s teachings were saturated in each excruciating meeting.

Tom despised it. 

He remembered these ideas vividly from his childhood, spewed by Uncle Theodorus’ guests during parties, or worse, by Uncle Tony on more than one occasion. He had shut them down each time, his mind dismantling their arguments with logic and reason. 

Muggleborns were just as capable of magic as anyone else, he’d argued, proven by magical research long passed. Magic didn’t care about bloodlines—it was a force of nature, wild and untamed, belonging to no one, just waiting to be harnessed.

But Voldemort was no party guest, nor was he Uncle Tony. His father’s mind was like a weapon, and he wielded it with deathly expertise. Every time Tom tried to counter his father’s arguments, he was met with a barrage of reasoning so airtight it felt impossible to argue against. His frustration grew with every conversation, because he felt like he was defenceless against him, knowing the man was wrong yet finding it so difficult to disprove him.

“Do you know why Muggles fear us, Magnus?” his father asked one evening, his tone deceptively calm as they had dinner with Uncle Theodorus.

Tom’s uncle glanced at him immediately, wary curiosity flickering in his eyes, his lips pressed into a tight line.

“Because they can’t understand magic,” Tom replied automatically, his voice clipped. “It’s too complex for their little Muggle brains.” It was a well-rehearsed answer, one that usually sufficed to end such discussions.

But Voldemort’s lips curled into an amused, satisfied smile, as if Tom’s response was some kind of personal victory. “No,” he said, his tone light but pointed. “They fear us because they know that they are beneath us. Even in their pathetic ignorance, they recognise, sense, the power coursing through our veins. And those with… tainted blood— Muggleborns , as they so charmingly call themselves—are an affront, a paradox that should not exist.”

Tom took a deep breath as he clasped his hands in front of him, narrowing his eyes slightly. He didn’t like the triumphant gleam in his father’s gaze. He detested it. “Elaborate,” he said flatly.

His father’s expression cooled, turning impassive. Tom knew that look well. Voldemort never appreciated being met with a single-word response, especially from him. Every exchange with his father was a battle for dominance, and answering so curtly was tantamount to a direct insult.

“Do you not think it greedy of them, Magnus?” Voldemort asked, his voice lowering slightly. “To despise our kind so deeply, yet take from us as soon as they are able to?”

Tom tilted his head just a fraction, his tone even as he replied, “But that’s the thing, Father. If they’re blessed with magic, unprompted, without any rhyme or reason that we know of…” He folded his hands neatly in front of him, his expression deliberately calm. “Doesn’t that suggest magic isn’t exclusively ours to begin with?”

A ripple of tension swept through the room. The temperature seemed to drop as Voldemort’s magic spiked faintly, a subtle but unmistakable hum in the air. Tom fought to suppress a smirk. Finally, after weeks of being stonewalled by his father’s unshakable confidence, he had found a crack. It wasn’t much, but it was satisfying nonetheless.

Beneath the table, Uncle Theodorus’ hand landed on Tom’s knee, squeezing firmly in a silent warning.

“Are you suggesting that magic does not belong to us, Magnus?” Voldemort asked, his voice tight.

“Oh, no, no, no, Father, you misunderstood me,” Tom replied smoothly, shrugging as if the idea itself was ludicrous. “It was just a hypothetical question. You see, magic is ours. Completely,” He gestured faintly, his tone measured. 

“Then what do you imply?” his father pressed, tone sharp.

Tom smiled, tilting his head further. “I’m merely suggesting that the label ‘Muggleborn’ is unnecessary,” he said plainly. “Just like you said they shouldn’t exist, they simply are. They’re not impure or lesser. They’re wizards. Plain and simple.”

The silence that followed was cold and heavy, Voldemort’s crimson eyes narrowing.

For a moment, Tom thought his father might lash out, curse him for his audacity, but instead, Voldemort let out a low chuckle.

Turning toward Tom’s uncle, he remarked, “This is your doing, Theodorus. You’ve raised the boy far too sentimental. There will be consequences.”

His uncle stiffened visibly at the words, his face draining of colour.

How dare he threaten—

The faint chill of his own magic started to seep into the air, uncontrolled, unrestrained. His grip on the table tightened, and his magic jumped to arms, ready to lash out if Tom so willed it to.

“Lose an argument, and your first instinct is to threaten,” Tom said quietly, his voice shaking.

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, mimicking Tom’s earlier gesture, his faint smile sharp and triumphant. The frost in the room deepened, creeping slowly but surely toward his father’s side.

“Are you even a ‘lord,’ Father?” Tom asked, his voice low and cold. “You sound more like a tyrant. A monster.”

His father’s response was unexpected. He laughed—a warm, unsettling sound, far too human for the man Tom knew.

“Ah, the fire of youth,” Voldemort said, his amusement genuine, which only stoked Tom’s anger further. “I remember when I lost control for the first time. I was about your age then. Do you know what I did, Magnus?” His voice dropped, turning almost conspiratorial as he leaned forward slightly.

Tom shook his head, though his magic remained poised, ready.

“I killed my father.”

Tom’s concentration shattered. His magic faltered as his eyes widened in shock. “You… what?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Voldemort shrugged lightly, his jet-black hair falling across his handsome face in dark curtains. Through the strands, his crimson eyes glinted. “Him and my grandparents,” he said simply, as though discussing the weather. “Are you pondering the same? Itching to curse me, Magnus?”

A deep, visceral dread bloomed in Tom’s chest. He had never feared his father before—not the serpentine form, not the cold, commanding presence. But this?

This was something else entirely.

The pain came suddenly, an agonising burst that clawed its way through Tom’s skull. He clutched his head, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps. The dining room flickered, the warm glow of candlelight dimming until it disappeared entirely. The voices of his uncle and father calling for him fading into silence.

The world around him shifted, cold and suffocating. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer at the dinner table.

He stood in the middle of an ornate drawing room dissimilar to the manor’s own, the walls lined with gilded frames and polished wood paneling. But it wasn’t the grandeur of the room that caught his attention—it was—

The bodies.

A man with sharp features and jet-black hair lay closest—his resemblance to Tom and his father was uncanny, as if a distorted reflection of himself stared back at him. His limbs were twisted unnaturally, his face frozen in sheer, unrelenting terror.

Tom’s breath hitched as his eyes drifted down to his hand. He was holding a wand, the tip glowed with the sickly green residue of a curse. He could feel it. The lingering thrum of magic, dark and intoxicating. His grip tightened around the wand instinctively, a dark thrill coursing through him.

I did this. The thought came unbidden, and with it, a wave of satisfaction.

A smirk tugged at his lips as he surveyed the lifeless forms. A rush of power surged within him, a feeling of dominance, of control. They had been nothing before him. He had ended them, and it had felt... good. A voice in the back of his mind screamed, but it was muffled, distant, like a whisper drowned out by the roaring tide of power. This is what I am. This is what I’m capable of. This is me.

None shall deny Lord Voldemort any longer.

As he turned, his gaze fell upon another figure in the room—a disheveled man with wild, matted hair and vacant eyes, standing stiffly as though under a spell. Tom’s hand moved of its own accord, and he tossed the wand toward the man, the wood clattering on the floor.

“Once the Aurors arrive, you shall wake from your enchantment,” he heard himself say, his voice low and cold, devoid of emotion. “And you will confess. Confess to killing the Riddles.”

His footsteps were slow, deliberate, the sound of his boots on the polished floor punctuating the eerie silence. He could feel the man’s blank stare on his back, the screams of horror inside of the man’s mind trying to pierce through the haze he had conjured.

So this was what it meant to be powerful , he thought as he looked upon the greying sky, hearing the dull rain falling heavily.

Lives. So inconsequential. 

He had mastered it. The lives of others, the life of his own. He was going to live forever. He was untouchable. Powerful. The most powerful.

He stepped out into the rain, the cold air biting at his skin, and everything began to unravel. The vision fractured, the edges of his reality crumbling into a blinding white void.

Tom gasped as he came back to himself, the dining room snapping into focus around him. He was on his hands and knees, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. The warmth of the manor was oppressive now, suffocating in its intensity, and his body trembled violently under the weight of the vision that he had just saw.

“Thomas!” Uncle Theodorus’ voice broke through the haze, his hands gripping Tom’s shoulders as he tried to steady him.

Tom tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. His stomach churned violently, and before he could stop it, he retched onto the polished floor. His entire body convulsed as he gagged, the acrid taste of bile burning his throat.

“What is happening to him, Theodorus?! Do something!” his father’s sharp voice barked from above, filled with an urgency that felt almost fake.

Tom barely registered their words. All he could see were the bodies. The man with his face, the fear frozen in his lifeless eyes, and the rush of satisfaction he’d felt while looking at them.

His stomach heaved again, and he collapsed forward, bracing himself with shaking arms as more bile spilled onto the floor. The vision haunted him, the memory of the power he’d wielded burning in his mind. He had enjoyed it—revelled in it. And that knowledge made him feel sick.

A pair of polished shoes entered his field of vision, and Tom’s head snapped up. His father stood over him, his expression unreadable, though his crimson eyes gleamed with something unnervingly close to worry.

“What did you do?!” Tom croaked, his voice raw and trembling as he scrambled backward, desperate to put distance between himself and the man before him.

“I did nothing ,” Voldemort said evenly, his tone measured but defensive.

It was a lie. Tom could feel it in every fiber of his being. His father had done something—forced the vision upon him, made him live through the horror of what he could become. It was punishment. A warning.

Tom forced himself to his feet, his legs shaky and unsteady. “I am going to my room,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “Am I dismissed?”

His father tilted his head slightly, studying him as though weighing his next words carefully. “Yes. Go and rest,” he said finally, his tone clipped.

Tom didn’t wait for further permission. He turned and stumbled out of the dining room, his heart pounding as he fled down the corridor. The air felt heavy, the walls closing in around him as the vision replayed in his mind over and over.

What… was that? Tom asked himself, his voice trembling in the silence of his room. He sat curled up on his bed, legs drawn tightly to his chest, his chin resting on his knees as his arms wrapped around them. His eyes stared blankly ahead, but his mind was racing, spinning through the horrifying vision he had just experienced.

It wasn’t him. He was sure of it. The ‘him’ inside the vision wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. That was his father—of that, Tom was certain. The actions, the cruelty, the cold satisfaction—it all belonged to Voldemort.

But then… why had it felt so real? So personal? Like it was… like it was Tom murdering them?

He shivered, the thought sending a chill down his spine. Tom had never felt anything like that before, as though he were inside someone else, seeing through their eyes, acting through their will. And the worst part wasn’t even the horror of the vision itself.

It was how… satisfying it had felt in the moment.

The pleasure he’d felt when the Killing Curse left his wand. The surge of power when he saw the bodies collapse before him. The thrill of dominance when he left the crazed man to take the blame for the murders—

A knock at the door broke through his spiraling thoughts, snapping him back to the present. Tom blinked, his voice weak as he called, “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Uncle Theodorus peeked inside, his face lined with worry. “Thomas,” he said softly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “May I sit?”

Tom nodded, his throat dry, and gestured to the bed beside him. His uncle crossed the room and lowered himself onto the mattress, his movements slow and deliberate, as if afraid of startling Tom.

“Are you okay, Uncle?” Tom asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “He didn’t… he didn’t do anything to you, did he?”

Uncle Theodorus’ eyes softened, and he reached out to place a reassuring hand on Tom’s shoulder. “No, he didn’t do anything to me,” he said gently. “But that’s not the question we should be asking, is it? Did he do something to you?”

Tom hesitated, glancing down at his hands. He wasn’t sure how to answer. “I don’t think so,” he murmured. “I… I don’t know.”

His uncle clasped Tom’s hand in both of his, his warmth steadying. “What happened, Tom?” he asked. “Your eyes lost their colour, and you just… collapsed. The Dark Lord was worried, though Merlin knows that I could never read that man.”

Tom gave a faint, bitter laugh at the thought of his father being ‘worried’. He bit the inside of his cheek, still struggling to find the right words. “I think I saw something,” he said finally.

“Something?” Theodorus prompted gently.

Tom nodded, his voice unsteady. “When Father said that he’d killed his own father… it was like—I don’t know—it was like I killed the man. With my own hands.”

Theodorus’ hand tightened instinctively around Tom’s, and Tom leaned into his uncle’s steady presence, taking comfort in the man’s warmth and stability.

“What do you mean, Thomas?” his uncle asked, his tone calm but laced with concern.

Tom closed his eyes, the horrifying images rushing back to the forefront of his mind. “Did my father… did he really kill his parent, Uncle?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” Theodorus whispered, shame woven into every syllable. “He did. He didn’t lie to you, Tom. He was your age when he did it.”

Tom hummed softly, nodding against his uncle’s shoulder as he processed the confirmation. “I think I saw him killing his father,” he said slowly. “And then… blaming it on a man. A dirty, crazed man. Did that happen too?”

His uncle stiffened beside him, and Tom didn’t need a verbal response to know the truth.

“How did you—”

“I don’t know,” Tom interrupted softly. “But the crazed man… he was under the Imperius Curse. I’m sure of it. Father just taught it to me last week. The vacant eyes, the obedience, the torture of the mind trying to claw its way out… it was all there.”

Theodorus’ arm tightened around Tom, his hand shifting to rest gently on the back of Tom’s head. “What did you feel?” he asked quietly. “When you saw what your father did?”

“In that moment?” Tom asked. 

“Pleasure.”

His uncle stiffened next to him, and Tom raised his gaze, his tears filling his eyes. He felt terrified . Terrified of what his uncle would think, terrified that he would not love him anymore for saying that. “Now? I feel… terrified, confused, appalled… all of the above.”

His uncle nodded his head, his gentle eyes returning. “Good,” he said firmly, his tone steady. “That means you’re still you, Thomas. You have to become better. Do you hear me? Better than him.”

Tom nodded faintly, his head still resting on his uncle’s shoulder. “I wish you were my father,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “Is it bad if I say that I don’t… like him very much?”

Theodorus chuckled softly, tapping Tom’s cheek with gentle affection. “We can’t choose our parents,” he said, his voice warm. “But we can choose who we want to be. So tell me, Tom, who or what do you want to be?”

Tom fell silent for a moment, considering the question as he always did. And, as always, his answer brought a flicker of exasperation to his uncle’s face. “I’ve told you before. I want to start my own band and play around the world.”

Theodorus clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, jabbing a playful finger into Tom’s side. “And waste that enigma of a brain of yours?” he teased.

“Mmm… being a genius is overrated,” Tom quipped with a small grin. “I’ll write a song for you if you let me go. How about that?”

“I’ll be your number one fan, Tom,” his uncle replied, smiling warmly.

Tom returned the smile, the tension in his chest easing slightly. “Thanks, Dad.”

His uncle’s smile grew even wider, and he gently pushed Tom to bed, tucking him like he would Tom and Theo when they were little. “Go to sleep, son,” his uncle whispered. “You need rest. I’ll speak to the dark lord that you are unwell.”

Tom was a bit worried, but he trusted his uncle. He had always been the strongest man he knew. “Okay. Just be careful, Uncle, please.”

“I will. I promise. Sleep,” Uncle Theodorus whispered.

With a subtle ‘Nox’ his uncle dimmed the light in the room, staying on Tom’s bed until he drifted to sleep, recounting his childhood story of The Tales Beedles The Bard, making Tom smile serenely as he heard the elderly man drone out about what he thought was Tom’s favourite story.

It was not. It was his best friend’s favourite. Tom missed Theo so much, he hoped his friend would come home soon.