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Chapter Text

Harry Potter and the Season of the Wix

“Avada Kedavra,” I hear, and I see the green light flash towards me, but I'm not looking at that. Instead, I'm looking at Voldemort's face, and I see a flash of sorrow cross his serpentine features.

I open my eyes and see a wide expanse of white. I blink a few times, seeing I'm in an all-white version of King's Cross Station and notice three things:

1. Tom Riddle is standing in front of me. Tom looks like he did when I met him in the Chamber, maybe a couple of years older. If I had to guess, I'd say he was 20 years old. The only noticeable difference was his eyes—they were blood red, just like Voldemort's.

2. There is another with us, sitting on a bench in a business suit, looking aristocratic and effortlessly graceful, and watching me and Tom with a look of amusement in his eyes.

3. I'm naked.

Just as I realise I'm naked, clothes start to appear on me. I look around and see that there is a train waiting, but its doors are closed.

“Who are you? And where am I?” I ask, deciding not to comment on Riddle being here before I find out where *here* is. The stranger lets out a deep chuckle.

“Now, Harry, you already suspect the answer to both of those questions, now don't you?” the man says, his tone amused. I would have thought it to be mocking if I couldn't see a hint of kindness in his eyes. He’s testing me, I realise—my mind feeling like it's sharpening, as though just waking from a very long stint under Madam Pomfrey's care.

“You’re Death, aren't you?” I am aware of Riddle watching us intently, but staying silent, observing.

“Indeed, I am. You collected my Hallows. That is why I'm here waiting on you instead of sending you straight on through to the afterlife.”

“Wait, this isn't the afterlife?” I interrupt.

“No. This is a sort of limbo. I once gifted three artifacts to three brothers—the Peverell brothers. I gifted them with these artifacts for multiple reasons: one being they were true necromancers. It ran through their veins and through their magic and soul. Death magic was a part of them truly. I also saw that one day, one of their descendants would become my master.” Death pauses here for a second, watching me intently, and I see Riddle watching us closely as well. “You are the last descendant of Ignotus Peverell. It's where your invisibility cloak came from. Cadmus Peverell was Tom’s ancestor—where the Gaunts got the Resurrection Stone from. My master in every version of reality, every strand of fate, has been you, Harry,” Death says seriously, rendering me speechless.

“But I never got the wand,” I say dumbly after a second.

“The Master of Death can only be one with Peverell blood. I really should have mentioned that,” Death says with an unrepentant grin. “Nevertheless, you did gain the wand's loyalty when you disarmed young Heir Malfoy. You had all three. It was always going to be you,” Death says seriously. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, though. A lot of information has been kept from you. For example, the fact that you have a soulmate bond.”

“Soulmate bonds are incredibly rare and are usually only between very powerful magicals blessed by Lady Magic herself. The only ones I've heard of were Merlin and Morgana, and the Flamels,” Tom said, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“Yes, those were the notable ones. And they are rare—usually one pair a century. Lady Magic gifts them to her favoured, usually in times of great change,” Death says calmly. “Hadrian James Potter has a soulmate bond gifted by Lady Magic with Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

Tom and I both look in a state of shock. Part of me wants to instantly deny it and shout about how it’s impossible since he killed my parents, but I can't. There had always been a connection between us, a pull dragging us together. I first felt it when I had been writing in that little black journal, it having increased when I met him in the Chamber. I meet Riddle’s eyes and see my own emotions mirrored in his own. I see a boy who is so much like me, and I know deep in my soul Death speaks the truth. I see acceptance flash through Tom’s eyes also—him also having come to the same conclusion as me.

“How did we not know?” I ask in a quiet whisper.

“Dumbledore placed blocks on your magic and abilities. He also had you dosed with loyalty potions and was casting compulsions on you and controlling who you had around you,” Death says softly, with genuine concern in his eyes. “Your friends weren’t really your friends—they were Dumbledore’s followers and were keeping tabs on you and reporting back to him. It was all staged from the beginning. They also kept you isolated from everyone else. Tom splitting his soul didn’t help much on his end either,” Death said, adding the part about Tom almost as an afterthought.

I feel an almost overwhelming sense of rage crash over me—and then a sense of calm. A calm, furious anger I have never felt before. Part of me isn’t surprised by learning this. I had been having doubts about Dumbledore before, and Ron had already betrayed me back in fourth year during the Triwizard Tournament—and again this year when on our Horcrux hunt—and Hermione would do anything a teacher told her to, even betraying a friend. My brain screeches to a halt.

Horcrux hunt. “We destroyed the Horcruxes,” I say in a horrified whisper. I see Tom’s head snap towards me so fast you’d think he’d get whiplash.

“I have pieced his soul back together. The only part of his soul not pieced together is the piece that was in you, Harry. The only reason you were even able to become a Horcrux was because you were soulmates. If you hadn’t been, it would have killed you instantly. His soul piece is tightly tied to yours. Not even I can separate them. It's such a small piece that him not having it won't matter.”

“Well, it won't matter anyway—we’re both dead,” I point out, and I see Death smirk.

“For now, you are. But you won't remain so. I need you alive as my anchor into the living world. As my master, you are now immortal,” Death said seriously, and I can see the sympathy in his eyes. “Tom still has one Horcrux—you. As long as you live, he will. And since you’re immortal...” Death trails off. “You can still die. If you do, I'll just fix your body or make it again and pop you back into it again. Tom will be fine even in those cases.” I see Tom visibly sag in relief before his Slytherin masks are firmly back in place. “The Hallows are yours now. They have been absorbed into you. All you’ll have to do is think of one and want to use it, and it'll appear for you. The wand's appearance will change now that you’re its owner—it’ll change to be perfect for you, and no one will know you have it. And best of all, Dumbledore won’t know that it isn't a custom-made wand,” Death says seriously.

“Dumbledore’s dead. Shouldn’t you of all people know that?” Tom points out dryly.

“Ah, I said I need you alive—not that you had to go back to the time you died. The earliest I can send you back is your fourth year,” Death tells Harry. “Tom will be back but have his sanity intact this time. I'll make him his body as well, to be 17—legally able to not be in Hogwarts but not too old for it to seem strange him being around you. Even without Tom ordering Barty Crouch Junior to put your name in the Goblet of Fire, Dumbledore will ensure you’re entered and you will be a champion. I'm going to send you back to about halfway through the summer. Oh, and Master—I am removing the trace for underaged magic from you. I suggest you see the goblins about your inheritance and lordships. They usually help ensure you’re not potioned or having compulsions on you, but I'm already taking care of that for you. Having that as a reason for why they don’t work will be good. There should be properties you own you both can stay at.”

Magic swirls around us, moving faster and faster—and then I suck in a sharp breath and open my eyes and see I'm in a study. I'm in Riddle Manor, and Tom is lying beside me, watching me. He’s looking at me with a possessive look in his eyes. “$My precious soulmate$,” he hisses in Parseltongue. “We have much work to do,” he says commandingly.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Truce

“Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are.”
― Niccolò Machiavelli, *The Prince*

I look straight ahead at the Dark Lord. No, at Tom. I must start seeing him more as Tom. He looks happy, dead, in limbo, closer to who he was in the diary. But his eyes look hazel with a hint of red through his irises. He seems to be observing me as well and finding me lacking, judging by the tightening of his mouth and sharpness of his eyes. I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of finally being seen for once. My soul laid bare for him. Because Tom knows. He lived it. He knows what the second-hand muggle clothes several sizes too big means. He knows what me being too small for my age means. And he knows, above all, that I won't want to talk about it.

“I remember pieces of memories from my Horcruxes. Including you. I must sort it out in my mindscape. I do know some of what happened. We will have to fix the damage done to you physically. Malnutrition can cause organ failure. The goblins will have potions for that and healers,” Tom said. And it's clear that's all he’ll say on the matter unless I bring it up.

“So, this is that? You and me in an alliance to destroy Dumbledore,” I say, making sure he isn’t going to start throwing AK’s at my back.

“Yes, I also plan to continue in my goals as well,” Tom says, giving me a sense of unease in my stomach since the war is going to go on again. And I'm more startled by the fact I'm not too bothered by that now. I will be upset if any of my friends who didn’t betray me got hurt, like Neville or Luna. And I don't want death to muggleborn. But other than that, I don't know much else about the war. And that, above all, is a terrifying thing. I fought through a war I didn't even know what it was about.

“And you truly believe killing all the muggleborn to be a good idea?” I questioned sarcastically, my tone showing how stupid I think he's being.

“Of course not,” he snapped. “You have listened to too much light propaganda, Harry. I don't want the muggleborn dead. They have magic. I want them in the wizarding world, away from the muggles. Complete segregation. They can be adopted into magical families and be integrated from a younger age. That's what America does, and France, and a lot of other magical populations in the world. They have no muggleborns now because true muggleborns are incredibly rare. Those Britain class as muggleborns would be better named squib-borns. If you go back through their family tree, I'd bet my entire Gringotts will, you would find out there is a wizarding family name in there. Separation would also help ensure the Statute of Secrecy is upheld. You would be surprised by how many close calls there have been in the last decade alone.”

I look at him intently, and I can see that he is being truthful. It also helps that I can feel it through our bond. Besides, even when he hated me, he has never once lied to me. I started thinking about what he said, turning it over in my head. Personally, I agree with being separated from muggles. But know, logically, my childhood probably plays a huge part in that. It would also stop the racism from the purebloods to the muggleborns.

“I also wish for the traditions and the culture of our world to return. To unban spells and whole branches of magic that were banned because someone disagreed with them. There are a lot of healing and protective spells we can't use because they need one drop of blood from a willing participant, and that's only the tip of the iceberg,” the Dark Lord says, interrupting my thoughts. I slowly begin to nod my head in agreement. These are all thoughts I have had at some point but then been distracted from by either someone trying to kill me or Ron or Hermione.

“Ok, then let's start planning how we're going to do this. This is the summer before my 4th year. So, the Triwizard Tournament will be happening soon. The World Cup won't be long either.” I see him thinking, clearly plotting in his head.

“Most moves I want to make we can’t because Dumbledore will shout about how I'm Voldemort,” Tom says, clearly frustrated.

“But he can’t,” I say with a growing grin. “Remember what happened in my fifth year when he said you were back? No one believed him. And who would believe you were Voldemort? You're young, looking 17, with a nose. You could claim to be a relative, but no one would believe Dumbledore. Especially when I'm close to you—who would believe the Boy Who Lived was dating the Dark Lord?” I end with a faux innocent expression, and I see Tom blink in genuine surprise for a moment before a bloodthirsty grin crosses his face. Then I let out a yelp as I'm hit on the wrist by a sudden stinging hex. “What was that for?” I cry out indignantly.

“That was for your comment about my nose, brat,” he says imperiously. “But I must admit you're right. No one will believe Dumbledore, which is good for us and our plans. Once we see the goblins, I will discuss creating a fake identity for me. I believe it will probably be easiest to pretend to be my own son. Naturally, my Death Eaters will know who I am.”

“Are you sure that's such a good idea? You know how they are. They most likely will brag about it, and that will bring unwanted attention,” I say, interrupting him.

“I will only be telling my most trusted Death Eaters. If I told them all, that would get around, and we don't want that. But loath as I am to admit, we do need my inner circle to help with our plans. Lucius will be of great help to our plans. And he's loyal. He won't go to the Ministry or Dumbledore.”

I nod in acceptance, knowing that this is a fresh start, and I should try to befriend those who I'm on the same side as now. And it might be different now that I'm not potioned. “So, what's our next move?”

“Now I'm going to go and tell Barty about what happened and that you're on our side and not to be harmed. Barty can be trusted; he’s one of my most faithful. Then we will get ready to go to Gringotts and to get you a new wardrobe whilst we are out,” Tom says before righting himself and leaving the room to find Barty.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: All That Glitters Isn’t Gold

“Any man who tries to be good all the time is bound to come to ruin among the great number who are not good. Hence a prince who wants to keep his authority must learn how not to be good, and use that knowledge, or refrain from using it, as necessity requires.”
― Niccolò Machiavelli, *The Prince*

Tom walks through the door, back into the room, with Barty trailing after him. Barty giving me curious looks but clearly trusting his lord’s word that I am to be trusted. Tom levels me with an intense look, not saying a word but looking as though hoping to see my soul, which has bonded us so closely together.

“I will still fight for my beliefs, and the Ministry still must go. They are beyond corrupt, and frankly, it leaves us all open to attack. It goes without saying that Dumbledore also must go. But you were correct,” Tom says, looking slightly put out to have to admit someone else was right about something. “Dumbledore will not be able to claim I'm Voldemort without seeming mad and prejudiced. This gives me the opportunity I have needed to go about things politically. I have always wanted to, but Dumbledore had blocked me from the Wizengamot and the Ministry when he had defeated Grindelwald.”

“So, we aren’t starting a war?” I ask, feeling relieved about not having to relive the war we just came from, but also slightly put out, as I had wanted to be actively against Dumbledore and my past so-called friends for betraying me.

“Oh, we are starting a war—just on a more political and subtle approach. Think a Slytherin approach, $my soul$,” Tom says, slipping in the endearment he seems to be getting fond of, if the possessive glint in his eye is anything to go by. “We might still go out into an active war though. I won’t start it. I’ll let Dumbledore start the violence. It’ll cement in people's minds how he is the one who responded to politics and not getting his way by violence, and putting them all in danger,” Tom adds seriously.

“Okay, so what are we doing once at Gringotts besides claiming the heirships?” I ask.

“Besides your heirships, we will be getting a full medical report made on you showing all the blocks and compulsions and potions that had been on you. It’ll also document who put them on you and the exact date and time of each. It will be another nail in the coffin for Dumbledore. Once we have enough stuff, I plan on overloading the Wizengamot and the public with too much proof against him all at once—to a point even his supporters don’t want to associate with him. And I will be claiming my inheritances and setting up my fake documents showing I'm my own son. Then we will be going out into Diagon Alley shopping. You need a new wardrobe, and we can collect your school supplies as well. We will be pretending to date and make it so we seem like we’ve been together a while but kept it quiet and this is our first public appearance. It’ll be good for people to see us together and seemingly enjoying ourselves.”

“My lord, what do we do about Mr. Potter’s guardianship? Eventually, his guardians will realise he isn’t at home, and we don’t want Dumbledore shouting that he’s been kidnapped,” Barty asks, and Tom’s lips twitch into a smirk at the thought.

“We will have to discuss it with the goblins, but Harry has spent time staying with friends before, so there should be no reason he isn’t allowed now—well, that's what we’ll say publicly. But Dumbledore technically isn’t Harry's guardian, Sirius Black is. Harry, how likely would it be that if you asked your godfather if you can stay with your boyfriend or a friend, that he would let you?”

“Yeah, I think he would, especially at a friend's house,” I say, realising now that Sirius is still alive, and I feel a sense of determination to keep it that way this time around—even if he hates the side I'll pick.

“Good, so you can stay with me, and if he later throws a tantrum about it, then you can stay with your cousin Draco,” Tom says, smirking as I start to splutter.

“Malfoy?!” I say, my voice having risen a few octaves, my mind overwhelmed by the thought that Draco might try killing me before the summer is out.

“Yes, your grandmother was a Black and your godfather also is a Black. You and Draco are technically cousins from two separate sources. I'll admit it would be second cousins, but that still makes him family. Besides, you're the same age—it would make sense that you would spend time together. You're on the same side now as well. I'm sure you'll find he’ll be a lot more welcoming now as well. You will be at the very least civil to each other,” Tom states.

“There’s no way the Malfoys will agree to that.”

“It's precious you think I'll be giving them a choice, but you’d be surprised to note that they will of their own free choice as well. I found out that Narcissa tried gaining your guardianship multiple times and only stopped trying after my return, and I'm well aware that was for your safety. She even tried after you had been at Hogwarts. She takes family seriously, Harry, and you are it. With my permission, she’ll probably go overboard and make some more obvious moves to gain it this time around,” Tom says, and it's clear this news surprised Barty as well.

“That doesn’t make sense. Mr. Malfoy has hated me since the end of my second year,” I tell him, confused on why they’d do this and feeling a renewed sense of anger at Dumbledore now that I know I did have other relatives and that they tried to gain guardianship.

“Lucius loves his wife. And frankly, I think Narcissa scares him a little. He has his sanity enough to know not to mess with an angry Black. You’re her family, so you are his. It’s that simple for him. You may have angered him, but the most he would do would be to try to frighten you and to shout at most. He would never do anything else and would still have accepted you into his family,” Tom says, and I try ignoring the stinging behind my eyes that knowing this causes. “Barty, whilst we are at Gringotts, I want you to go to Lucius’ and give him the letter I handed you. It’ll inform him of what has happened and what's going to happen. Make sure he burns it after he reads it. Harry, they will more than likely meet us in Diagon during our shopping. You and Draco will act like friends, or at least civil. We want people to think you have made up. It’ll also give you a reason not to talk to Weasley or Granger on the train back to school.”

Tom gets up and is fastening his cloak, and we go out of Riddle Manor. Barty gives Tom a bow, then after a second, bows to me as well.

“My lords,” he says, much to my shock, then apparates. I look to Tom, who just smirks and offers his arm to me, which I take. Then we are at the entrance to Diagon Alley. Tom keeps a hold of my arm as he escorts me through the alley at a leisurely pace. I see people turn and stare at me, as they always do when I'm in the alley, but for the first time, it doesn’t make me want to shrink back and hide. And I feel myself unwittingly relax and lean closer to Tom as he makes idle chat about the alley and asks questions as though he hasn’t been in a while—which, now that I think about it, would be the case. We are at the grand marble stair to Gringotts now, and the goblin guards are looking at us. Tom stops, squeezes my hand, and bows to both guards, and I hurry to do the same.

“It’s considered polite and one of their customs. Not doing so would make them even more predisposed to dislike you. It’s always a good idea to be polite to goblins,” Tom murmurs to me quietly. He steps up to a free teller and waits, then bows when he looks at us, which I also do. I notice the look of surprise cross the goblin’s face.

“Greetings, Teller Griphook, our business here today is of a sensitive nature. May we be shown to the Potter account manager? The issue is pressing and time-sensitive,” Tom says, his voice showing authority, but he stayed polite—clearly expecting to be obeyed. Griphook looks at us both before saying some stuff in Gobbledygook to a few other nearby goblins, then jumps down off his seat.

“Come,” is all he says, and leads us through a few corridors till we reach a grand-looking door which has the name *Potter* written in elegant golden script. Griphook opens the door and speaks in Gobbledygook to the goblin sitting behind the desk before he leaves.

“Harry Potter and Tom Riddle. I must admit I never expected you to both come and see me together,” he says, observing us both for a few seconds. “Mr. Potter, you have been ignoring our letters,” he states, looking directly at me now.

“I have never received a letter from Gringotts before. I believe someone has been interfering with my mail. The only letters I have ever received have come from my two friends and Hogwarts,” I tell the goblin honestly, whose eyes narrow slightly.

“Mr. Potter, I am Ragnok. I am the Potter family accounts manager. I have been sending you letters since you were 7. We have much to discuss. But first, what brings you both to Gringotts today?” Ragnok asks, clearly too curious about why we are together.

“Account Manager Ragnok, we have recently found out that Albus Dumbledore had blocked a lot of Harry’s magical core and abilities, as well as placing compulsions and potioning him. These have been removed. Because they had been removed, me and Harry's soul bond snapped into place. We would like Gringotts to do its tests and have documentation of it so we can present it at the Wizengamot later. He would also like to claim all his heirships, which he has only just found out about. And then I would like to contract Gringotts to create me a fake identity—preferably as my own son—and claim all my own lordships,” Tom states.

Ragnok just stares at us for a few moments, presses a button behind his desk, and starts speaking in rapid Gobbledygook. Ragnok starts pulling out a parchment, knife, bowl, and potion.

“Mr. Potter, prick your finger and let three drops of blood flow into this potion. Then shake it and pour it in the tray,” he says, as he puts the parchment in the tray along with about five others. He waits for Harry to do that, then snatches up the parchments as soon as he can, cursing under his breath, and hands over the sheet showing all the blocks and potions and compulsions he was under to make him a Gryffindor puppet.

“Mr. Potter, it’s truly a wonder you had any autonomy at all with all of these on you. You will begin to start thinking more clearly soon and magic will be a lot easier, so put very little power into your spells now. You will probably find that magic comes easier to you now, and classwork should become a lot easier now that the block stopping your hyperthymesia from working is gone. That means you’ll be able to recall in perfect detail almost everything—every image, every event, every page of a book, and every word and page number,” Ragnok says, and this is the first time he has ever heard a goblin sound pitying.

“Mr. Potter, Gringotts has a Time Chamber. That means that once inside, you could have every bone fully healed and be able to be to perfect health again—even have your eyesight fixed—and only a few minutes will pass to everyone outside of the chamber. Would you like to enter the Time Chamber?” Ragnok offers.

“Yes, please,” I say, overwhelmed by the day's events and frankly just wanting to sleep at this point and not think of it anymore. Ragnok gives me a few more bits of paper to bleed onto before sending me with another goblin to the Time Chamber.

I open my eyes and step out of the chamber feeling better than I ever have, being able to see entirely crystal clear, and I'm hurried back to Ragnok’s office to see Tom finishing putting the Slytherin lordship ring on.

“Mr. Potter, your rings are here. Now, as you’re the last of the Potter and Peverell families, you can gain their lordship instead of the heirship. Would you like to do so? You also can gain the Gryffindor Lordship, but there is a stipulation that to do so, you can't be a student at Hogwarts.”

“Just the Potter and Peverell, please,” I say and notice how my voice sounds different now as well—more adult and silkier. Ragnok passes me three rings. I raise my eyebrow in question at the third.

“The Black heir ring,” Tom says in explanation.

I nod and place each ring on my fingers. They shrink down to fit me perfectly, and each gives me a different feeling. The Potter ring gives me a feeling of home and warmth and of acceptance and a quiet strength. The Black ring gives me the feeling of being judged and found to be accepting—and a feeling of power and vicious vengeance and superiority. The Peverell family ring, however, gives me a feeling of ice through my veins, which suddenly feels like a warm hug and of power—pure power—and possibilities and hope. And I hear the word *master* whispered through my mind, an acceptance of me claiming it.

“Bleed seven drops onto this card. It's a Gringotts bank card—you can use it for purchases in shops, and you can also use your lordship rings. The cards also work in the Muggle world.” I do so, and Ragnok gives me a pouch which is also linked to my vaults, so I can take coins from it by whispering the amount I want. It’ll only work for me, as when I put my hand in the bag it scans the lordship rings.

Ragnok slides a piece of paper towards me which is the amount in each vault, and my eyes bulge at the number written—knowing I didn’t have to be so careful these past few years. I would never have to worry about money again. On the top of the parchment, however, is my name: *Hadrian James Potter–Black*. That hits me like a punch to the gut. I had never even known my true name till today. I pass the paper to Tom, who looks at it, his expression unreadable, but he nods—clearly understanding my sudden dark mood.

“My new identity was sorted whilst you were in the Time Chamber. I am now Thomas Gaunt, Lord Slytherin,” he tells me softly, clearly distracting me. “Now we should get going and get you a new wardrobe and your school supplies—and meet up with Lucius and Narcissa.”

We say our goodbyes to Ragnok and leave the bank, Tom having linked arms with me again as we make our way down the marble staircase back into the Alley.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Shaking Hands with the Enemy (For Now)

“A prudent man should always follow in the path trodden by great men and imitate those who are most excellent, so that if he does not attain to their greatness, at any rate he will get some tinge of it.”
― Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince

He leads me back into the Leaky Cauldron, through to the courtyard, and shrinks our bags, putting them in his pocket before taking my hand again and opening the passage into Diagon Alley. He walks us down, making idle chat about how you can use even the most basic spells in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and uses my use of Wingardium Leviosa as an example of how I used a simple first-year charm to take out a fully grown mountain troll. He slows our walk as we get to Twilfitt and Tattings and leads me inside. I almost groan as I realize he’s going to be even worse in a wizarding clothes shop. As we enter, we see the Malfoys in the shop, Lucius clearly having been looking around every so often. As we enter, he stands straight and turns to us, and I see his perfect pureblood mask break as his mouth drops slightly as he looks at me and his master. He quickly regains his composure, and before he can say anything, Tom cuts in.

“Ah, Lucius, how lovely to bump into you and Narcissa. Have you had the chance to meet my bonded? No? Well, this is Hadrian Potter. Harry, this is Lucius and his wife, Narcissa Malfoy. I believe you already know their son, Draco.” Tom says, and I notice his amusement at being able to call me Harry, a nickname for my full name, whilst also making sure to introduce me properly, ensuring they call me by my proper name until I feel more comfortable enough for a nickname.

“We have met in passing. I must admit we haven’t had many conversations, though. It’s a pleasure to meet you properly, Hadrian, and under better circumstances,” Lucius says, and I’m surprised to hear that he sounds sincere. I incline my head.

“Yes, it is.” I turn my attention to Narcissa now. “It’s lovely to get to meet you properly, Mrs. Malfoy,” I say respectfully, and I see her eyes soften slightly.

“Indeed it is, Hadrian. I have wanted to meet you for a while now,” she says.

I’m quickly led into the back to get fitted next to Draco, as Tom and Narcissa seem to be going into a frenzy looking through materials and designs. I realize this is going to be so much worse than the department store, and it’s clear Lucius knows it as well, since he’s inching further away from them both as the minutes go by.

“Now this feels eerily familiar, doesn’t it, Potter?” Draco says, amused. And I can’t help but let out a chuckle, thinking back on the first time I met Draco.

“Yeah, seems like a lifetime ago we were being fitted in Madame Malkin’s,” I say softly.

“You were awfully quiet that day,” Draco remarks, and I can see he’s trying to be polite and keep the conversation going and friendly, clearly having been told of what’s happened so far by his father and realizing we have to act out a truce.

“To be fair to me, I had only learned of magic a few hours before that, and you were talking about stuff Hagrid hadn’t explained to me yet,” I say, and see him looking horrified that it was Hagrid who delivered my Hogwarts letter. Then he seems to give me an appraising gaze.

“So I heard you’re not on good terms with Weasley and Granger and that there is no chance of you making up. Is that true?” he asks, looking at me intently, and when I nod, he gets a look, clearly debating with himself before he sighs. “I propose a real truce, a fresh start. I’m Draco Malfoy,” he offers, holding out his hand, clearly looking a little unsure if this is a good idea but sticking to it anyways. I take his hand and shake it this time.

“I’m Hadrian Potter,” I say, accepting the truce.

“By the way, Potter, you should’ve run when you had the chance, because my mother picking out clothes for us is going to take forever,” he says, amused, and I groan, telling him about my previous shopping with Tom. He looks mildly horrified, realizing it’s going to be worse here.

“So, what classes are you looking forward to this year?” I ask, trying to make conversation, and judging by the slight relief in Malfoy’s eye, he had been trying to think of something to say which wasn’t antagonistic.

“I am quite looking forward to Runes and Arithmancy. Last year they were taking an interesting turn, and I’m quite looking forward to the challenge,” Draco says before it’s quiet for a second. Then he asks, “What electives did you take last year?” he asks me curiously.

“I took Divination and Care Of Magical Creatures,” I say mournfully. “Both of which are completely useless to me. I mean, I like Hagrid and all, but sometimes he does bring in quite dangerous creatures, and I don’t plan on doing anything involving creatures,” I say, and he nods in agreement.

“Exactly what I’ve been saying since the incident with the hippogriff,” Draco says, and I open my mouth to defend Hagrid and Buckbeak but stop and try to think of this from Draco’s point of view. From what I remember of the incident, and I realize Draco did follow the instructions given. He bowed and got the bow back before he misspoke, and Buckbeak attacked, but he did follow the instructions and was lucky his injury wasn’t a lot more serious. I have to grudgingly nod in agreement that he’s right; it was wrong and dangerous.

“You did insult it, but you followed the instructions given and did get lucky that it wasn’t worse. I don’t think I ever thought of that till now, about how it could have been,” I say, imagining if it was a first year or even the year entering their third now, and I feel a little horrified.

“You said you don’t want a career in creatures, why did you pick it then? And what careers are you thinking of having?” Draco asks, genuinely curious.

“Honestly? I haven’t thought much about it. Everyone just always tells me they expect me to be an Auror like my dad, but I don’t want to be,” I say, surprising myself by how true that is now that I’m thinking of it. I really don’t want to be an Auror. I’ve had enough encounters with dark witches and wizards for a lifetime, and if I’m being honest with myself, I can’t help thinking it will bring back memories of the war, and I really don’t want that.

“There are other careers,” Draco offered. “You could be a healer? Or a potion master… okay, no, you won’t be a potions master. I’ve seen the potions you make, Potter, it’s not gonna be in the cards,” he says, smirking. “There are jobs in the Ministry and in stores down the alleys or at Gringotts as a curse-breaker.”

“I don’t think I’d mind being a curse-breaker,” I muse thoughtfully. “I think I’d like the challenge and to discover new things about magic and document it, you know, to truly investigate it and find all the aspects of magic we still don’t know. I like to unravel the mystery.”

“That sounds an awful lot like being an Unspeakable for the Department of Mysteries,” Tom says, coming over to me and Draco, having clearly heard our discussion, and I spot Narcissa coming over as well.

“Really? What classes do you need to become an Unspeakable?” I see Draco look intrigued by my question as well.

“No one is supposed to know, but Runes and Arithmancy are very useful, as well as an understanding of curses, so Defense would be a must. Creatures could be useful, as well as Potions and Transfiguration and Charms. History would be a must,” Tom tells us both quietly, but his eyes are intent on me, and I feel a vague impression hum through my magic that he is pleased I’m showing an interest in this. “I believe a career as an Unspeakable would suit you very well, Hadrian.”

“I admit it’s something I would want, but I don’t have the classes for it. I took Divination and don’t take Runes or Arithmancy,” I tell him, and I see him think it over. His eyes slide over to Draco for a moment, then he looks back to me with a smile.

“Well, that’s easy to solve. We just need to change your classes. If you study through summer, you should be able to test into your year group in the subjects, and I’m sure Draco wouldn’t mind tutoring you, would you, Draco?” he asks with a polite smile, but we all know it’s not a request.

“McGonagall probably won’t change my classes.”

“Don’t give her a choice. Write to her requesting a placement test for both subjects you want, and once you pass, she can’t refuse you dropping Divination. If push comes to shove, tell her you’re not comfortable being in the teacher’s class, and if she still refuses, bring it to the Board of Governors.” Tom looks to Lucius after saying that, who nods.

“Precisely. That’s the sort of issue they are there to fix,” Lucius tells him seriously. “And I would be happy to, at the least, push for you to take the placement tests, and if you pass, then to change your classes… actually, I could bring the issue up at the next board meeting, saying you requested it of the board, so you don’t have to go to Minerva at all,” Lucius says, then looks at me seriously and says, “I’ll try getting the placement test for just before term starts so you know before heading back, but that no one else apart from those classes’ teachers will know.” Tom looks pleased by the turn in conversation.

It’s not long before we are leaving the shop and heading down the alley when Tom says, “You’ll need a new trunk and bag,” and drags us all off to look for some. I end up with an elaborate trunk he and Narcissa bullied me into, which has multiple compartments and is featherlight and has a self-shrinking charm and space-expansion charm on it. It has its own library inside it and its own bedroom and a compartment for potions supplies and a dueling room and a study “in case it’s after curfew and my dorm mates are being too loud for me to focus on my work,” Tom said with a faux-innocent expression. The satchel I got had the same charms to make it easier to take my stuff to class and had a summoning feature on it, and Lucius had suggested getting anti-theft charms on both the satchel and trunk before we left. Everything else was gotten quickly, and Tom and I decided to go back to Riddle Manor. He showed me to a room he had Barty prepare for me and tells me to meet him at 5 for dinner.

“Did you finish settling in?” he asks me politely.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, and we sit with him. We start eating, and I ask, “Where’s Barty?”

“He’s doing some last-minute preparations for me before the school year starts.”

“Is he still going to be going as Moody?” I ask, and he nods.

“Yes, you’re gonna need him there to keep an eye on you this year with the other schools and Dumbledore there,” he tells me, then hesitates before continuing, “Which is why I have also decided to go with you. It’ll be easier to make sure you don’t die. Besides, I can help you gain allies in the other houses much like I did when I myself attended Hogwarts. Your reputation is going to need the help since everyone thinks you’re on Dumbledore’s side, and we are about to show them you’re not,” he tells me softly, and a part of me is nervous, but a bigger part of me is pleased not to have to face the coming year alone, knowing many are going to hate me for being the fourth champion.

“Thank you,” I tell him softly, and he seems to understand why as he nods in acknowledgment.

“This summer I’m going to tutor you in Defense, and Draco will tutor you in Runes and Arithmancy and get you caught up, but I don’t suspect it’ll take long or much effort for you considering the blocks are removed now,” he says, and we eat dinner together, talking about nothing in particular. I realize this has been one of my best days, all because of him, and isn’t that a sad thought.

Chapter Text

“Wisdom consists of knowing how to distinguish the nature of trouble, and in choosing the lesser evil.”
― Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

I sip my coffee, sitting rather awkwardly at the breakfast table. It's just me, Barty, and Tom. Tom is reading The Daily Prophet, and Barty is giving me curious looks. It’s clear he has been informed that I would look different than I did yesterday because he doesn’t look surprised that I no longer need my glasses and that I look like I could pass for a 17-year-old.

He is curious about you because you’re soul-bonded to me, I see flash through my mind like a picture, and I look at Tom, who then says, “Our bond lets us talk relatively telepathically. I’m using Legilimency, but through our connection—not even Occlumency could block it.” He then sips his drink, which I assume to be coffee.

“How did you know what I’d been thinking?” I ask warily, and he smirks.

“You were thinking too loudly. We’ll fix that this summer before you go back to school.”

“What are we going to do about that—the summer, I mean? I never got emancipated, and Dumbledore will know I’m not with the Dursleys soon,” I say worriedly, realizing we didn’t sort that yesterday.

“We didn’t need to. You claimed your Lordships; that means that you are legally considered an adult. It automatically emancipated you. Dumbledore won’t let that happen, though. He will appeal to the Wizengamot about how you’re still a child and will need a guardian, and many there would agree—so we need to get ahead of this,” he tells me, looking over his newspaper at me. I nod, processing what he’s telling me.

“Okay, how do we get ahead of this?” I ask nervously. I hear him sigh.

“We get ahead of this by assigning your guardianship to someone else. If Dumbledore does it, he will get them to give your guardianship to him or someone he trusts so he can place you back with your Muggle relatives. If we go and assign an adult as your guardian, then we get to pick who and ensure you don’t go back.”

“Wait, who do we want as my guardians?” I ask. But with the blocks off me, my mind catches up faster, and I then answer my own question. “It’s the Malfoys, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Lucius and Narcissa are still in the Wizengamot’s good graces, and Lucius still has Fudge using him as an advisor. Fudge won’t go against him. It also helps that you have a blood relation to them as well. Dumbledore won’t be able to contest it, but he will watch you closer.” I nod.

“I’ll be able to watch out for him at school, my lord. I will relay all plans Dumbledore might have for him,” Barty interjects seriously, and I’m surprised by the protectiveness I hear in his voice.

“Good, Barty. I have also decided to come to Hogwarts myself this year. I’ll be disillusioned, of course, but this soul bond is relatively new, so distance wouldn’t be advised, and it would also allow me to help keep an eye on him as well,” Tom says, and I can clearly see it has surprised Barty, but he doesn’t say anything.

“How long do we think I have until Dumbledore realizes I’m not with the Dursleys?” I ask, a little anxiously.

“Not long. I have arranged for us to go to Malfoy Manor this afternoon. Lucius will bring Fudge and Madame Bones, and with both of them signing off on your guardianship change, it’ll be effective immediately. Lucius and Narcissa will have a room for you at Malfoy Manor, and it would be good for you to stay there some nights this summer - but you’re more than welcome to stay here as well.”

“They might do a wellness check to ensure you’re well taken care of when you’re with them, and it’d look odd if you’re not there,” Barty says to me seriously, and I nod.

Thump!

“Ow,” I say weakly, picking myself up from the floor where I had landed sprawled out when I had exited the Floo, and I hear Draco laughing. I look up and see he’s actually bent over; he’s laughing so hard, (and I will deny it till my dying breath) -but I pout. Tom exits the Floo behind me, takes one quick look around, and raises an eyebrow; I can tell he knows exactly what happened. I even see Lucius’s mouth twitch into an amused smile, and Narcissa titters delicately behind her hand, though her eyes are kind.

“Are you alright, Hadrian?” she asks gently, and I nod, unable to hide the flush rising to my cheeks. She spells the soot off me, and they lead us further into the manor- to the sitting room- while every time Draco looks at me, he starts to laugh. I can see his shoulders shaking in his effort to repress it.

I hear Tom and Lucius talking quietly behind us about the upcoming visit with the Minister and how he has informed him about its purpose. Draco and I sit on a settee beside each other, with the coffee table in front of us with some books on ancient runes, and I raise my eyebrow in question.

“We’re going to start our tutoring while we wait. It’ll make it seem more natural - as if we weren’t waiting for them to show up,” Draco tells me, and we begin, leaving Lucius and Narcissa to talk with Tom. I realize now how much I’d been held back, as I’m able to soak up the information Draco shares and the insights the books provide. I’m beginning to notice that my memory is starting to work - I can perfectly recall each rune I have seen in detail and tell you what it is and what it does.

“Professor Babbling also told us that we should try memorizing the Anglo-Saxon Futhork alphabet, though he mentioned that most would find it difficult, so we should try memorizing as many as we can,” Draco is telling me as the Minister and Madame Bones enter the room, led in by a house-elf. I nod to Draco, pretending not to notice their entrance.

“Were there any particular projects you had to do last year?” I ask him, and he shakes his head.

“No, we basically were getting a foundation for the runes. This year will be the year we get to experiment with them, so you have a good chance of being able to test into the class if you can memorize enough by the time term starts,” Draco tells me, then looks up - pretending he just noticed Fudge and Madame Bones.

“Ah, Cornelius, Amelia,” Lucius says in greeting. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Now, as I said earlier, Mr. Potter here has gained his Lordships and been emancipated. However, he understands that, as he is still young, he should still have a guardian. He has come to me and my wife, asking us to fulfill that role given the familial connection we share.”

Lucius explains, and I see Madame Bones look at me questioningly, clearly asking if it was true. I nod in agreement.

“Yes. Narcissa and Draco share actual blood with me and are my closest magical relatives. I have come to them to ask them to be my legal guardians,” I say clearly, my voice confident

“Yes, of course, of course, my boy. It makes sense to want your last magical relatives to have your guardianship,” Fudge says in a jolly manner, pulling out a rolled-up parchment and handing it to Narcissa and Lucius. He instructs them where to sign before giving it to me. I almost flinch at the sight of the blood quill, but I pick it up and sign my name where it’s required. Then Fudge, along with a reluctant Madame Bones, signs it as a witness.

Lucius quickly shows them out and returns, placing the adoption papers in the safe under the floor of the drawing room. The original is being sent to Gringotts, and we all settle down.

“What is the plan now?” I ask him. “Now that we’ve taken my guardianship away, Dumbledore is going to make a move.”

I see Tom look serious as he nods his head.

“He will. We don’t know what his plan of action will be, though I suspect he’ll try using the Weasleys to manipulate you.” Tom smirks as he says that, knowing full well it won’t work. I rack my brain, trying to remember what happened this summer in me and Tom’s original timeline.

“This was the year of the Quidditch World Cup.”

Tom looks calculating at that piece of information.

“I went with the Weasleys last time. The match was brilliant, but later in the night, there was that Death Eater attack,” I say, giving him a pointed look, and he frowns.

“I didn’t sanction it. My followers had felt their marks darkening and were growing nervous. They believed that attacking would make me go more lenient on them when I inevitably returned,” Tom tells me.

He then turns to Lucius, who looks momentarily like a deer in headlights before his expression smooths over into his usual mask.

“My lord, I could inform them that the plans are canceled and that you’re back, if you wish?” Lucius asks.

“Yes, Lucius, I believe it’s time they found out I have returned, but only the ones who will keep it quiet. I plan on taking a more subtle Slytherin approach this time around,” Tom informs him. “So my cover of pretending to be my own son must be maintained.”

“It will be done, my lord. Is there any action you wish for me to relay to the other followers, my lord?” Lucius asks, and I notice the slight hope in his expression at Tom’s mention of a more subtle approach.

“Lucius, things will be handled more politically this time. Tell my followers that I want them to lay low, build strong political connections, and compile dossiers on all political targets—scandals, alliances, family members, gossip—everything. I’ll be collecting it soon. From now on, they need to be seen as upstanding,” Tom tells Lucius seriously, emphasizing that they cannot go rogue.

Tom then turns his attention to Narcissa. “Can you collect any and all information you have on the Ladies, Narcissa?”

I feel a spike of jealousy flash through me, and I’m momentarily confused. Logically, I know Tom doesn’t want the information for anything romantic, but I can’t help the reaction—and I’m even more unsettled by the intensity of it.

Even if it had been— ‘You share a soul bond, the deepest form of intimacy, the deepest connection; it’s natural to be jealous of anyone coming near what’s yours,’ I hear whispered in my mind.

I frown, recognizing Death’s voice, but I can’t deny the possessiveness that surged through me when he said Tom was mine—if only for a second—before I forcibly drag my attention elsewhere.

I realize Tom has stopped talking and is looking at me with an eyebrow raised, amusement flickering in his gaze. I can’t help but blush. He knows. He knows exactly what I just felt—the jealousy, the possessiveness. I want a hole to open up and drag me under instantly.

Still amused, Tom speaks. “And Harry, I think we’ll be going to the World Cup together this year. So if the Weasleys ask, tell them you’re already going.”

“I have tickets to the top box. You can both come with us,” Lucius offers easily, and Tom nods, agreeing that it would be for the best.

##################################

Two weeks later, everything has been going great. I’ve been staying at Malfoy Manor, and Tom has spent some nights here as well. Our relationship has become more friendly.

Draco and I have grown close too. I’m startled to realize I get along better with Draco after these past two weeks than I ever did with Ron or Hermione.

Lucius has even taken me aside for lessons on politics and my own family’s history. Narcissa, on the other hand, has insisted on etiquette lessons—much to Draco’s amusement every time I lift the wrong fork at dinner and she scolds me. But strangely enough, it’s feeling like home.

I’m startled out of sleep by a loud crack and an odd tingling sensation. My hand automatically reaches for my wand—my time on the run in my last life honed my reflexes well.

As I’m getting out of bed, my door opens, and an Expelliarmus is already on the tip of my tongue—until I realize it’s just Draco.

“The wards are down,” Draco says, nervousness lacing his voice.

Before I can react further, I feel Tom sending me a message through our bond. Calm down, you’re not under attack.

I frown.

“The Ministry is conducting a raid on the manor. I suspect Dumbledore set this up, given the presence of multiple Order members. Lucius just sent me a message,” Tom’s voice whispers in my mind. It’s a strange sensation.

I quietly relay Tom’s words to Draco, and I see him visibly relax.

“We should go down and see Father. It’ll look odd if we stay up here,” Draco sighs.

We both head downstairs, wands in hand. Once Draco sees his father in the entrance hall with his mother and Tom, he takes the lead in questioning.

“Father, Mother, what’s going on? Harry and I felt the wards come down,” he says.

I slide up next to him, plastering a confused look on my face as well.

“The Ministry has decided to conduct another raid for dark artifacts,” Lucius says. His anger and contempt at their audacity is unmistakable.

Narcissa pulls Draco and me close, placing a hand on each of our shoulders.

“It’s okay, boys. Why don’t we stand off to the side? I’m sure this will be sorted out soon,” she says gently.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Mr. Potter,” Kingsley Shacklebolt states.

I have to remind myself that I’m not supposed to have met him yet.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feigning confusion.

“You’re supposed to be at your relatives,” Kingsley says, striding toward me. I notice Tonks lingering behind him, her hair its usual bright pink.
“I’ll take you back now,” Kingsley continues, reaching toward me.

Before he can make contact, Narcissa pulls Draco and me back, and Lucius steps forward.

“I think not, Auror Shacklebolt. Mr. Potter is exactly where he is supposed to be, and any attempt to remove him from my manor would be considered assault. I would also consider it kidnapping—and I would wager the Wizengamot would agree,” Lucius says coldly.

“I would argue that you are the ones who kidnapped him, Lord Malfoy,” Kingsley counters, his tone just as icy. His words clearly capture the attention of the other Aurors.

“Oh really?” Lucius drawls, a hint of amusement lacing his voice. “And how do you arrive at that conclusion? Considering that I have legal guardianship over Hadrian, I believe I am not kidnapping him.”

“No, you don’t.” Kingsley’s voice hardens. “We are aware that Harry has been missing for weeks from his Muggle relatives’ home and have been investigating. Mr. Potter, it’s time to leave.”

“Actually, the Malfoys do have custody over me. You can ask Madame Bones—she was present when it was granted,” I say, stepping closer to Lucius and Narcissa.

I narrow my eyes. “If you truly thought I was missing or kidnapped, why wouldn’t the Ministry be searching for me? Why wouldn’t there be appeals for information in the Daily Prophet?” I ask suspiciously.

“I would be rather fascinated to know that as well, Hadrian,” Lucius remarks, his gaze sharp as he stares Kingsley down. He turns toward the Aurors. “I request Madame Bones here at once. Someone fetch her.”

It takes about ten minutes before an Auror returns with Madame Bones. She looks thunderous.

She marches straight to Kingsley, pulling him aside behind a privacy bubble. Judging by his expression, he’s being thoroughly reprimanded.

When she drops the ward, she immediately calls Tonks over, repeating the process with her before sending them to stand off to the side where she can keep an eye on them.
Then, she begins approaching us.

“I sincerely apologize for this raid on your manor, Lord and Lady. It was not a sanctioned operation, and it seems they were acting on someone’s orders—but they refuse to name who,” Madame Bones says. From the way she speaks, it’s clear she suspects Dumbledore.

“I won’t say this is acceptable, Madame Bones, but I acknowledge that this was not your doing. What I am most upset about is the accusation that I kidnapped young Hadrian,” Lord Malfoy says, casting a frosty glare at Kingsley over Madame Bones’ shoulder.

“That is unacceptable. I will ensure he is thoroughly punished,” Madame Bones assures Lucius before they step aside to discuss the matter further.

Before leaving, Lucius gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze—a comforting gesture. Parental.

I’m surprised to realize that, at some point during this holiday, I have truly begun to see Lucius and Narcissa as parents to me—and Draco as a brother.

Narcissa gently pulls Draco and me with her to the kitchens and calls for one of the house-elves, requesting bowls of ice cream for us.

The house-elf looks far better cared for than Dobby ever did. Their uniform bears the Malfoy coat of arms on the breast pocket, and they appear well-treated.

“How long do we think they’ll be here?” I ask Narcissa as we settle in and begin eating our ice cream.

Draco perks up at my question, clearly interested in the answer.

“It shouldn’t be long now, dear,” she says with a kind smile, clearly noticing how tired Draco and I are after playing a few rounds of catching the Snitch out on the pitch before bed.

The summer has flown by, and I’ve grown even closer to the Malfoys, becoming like family to them with surprising ease.

Narcissa isn’t overbearing like Molly Weasley, nor is she cruel like Aunt Petunia. In public, she maintains her cold, composed demeanor, but at home, she is warm with her family—the ideal pureblood wife. She is intelligent, cunning, and a daughter of the House of Black.

She is probably the closest to how I’ve imagined my own mother would have been—warm, kind, and willing to do anything for her family. And for the first time, I feel immensely lucky to be included in that.

Lucius is cold and strict in public, but here at home—with me, Draco, and Narcissa—it has become abundantly clear that he is a family man. He prioritizes his family above all else, even over his political career.

As a Lord of the Wizengamot, he has never let Draco down, and now I understand why Draco always insists he will “tell his father.” To him, there has never been a problem his father couldn’t fix.

Lucius has been helping with my tutoring sessions, and with my advanced memory, I’ve been soaking up everything he has to teach like a sponge. His influence has led to in-depth political lessons for both Draco and me.

And—to my horror—I’ve actually enjoyed them. Debating the merits of different political positions has turned into something unexpectedly compelling. I even managed to get him to see things my way on the subject of werewolves.

Draco and I sit at the breakfast table, barely able to contain our excitement. Today is the day. August 18th—the date of the Quidditch World Cup.

I catch Lucius and Narcissa exchanging amused looks as Draco and I struggle to appear patient. We’re waiting on Tom to arrive, and I can feel his amusement through our link.

I’m more than half convinced he’s intentionally taking extra time to make me suffer for calling him a drama queen the other day. And, judging by the smug satisfaction I feel radiating from him, I’m right.

Cruel, vindictive man, I send through the link.

He responds with only two words:

Dark Lord.

It takes another fifteen minutes before Tom finally appears, smirking at my glare. He greets Lucius and Narcissa before turning to Draco and me.

“Are you boys excited for the World Cup?” Tom asks in faux innocence.

I feel genuinely tempted to try setting him on fire for having the audacity to ask that when he can clearly see that Draco and I are practically vibrating with excitement. He quirks an eyebrow at me, amused.

“Yes! What time are we going?” Draco asks eagerly.

“After breakfast,” Tom chuckles, but I notice his gaze has remained firmly on me the entire time.

“Have you replied to that letter?”

I know he’s talking about the letter I received from the Weasleys the other day, saying they’d pick me up for the Cup—just like in my first life.

“Yes. I wrote back thanking them for the invitation but told them that I was already going and had plans with a friend. They already knew I wasn’t at my relatives anyway—this time, they even mentioned they could pick me up from my relatives or somewhere else. They never did that last time.”

I tell Tom, who nods along, though I can see the calculating look in his eyes.

“You said they’d be in the Minister’s box as well, right?”

“Yes, they got the seats through Ludo Bagman, I think.”

“Do your friends know of your inclination?”

Tom asks the question casually, sipping his tea but staring straight at me.

It takes me a few moments to realize what he means—he’s asking if they know that I like men.

I chuckle.

“Definitely not. In my last life, they went out of their way to push me toward Ginny, and when I still had no interest, I’m guessing that’s when the love potions came in,” I say bitterly.

“You don’t mind them finding out now, do you?” Tom asks sagely, and I catch the glint in his eye. “Besides, the more people who see that you are, the less likely they’d be able to get away with dosing you again.”

“Just tell me what the plan is.”

“Well, you’re going with your family and your boyfriend. I just think you should avoid running into them until we’re in the Minister’s box—let them explode there, in front of high-ranking officials, including ours and Bulgaria’s Prime Ministers.”

Tom says this with a wicked gleam in his eyes, clearly already plotting the fallout. Lucius and Narcissa exchange knowing smirks, while Draco simply chuckles.

“You know Weasley and Granger won’t be able to stop themselves from blowing up,” Draco says, and I nod.

“The fact that you’ll stay calm will make a good impression on Minister Oblansk, and it will be mentioned to the visiting students at Hogwarts this year. We want to build up your reputation and political ties,” Tom tells me.

“You want me to gain a friendship with Krum?” I realize.

Tom looks inordinately pleased that I’ve made the connection.

“I do. He’s a talented Seeker with a solid amount of fame. Having another famous person on your side—especially one as well-liked as Krum—will be beneficial. The fact that he has ties to the Bulgarian Ministry and Durmstrang is an added bonus.”

“Well, we’ll need to set Granger off at the Cup too—she went to the Yule Ball with him last time.”

Tom nods in agreement.

“Well, shall we get ready to leave? I’ve sent a house-elf, Tizzy, ahead to set up our tent,” Lucius says, standing.

Soon, we are out of the manor and Apparating to the campground.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter and the season of the wix

chapter 6: Quidditch, Provocations and Pensives

“It ought to be remembered that there is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things. Because the innovator has for enemies all those who have done well under the old conditions, and lukewarm defenders in those who may do well under the new. This coolness arises partly from fear of the opponents, who have the laws on their side, and partly from the incredulity of men, who do not readily believe in new things until they have had a long experience of them.”
― Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

I hold on to Tom tight as we apparate, nearly falling - if it weren’t for Tom’s firm grip on me. I groan, letting my forehead rest against his chest.

“I still think all modes of wixen transport hate me,” I declare dramatically, and tom laughs.

“Really? And here I had heard you were quite the prodigy on a broom,” he teases lightly.

It still find it strange, how tom and I have grown into this gentle, teasing rhythm over this summer. If someone had told me this in the future - Past? Well, both really - I would’ve had them committed to the Janis Thickerry ward at St. Mungo’s.

Part of me knows that our relationship is in part because of the soulbond and my anger at being betrayed. And I know that’s not healthy. But honestly? I don’t care about healthy anymore. I did the right thing, over and over. I was the saviour. I even died for them. And now I know - I didn’t make any of those choices freely, even though I thought I had.

Im discovering who I truly am.

Tom has been the biggest surprise. He’s been supportive - not like Hermione used to be, where it smothered you. No, he was present. And even if he disagrees with me, I know he’d help clean up the aftermath. He understands that I have to make mistakes right now, just to feel like myself.

He sees me.

He doesn’t see the saviour or the Boy Who Lived, or James and Lily potter’s son. He sees harry. Just harry. And that terrifies me… but also lightens me - because he’s still here. He stayed for harry. He enjoys speaking with just harry.

We make our way through the crowds towards our tent, the malfoy tent looking like an exact replica of their Manor - but smaller, from the outside. We get about halfway there; Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco have gone ahead. I spot Seamus and Dean, my dormmates, and quickly realise I can use this to my advantage. If I introduce them to Tom before Ron gets a chance to spin a tale about why we’ve fallen out, I might be able to get them on my side this year instead of Ron’s. It’d look better if my own dormmates were seen supporting me. That kind of show of solidarity would make the other houses believe what’s happening more easily.

“Dean, Seamus,” I greet them both and introduce Tom. “This is my boyfriend, Thomas Gaunt. Tom, these are two of my dormmates I told you about.”

I catch Dean and Seamus’s surprised expressions - not just at me having a boyfriend, but at the fact I’d mentioned them to him at all, since we aren’t exactly close. I mentally push information about them through our link - Seamus’s pyro phase with spells flashes vividly - and Tom smiles the usual patented Tom Riddle expression that says, “I’m above you and I know it, but I’ll be polite and friendly because I’m amazing and need to pretend to be nice.”

I see Tom’s eye twitch slightly, clearly having heard my thoughts, and I fight the urge to grin.

“Ah yes,” Tom says, as if double - checking, “ I believe you mentioned Seamus was the one stillstill searching for the spell to turn water into rum? And dean was a fan of football?”

Both Seamus and Dean look surprised, but pleased, that I seem to have paid attention to those details - and told my boyfriend about them.
“Aye, but the spell is nifty. I haven’t been able to find it yet, and the professors won’t show us,” Seamus says.

Tom hums thoughtfully, then proceeds to demonstrate the wand movement and incantation, leaving Seamus and Dean Wide - eyed

“I learned it at Drumstrang, “ Tom says, slipping his arm back around my waist- something
both Dean and Seamus definitely notice.

“So how long have you both been together?” Dean asks curiously, but without judgement.

“We got together this summer, but we’d write every so often over the years,” I say, making it sound like we’ve known each other a long time and this was a natural progression.

“Yes, and with the fact you’re now staying with the Malfoys, I’ve been able to see you more this summer,” Tom adds, pulling me a little closer.

“Wait - what? The Malfoys? Since when?” Seamus cuts in, and I see Dean looking just as curious.

“Narcissa - Draco’s mother - and I are related through my grandmother and godfather. Since I was emancipated, I needed to select a guardian to oversee things for me, so I chose my only remaining relatives. Draco and I have gotten along as well this summer - he’s actually been helping me catch up to his class in Runes and Arithmancy. I was thinking of dropping Care of Magical Creatures and Divination to taking those subjects instead this year, if I can test into the classes.”

“Wow Harry… How does Ron feel about this?” Dean asks hesitantly, and Seamus gives him a confused look.

“I haven’t told him yet,” I reply, “but it doesn’t matter. I need those subjects for the career paths I want to pursue after Hogwarts, so it’s better to switch now than study them later and test through the Ministry. This way, I won’t be too far behind. Besides, Ron and I aren’t on the best of terms right now anyway.”

Dean and Seamus exchange a glance.

“What happened?” Seamus asks, clearly hungry for gossip. I see his eyes flick toward Tom - obviously wondering if it has something to do with me being with a man, but not quite brave enough to say it.

I know I can’t claim Ron has a problem with me and Tom - not yet. He doesn’t know, and I can’t tell Dean and Seamus the real reason either. But my mind quickly comes up with something - something that Isn’t even a lie, just… uncomfortable to think about it.

I feel Tom catch the ripple of thought through our link. His approval floods through, firm and reassuring, followed by a whisper in my mind: “That’s good. If they didn’t know, they’ll be horrified. And If they did but hadn’t thought of it like that, you’ll have made them uncomfortable with him”

“Do you guys remember what happened at the end of last year... with Ron’s rat?” I ask, hesitating just enough to stir curiosity. They look confused.

“Didn’t Crookshanks eat him? I remember Ron going off about it in the common room,” Dean says, and Seamus nods.

I shake my head. “No, Crookshanks didn’t eat him - although I honestly wish he had,” I say grimacing. “Turns out Scabbers was an Animagus. A grown wizard pretending to be a pet rat. Sleeping in our dorm room. With all of us. And Ron didn’t seem to grasp the problem with that - a grown man sharing our sleeping space without us knowing.”

Dean and Seamus go pale.

“Didn’t your head of house follow up on it?” Tom asks, voice threaded with concern. “At the very least to have you checked by mind healers, in case you’d been obliviated?”

I shake my head again. “I told Dumbledore when I found out, but no one ever followed up. No checks. Nothing.”

I turn back to Dean and Seamus. “The wizard turned out to be the man who betrayed my parents to Voldemort.” They both flinch at the name. “So not only was a grown man in our dorm… he was a Death Eater. The one directly responsible for their deaths. And the fact Ron didn’t see any serious issue with that? It’s made me deeply uncomfortable around him.”

I Pause letting the weight of it settle before continuing. “Honestly, I wouldn’t even call us friends right now. It’d only take a little push for me to reach the point where I won’t forgive him at all.”

they nod, clearly grasping how serious this is.

“Tom and I talked it over,” I add, softening the edge. “He convinced me to give it some time before making a final decision about the friendship. So that’s what I’m doing. But we’ve agreed - if Ron does anything else before I calm down, then that’s it. It’s over.”

Tom and I talk with them for a few more minutes before heading toward the Malfoy tent. I spot Lavender and Parvati, accompanied by her twin Padma, and we stop briefly to say hello. I introduce Tom, though I make it clear we can't stick around—knowing full well the two biggest gossips at Hogwarts will be buzzing about my boyfriend within the hour, if the spark in their eyes and playful grins are anything to go by.

We slip into the Malfoy tent, which—naturally—is as grand as you'd expect from a Malfoy. I'm fairly certain the interior is a scaled-down replica of their actual Manor. We tell Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco about our conversation with Dean and Seamus. They nod knowingly, now prepared to back up the story if it ever comes up again.

Just before the match begins, Tom and I leave the tent with Draco tagging along. I notice a little blonde girl up ahead and glance at Tom.

“Are we wanting me to also get close to the French champion?” I ask quietly.

Tom gives me an odd look but nods, clearly wondering why I’m asking right now. His gaze follows mine to the small blonde girl, who’s clearly far too young to be the champion.

I lead us over and crouch slightly to greet her gently. “Mademoiselle Delacour? Are you alright? You look a little lost.”

She looks up at me with wide blue eyes that flash with recognition. Even in France, the Boy Who Lived was known. I remember Fleur telling me during her wedding that her little sister had adored the books—and that she'd liked me even more after I saved her during the Second Task.

“Harry, it has been a long time since I saw you—since the wedding, non?” Gabrielle Delacour says.

I freeze.

She remembers me. She remembers a future that hasn’t happened now. Her smile is knowing, almost reverent.

“Veela remember a lot, Harry. So does Fleur,” she continues gently. “Our magic works differently—we’re more in tune with temporal energies. Especially with those we were close to. Fleur has wanted to see you, particularly after we noticed things were... shifting.”

Dumbfounded, I nod, and Gabrielle grabs my hand and drags me along behind her. Tom and Draco fall into step behind us, silent but alert.

Up ahead, Fleur turns, her smile blooming with warmth. As soon as I’m within reach, she pulls me into a hug and kisses either cheek.

I feel it instantly.

A flash of possessiveness surges down the bond—sharp and searing. A single word hisses into my mind, wrapped in parseltongue: ‘Mine.’

Tom doesn't say anything aloud, but the sensation clings like smoke behind my ribs. Draco raises a curious eyebrow, no doubt feeling the tension.

“Fleur…” I begin, unsure how to continue. “I know a lot is changing now, and I can explain, but… I’m not on good terms with the Weasleys anymore. I know you married Bill, but—”

“Stop, Harry. I understand,” she interrupts, her voice calm but steady. “Veela feel the difference in what’s changed. I know we were friends. But I believe now… I was potioned to be with Bill. He isn’t the kind of man I would’ve chosen for myself. I don’t trust the Weasleys either.”

She glances past me at Tom and Draco, then turns back to meet my eyes.

“Now tell me what’s happened.”

And so I do. I explain everything I know—what the Weasleys did, how Tom and I are soulbonded, how Dumbledore had planned my death… and is still actively working toward it.

“Then it seems we have much to do this year, non?” Fleur says, her voice laced with quiet determination. She’s clearly planning to stand beside me. I feel Tom’s grudging approval radiate through the bond—partly for her loyalty, partly for the strategic value of an alliance with the Delacour family. Their father holds a post in the French Ministry equivalent to Lucius’s here.

Tom steps beside me, wrapping a possessive arm around my waist. He meets Fleur’s gaze directly.

“I also plan to accompany Harry to Hogwarts,” he says coolly. “Though invisible—I will be there.”

It’s not just a promise. It’s a warning. A claim.

Fleur, unfazed, merely raises an amused eyebrow and nods in understanding.

We talk for a few more moments before making our way to our seats in the Minister’s box. Tom leads me in, hand in mine, with Draco following closely behind. We find Lucius and Narcissa already seated—and I’m quietly relieved to see the Weasleys aren’t here. Not yet, anyway.

Lucius quickly reintroduces Tom and me to Minister Fudge, who’s seated in the box. We’re polite but distant. Fudge then motions to the Bulgarian Minister, who nods cordially as I step forward.

“Hello, Minister Oblansk. I’m Lord Hadrian Potter–Peverell, and this is my boyfriend, Lord Thomas Gaunt–Slytherin,” I say—flawlessly, in Bulgarian.

Minister Oblansk blinks, clearly startled by the greeting. His eyes widen as he shakes my hand and notices the rings: the dual sigils of Peverell and Black, glinting sharply. The Potter name is known in Bulgaria because of my history as the Boy Who Lived—but the Peverells and the Blacks? Those names are carved into European magical lore.

The Blacks are infamous, feared even. The Peverells—necromancers of legend—were the most revered and the most restricted. Their family magic is so entwined with death and the beyond that even the ICW made an exception, terrified of the consequences of denying them their ancestral rites. They are the only sanctioned practitioners of necromancy across Europe.

Oblansk’s expression shifts from polite interest to guarded respect. I can almost feel him reassessing me—not as a boy—but as a power in his own right.

And then we have Tom—a Slytherin. A name that still carries weight, especially in Europe, where it's whispered with reverence more than disdain. Parseltongue remains a mark of power abroad, even as Britain recoils from it. In countries like Bulgaria, that ability is still seen as sacred… dangerous, yes, but respected.

And Bulgaria—well, they’d quietly supported the Dark Lord’s regime. I watch as Minister Oblansk’s eyes settle on Tom, his expression sharpening with slow recognition. Suspicion flickers. He sees what many might: Tom, composed and commanding, could very well be Voldemort reborn.

Then his gaze shifts back to me. Harry Potter, standing beside the Dark Lord—and not opposing him. The Boy Who Lived, aligned with the shadows.

I see it click in his mind.

If this is true, then the Dark will win. And he—Minister Oblansk—needs to make sure he’s in Tom’s favour before the tides rise.

Oblansk nods respectfully as I speak, his smile remaining neutral, but his tone dips just enough to signal something layered beneath.

“Lord Peverell… such lineage is not often encountered, and it is always… instructive,” he says quietly in Bulgarian, letting the words linger with nuance. “It seems Britain still possesses rare treasures—ones long thought lost or… dormant.”

His gaze flicks briefly to Tom, then to my hand as we shake—where the Black heir’s signet glints in the light. There’s no verbal acknowledgement, but his subtle pause between titles speaks volumes.

“With such ancestry and such… refined company,” he continues, “I trust your journey through our shared traditions will be… illuminating.”

Then, in a tone just above a murmur: “Some names carry weight. Others… cast shadows. And both deserve respect.”

He smiles faintly and says nothing more, shifting his focus back to the spectacle ahead—leaving behind a trail of words only a few in the room will truly parse.

Tom and I speak softly with the Malfoys, trading thoughts about how the match might unfold. The conversation hums with civility and poised neutrality—until chaos erupts from the stairwell.

Heavy footsteps echo like drumbeats up the marble steps, accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of clomping boots and sharp voices. Then the door swings open, flooding the room with noise and energy.
The Weasleys.

Lucius’s lip twitches—a barely restrained sneer. He schools his expression quickly, mindful of the diplomatic presence in the box. Foreign officials are seated all around us. Now is not the time to be seen as antagonistic. I notice Minister Fudge’s smile freeze slightly, a diplomatic mask slipping into place.

Mr. Weasley scans the box. His eyes land on me and I see his expression shift—first with relief, then with a flicker of apprehension as he realizes exactly who I’m standing beside.

Ron spots me seconds later. His face twists with something unreadable before he starts pushing forward, the twins close behind, their usual boisterousness oddly subdued under the weight of the atmosphere.

Ron storms forward, his voice already booming before he’s fully crossed the threshold.

“Harry!” he says, far too loudly for the dignified quiet of the Minister’s box. “Bloody hell, mate—why didn’t you tell us you’d be up here with them?”

The way he says them makes it clear he's talking about the Malfoys. His eyes flick from me to Tom—and he stumbles.

“What—who—who’s this?” he demands, staring at Tom with his brows drawn together. “Wait, why’re you standing like that? What’s going on?”

Tom doesn’t move, just raises one brow in quiet amusement.

Ron points, his voice louder still. “And why’re you holding his hand?!”

There’s a pause. A long one. Then the realization smacks into him like a Bludger.

“You’re dating him?” Ron practically shouts, his words echoing. “You’re—you’re gay?”

A few heads turn. Lucius shifts stiffly in his seat, Narcissa watching like a cat with a twitching tail. Fudge coughs, pretending to be engrossed in the Quidditch pitch. Minister Oblansk barely masks his intrigue.

“You—you could’ve told me!” Ron huffs, face already turning red. “Mum and Ginny were—well they thought—this whole time—wait, he's your boyfriend? You didn’t say anything!”

His gaze sweeps the room and comes back to me, suspicion burning bright.

“Hang on,” he says, jaw tight. “Is this why you’ve been pulling away lately? What’s Malfoy’s lot got to do with all this? Since when do you trust them over me?”

His voice cracks slightly on the last word. Frustration? Hurt? Maybe. But mostly pride—and confusion at a narrative that’s slipping out of his control.

Harry straightens, his tone calm but unmistakably firm. “Yes, Ron,” he says clearly, “Tom is my boyfriend.”

The hush that follows is laced with tension.

“But… what does your mum and Ginny have to do with that?” Harry asks, brows furrowing in genuine confusion.

Ron huffs, cheeks mottled red, voice flaring again. “They thought you two would end up together! You were supposed to—look, they’ve been planning it for years!”

“Planning what?” Harry cuts in, incredulous. “I’ve barely had more than three conversations with Ginny—and most of those were about her talking to Hermione. Why would anyone think I’d marry her?”

Lucius stiffens beside Narcissa, eyes narrowing slightly. Draco shifts closer, not quite flanking Harry—but enough to be felt. Tom’s grip on Harry’s hand tightens just slightly. His gaze doesn’t waver from Ron’s face, cold and unreadable.

“You weren’t meant to be with *him*,” Ron spits, gesturing toward Tom. “You were supposed to stay close to us—to marry Ginny, be part of the family!”

“And what part of that plan involved actually talking to *me* about what I want?” Harry asks, voice quiet now but deadly sharp. “Did any of you ever think I might want a choice? Or that I might not be interested—in Ginny or anyone else you selected?”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

“I’m here with the Malfoys,” Harry continues, “because they’re family. Narcissa is my relative through my grandmother, and my godfather Sirius. I’ve been emancipated, Ron. Legally I had to choose a guardian. They didn’t manipulate me into anything—they gave me a home. And Draco—Draco’s helped me study more than anyone ever has.”

“You chose them over us?” Ron asks, voice cracking.

“I didn’t choose sides, Ron. I chose Family. something I never had when I need it.”

Tom steps forward then, slowly and deliberately, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder with an almost possessive grace. His eyes meet Ron’s with a quiet promise.

“He is no longer yours to shape, Ronald. That era—your influence over him—is done.”

Lucius lifts his chin, ever the picture of aristocratic disdain. “And for your sake, Mr. Weasley, I suggest you lower your voice. There are international ministers in this box. This is not the place for tantrums.”

Ron pales, suddenly aware of the very official eyes now watching him with cool disapproval.

Ron isn’t done.

Even after the tension in the room thickens and Lucius’s warning hangs in the air, he pushes forward with almost desperate force.

“You don’t mean that, Harry,” he says, his voice quieter now but edged with panic. “Come on, we’ve been friends for years. You can’t just—cut me out like this. You’re not serious.”

Harry takes a breath, posture calm, gaze steady. But Ron barrels on.

“You’re just confused. They’ve messed with your head—those lot,” he gestures broadly to the Malfoys and Tom. “You need your real friends right now, not—whatever this is.”

Fred and George exchange a glance—one of concern. Fred places a hand on Ron’s arm. “Ron, maybe back off a bit—”

“Mate, this isn’t how you fix things,” George adds, eyes darting between the foreign dignitaries and Harry’s pale but composed expression.

But Ron won’t stop. “You know you’re better than this, Harry. You just need to get away from him,” he points directly at Tom, voice shaking. “I don’t know what you think is happening, but he’s not someone you should trust.”

That’s when Tom moves.

Not rushed, not theatrical—just cold and deliberate, the quiet press of restrained power radiating off of him. He steps beside Harry, wrapping an arm around his waist and tilting his head toward Ron with chilling clarity.

“I wasn’t aware you thought betrayal could be forgiven so easily, Mr. Weasley,” Tom says smoothly. “You sheltered an unregistered Animagus in your dorm. A man who, knowingly or not, evaded justice. One who personally orchestrated the deaths of Harry’s parents.”

A ripple of discomfort passes through the box. Minister Fudge flinches slightly, blinking in confusion. “Wait... what’s this about an Animagus?” he asks, not quite quietly enough.

Harry turns to him, voice steady. “Scabbers, sir. Ron’s pet rat. He was Peter Pettigrew. He’s the man who betrayed my parents to Voldemort. And he lived in our dorm for years. No one ever noticed.”

The gasp from a French dignitary nearby is soft but audible. Oblansk raises a brow.

Fudge’s expression grows tight and calculated. “And you’re saying... this was never reported?”

“I told Dumbledore,” Harry replies, “but nothing happened. No investigation. No mind healers. No Ministry records updated.”

Fudge straightens in his seat, eyes narrowing slightly. “I... see. I think it would be wise to have Madam Bones review this after the match. She’ll want to question all parties involved. This is an issue of security, after all.”

Ron looks horrified now, spluttering without coherent words. The twins look pale. The box has gone quiet—not from discomfort, but from something heavier.

Tom’s grip on Harry doesn’t loosen.

Lucius, satisfied, allows himself the slightest curve of a smirk.

We watch the match start, and Ron picks up a bunch of the leprechaun gold, attempting to climb over the railing when the Veela cheerleaders appear. I see Tom’s lip curl in distaste before he quickly schools his expression. The twins yank Ron back from the ledge just in time, and then the players soar out onto the pitch.

The match unfolds exactly as I remember—every twist, every dive. I can’t help but feel smug about tipping off Barty and Tom earlier in the week about the outcome. All three of us had placed bets through Gringotts: Bulgaria would catch the Snitch, but Ireland would win. Clean, clever profits all around.

We linger in the Minister's box, knowing the Weasleys are loitering somewhere outside, likely preparing to ambush me on the way out. I know they haven't even gotten to the guilt-trip portion of their script yet—about how I should “go back to my relatives”—no doubt a suggestion fed to them by Dumbledore.

But then, just as we’re preparing to leave, Minister Fudge surprises us.

“Lord Potter—Mr. Gaunt—would you mind staying a little longer?” he asks, raising his voice slightly. “I’ve asked Madam Bones to come speak with you. There are some questions I’d like her to pursue regarding this… Animagus situation.”

We pause. Around us, the others in the box clearly choose to remain seated, curiosity piqued.

I turn to Tom silently and ask through the bond whether he’d mind if I revealed the truth about Sirius’s innocence. His answer comes instantly—calm approval and a quiet pulse of warmth. ‘I expected you’d want to. I planned for it.’

The moment Fudge calls out, there's a hush—not just from the ministers box, but from those who’ve clearly been eavesdropping since Ron’s outburst. It’s the first time in a long while that the Ministry is taking my words seriously. I feel a ripple of approval through the bond with Tom. He’s calm, composed… but prepared.

I nod once in response to his mental answer, my jaw setting with quiet resolve.

“I’d like to offer another testimony while we wait for Madam Bones,” I say, loud enough for the key players in the box to hear but measured, careful. My voice doesn’t waver.

Fudge turns toward me, clearly caught off guard by my tone.

“Oh? About… the Animagus?” he asks, blinking.

“Yes. And more.” I glance at Oblansk, at the French delegates, then at Lucius, who gives me the barest nod of encouragement. “I believe it’s time someone properly addressed the matter of Sirius Black.”

That name strikes like lightning.

There’s a visible shift in the air—Fudge stiffens, several wizards lean forward, and even Draco’s eyes flick toward me in surprise. But it’s Tom’s stillness that steadies me. Like a silent ward.

“I have reason to believe—and proof to support—that Sirius Black never betrayed my parents. That he was imprisoned without a trial, and that the true traitor was Peter Pettigrew, who lived for years in Gryffindor Tower, disguised as Ron Weasley’s pet rat. The same man Tom referred to earlier.”

Gasps ripple through the box. Even Fred and George look utterly stricken.

Fudge opens his mouth, closes it again, then finally says, “You… have proof? This is an extremely serious allegation—”

“Which is why I want Madam Bones to hear it directly,” I reply coolly. “There are things that were covered up. People who knew and said nothing. Including some who sit in very high places.”

Tom’s magic hums lightly against mine, protective and steady.

“And now that Pettigrew has escaped again,” I add pointedly, “you’ll want all the details before he disappears for good.”

The silence that follows is loaded. Then Fudge nods stiffly, adjusting his robes.

“Very well, Lord Potter. We’ll wait for Madam Bones. Please—remain here. I’ll have tea sent up.”

As he turns to speak with an aide, I feel Tom’s hand press briefly against mine. A gentle, pulsing pride. From behind us, I hear Lucius murmur, “Impeccably delivered.”

I fold my hands in my lap, speaking clearly but without theatrics. The box is silent, and every word lands like a dropped pebble in still water.

“If you want to understand how Sirius Black was imprisoned without a trial, Minister, we need to look back. It was your predecessor, Minister Bagnold, who approved his incarceration. No questions asked. No hearings. Just thrown into Azkaban based on circumstantial evidence—and fear.”

Fudge shifts in his seat but doesn’t interrupt.

“But here’s what matters now: Professor Dumbledore knew. He knows Sirius is innocent. He’s known for years. And as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, it was his job to ensure due process was followed. To guarantee that every witch and wizard receives a fair trial.”

I glance meaningfully toward Lucius, then back to Fudge.

“He didn’t do that. He let it happen, even though it would have taken one inquiry to reveal the truth. Why? Because it would’ve made him look weak. Flawed. And it would’ve raised uncomfortable questions about how a Death Eater ended up living inside Hogwarts under his nose.”

Fudge stiffens, his lips drawn taut now.

“You mean the Animagus? Pettigrew?” he asks.

I nod once. “Yes. Peter Pettigrew. He lived in Gryffindor Tower as a rat for years. Sharing a dormitory with four boys—including me. The same man Sirius Black was falsely accused of killing.”

I lean forward slightly.

“And tell me, Minister… what do you suppose it says about Hogwarts’ vaunted protective wards—that they failed to detect an unregistered Animagus? Especially last year, when Dumbledore had the wards finely tuned, supposedly on high alert because Sirius had escaped.”

The implication hangs in the air.

“I believe Dumbledore was keeping you in the dark, sir. If you knew the truth—that Sirius was innocent—you’d have asked why nothing was done. Why Hogwarts was compromised. Why Harry Potter was sleeping ten feet away from the man who betrayed his family while no one stepped in.”

Fudge swallows. There’s sweat dotting his brow now, though he tries to keep his voice steady.

“You think Dumbledore… covered this up deliberately?”

I tilt my head slightly. Not answering directly. Letting the doubt bloom where it will.

“I think there’s a lot he never told you. Maybe because it would make him look careless. Or maybe,” I say gently, “because it would damage the image he’s built over decades—as the only man clever and powerful enough to lead.”

There’s a pause.

Then I add, almost offhandedly, “And it does make one wonder—if he’s preparing for more than just running a school.”

I shift slightly, letting the quiet in the box deepen before I speak again. My voice stays composed, but there’s a current beneath it now—something colder. Calmer.

“You know, what’s always sat oddly with me is how Sirius Black—a man from one of the oldest, most prominent wizarding families in Britain—was sent to Azkaban without a trial. Without even being questioned.” I glance toward Fudge, then toward Minister Oblansk, aware of the international eyes. “He was the heir of the Ancient and Noble House of Black. And more than that—he was well known to Dumbledore. They fought in the war together. They were allies. Friends.”

Fudge shifts in his seat.

“And yet,” I continue, “when Sirius’s grandfather Arcturus Black died, Sirius became Lord Black—while rotting in a prison cell with no defense and no trial. No opportunity to clear his name.”

Percy Weasley makes a faint noise at the edge of the box. I don’t look at him yet.

“There’s something else that’s bothered me. Something personal.” I pause, just long enough for attention to sharpen. “I never even heard Albus Dumbledore’s name until I received my Hogwarts letter. Not once. Certainly never met him before that. And yet—he was my magical guardian.”

There are audible inhales now. One or two of the foreign ministers trade glances.

“He never mentioned it. Not in my first year. Not when he met me face to face. He left it out. Entirely.”

My gaze finds Fudge’s again. There’s no accusation in my tone—just a chill, unsettling precision.

“I think Sirius was allowed to rot in that prison because it was convenient,” I say softly. “Because with no trial, with no questions asked—Dumbledore could ensure that the contents of my parents’ will stayed sealed. That no one else could be named my guardian. Not the man they’d chosen. Not the godfather who loved them.”

And now, I glance at Percy.

“Of course, it gets worse, doesn’t it? Ron wasn’t even the first one to own Scabbers. Percy was. He brought that rat to Hogwarts before it ever curled up in my dormitory. So if Peter Pettigrew was hiding in Gryffindor Tower for that long—who knows how many times Percy or his roommates were… tampered with.”

Percy looks as if he’s going to be sick.

“As far as I know,” I finish, “no one has checked. No one has even asked.”

A heavy silence settles in the box. I don’t push it further. I don’t need to. The implication is already there.

Dumbledore didn’t just fail to protect me. He orchestrated the silence around me. And now… certain people are starting to wonder why.

Minister Fudge had grown increasingly quiet as I spoke. Not the quiet of comprehension—but calculation. His fingers tapped anxiously on the arm of his chair, and though he gave no direct response to my final insinuation, the shift in his demeanor was impossible to ignore.

He no longer saw Dumbledore as an ally. He saw a rival.

The door to the Minister’s box opened again, and in stepped Amelia Bones—all crisp robes and sharp, perceptive eyes.

“Minister,” she said with a nod, then looked directly at me. “Lord Potter-Peverell. I was informed you have testimony regarding the imprisonment of Sirius Black and the concealment of an unregistered Animagus?”

“I do,” I said, rising to meet her gaze. “I have several memories available for Pensieve review, and I’m also willing to submit to Veritaserum in any formal inquiry or trial.”

The murmurs that followed were immediate—one or two foreign dignitaries exchanged surprised looks. Even Fudge blinked, clearly not expecting that level of confidence.

Tom’s pride surged through our link like a steady flame—silent but searing. There was a pulse of vindictive amusement beneath it as well, a flicker of satisfaction that Dumbledore was being publicly, methodically unmasked. I didn’t need to look at him to know Tom was smiling on the inside.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Lucius’s expression: unreadable to most, but I saw the ghost of approval in the slight lift of his chin. You’ve learned, that look said. His lessons in political maneuvering this past month were paying off—and we both knew it.

Amelia’s monocle gleamed in the sunlight from the box window. “You understand the significance of what you’re saying, Lord Potter?”

“I do,” I replied calmly. “I believe this is the only way to ensure justice is served—and that the truth is no longer buried for convenience or politics.”

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll have a Pensieve arranged and authorization for Veritaserum requested from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. You’ll be contacted within forty-eight hours.”

Fudge cleared his throat awkwardly, but Amelia was already turning to the other occupants of the box—her eyes lingering on Percy, who looked pale and vaguely ill.

“Mr. Weasley,” she said, “you were the previous owner of this Animagus… ‘Scabbers,’ is that correct?”

Percy flinched. “Y-yes, Madam Bones. For about three years before Ron took him.”

Amelia’s gaze sharpened. “Then you and your former dormmates may also require memory evaluations. We’ll be in contact.”

She turned briskly and departed, leaving silence in her wake.

Tom’s hand brushed lightly against mine. ‘Flawlessly done,’ he murmured through our bond.

And I could still feel the echo of that earlier flicker—Mine, he’d said at the match. Now, it was something more layered: Ours. This moment is ours.

Amelia had shooed everyone out of the Minister’s box when she left, so Tom, the Malfoys, and I had been able to exit fairly easily. I noticed—*as did Tom*—that people were now looking at me not as a child, but as a political player in my own right.

We returned to Malfoy Manor, and the next day, Amelia arrived with Minister Fudge, an Auror named Proudfoot, and an Unspeakable who didn’t reveal their name. I showed them my memory—of confronting Sirius last year in the Shrieking Shack, of discovering that Pettigrew was an Animagus, and of us capturing him to bring him back to the school. They watched how he escaped when Remus began to transform into a werewolf.

We saw Snape awaken from unconsciousness and attempt to shield us from the werewolf, and then Sirius—also an Animagus—intervening to try to protect us all. Then, I ran after them. We watched as the Dementors converged on me, how I was nearly given the Dementor’s Kiss before passing out.

I’d made sure to include the aftermath in the memory, too—the hospital wing, and Dumbledore telling Hermione to go back in time. How she threw the Time-Turner around my neck. The Unspeakable looked visibly alarmed as he realized I had no idea what was happening at the time.

“Lord Potter-Peverell,” he said sternly, “what your friend just did to you was incredibly dangerous. Wizards have been known to go mad when tampering with time—especially unknowingly. It’s part of why it’s forbidden to allow yourself to be seen by your past self. You are incredibly lucky not to have gone mad.”

We kept watching. Tom held my hand inside the Pensieve, visibly curious—he hadn’t been involved in last year’s end-of-term disaster. The Malfoys, meanwhile, looked increasingly horrified, and I’d noticed Narcissa had gravitated closer to me during the memory.

We saw Hermione essentially lead me into helping her free Buckbeak—earning me a sharp glare from Draco. “Sorry,” I said with a sheepish grin. Hermione distracting the werewolf made my head snap toward her in shock, and everyone else—including Tom and Lucius—looked completely horrified.

They watched as I waited at the lake, hoping someone would appear and cast the Patronus I’d seen before. When no one came, realization dawned on me—it had to have been me all along. They saw me cast an incredibly powerful corporeal Patronus, saving both myself and Sirius that night.

We watched as we broke Sirius out of the tower and barely made it back to the hospital wing in time. Dumbledore had brushed it all aside—essentially patting us on the head—while I was still visibly in shock from everything that had happened.

Then, the Pensieve released us.

As the silvery strands of memory dissolved and the Pensieve released us, the air in the room felt heavier—thicker with unspoken thoughts and unraveling assumptions.

Minister Fudge swayed slightly as he straightened. His face was drawn, not with outrage, but with dawning dread. Amelia Bones, ever composed, adjusted her monocle with steady fingers, though even she looked rattled. Proudfoot’s jaw was clenched, as if resisting the urge to speak, while the Unspeakable simply folded their arms in silence, gaze unreadable.

No one spoke at first.

It was Tom who broke the quiet, his hand tightening around mine as we stepped away from the basin. Through our bond, I felt a slow ripple of pride—measured, deep, and tinged with the kind of vindicated amusement that came from watching someone powerful lose control of their carefully tended image. ‘You made them see him for what he is’, came the thought, warm and grounded.

Amelia cleared her throat. “You were not informed before being pulled into a time loop,” she said flatly, looking between me and the now-empty basin. “And you were actively manipulated into executing tasks no child should be burdened with. This is… beyond troubling.”

Fudge blinked rapidly. “Albus didn’t… he didn’t tell me anything about this. About time travel—or Dementors almost administering a Kiss! If this is true—if he had the Time Turner authorized for a student, and used it to tamper with a Ministry imprisonment—without consulting—”

Amelia turned to him sharply. “It is true. We just saw it.”

“He’s trying to take my seat…” Fudge muttered under his breath, as if the thought had only just formed—but it rooted quickly, the paranoia flaring behind his eyes.

Lucius, standing elegantly with a glass of water untouched in his hand, finally spoke. “He positioned himself as the boy’s guardian while concealing the survival of his godfather. While sealing Lord Potter’s inheritance, influence, and guardianship from the public eye. All in the chaos of war.” He said it smoothly, but his words were a blade.

Amelia nodded slowly. “This warrants a formal inquiry into Dumbledore’s conduct—as Chief Warlock and as Hogwarts’ Headmaster. We’ll have to pursue this through both the Wizengamot and the Board of Governors.”

Next to me, Narcissa placed a hand lightly on my arm. Her touch was subtle, but I felt the shift—her protective instinct was fully engaged. Even Draco didn’t speak; he simply stood behind me, looking as though he’d seen something too raw to process.

I took a breath. “Whatever happens next... I’m not hiding anymore. Not behind titles, or adults who think they know best. I trusted them,” I said quietly. “And all I wanted was the truth. I won’t let them keep covering it up just to protect a reputation.”

Tom squeezed my hand once. ‘And now you’re not alone.’

The moment lingered—not just a political turning point, but a personal one. For all of them.

But especially for me.

The doors had barely closed behind Fudge and the others when silence settled over the room, thick and echoing with what had just taken place. The Pensieve rippled gently, as if still remembering too.

Tom stood beside Harry, unmoving for a moment, then slowly turned to face him. “Well,” he said, voice velvet-smooth, “I’d say you played your opening move beautifully.”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he sank onto one of the deep velvet chairs. “That wasn’t even the hard part,” he murmured, “but it feels like I just tore off my own skin.”

Tom moved closer. “Because Dumbledore stitched it around you without asking first.”

Harry gave a dry little laugh, glancing up at him. “You’re not wrong.”

Tom watched him for a beat longer, then took the seat beside him—not on the opposite end, but close. His knee brushed Harry’s. “This is the beginning,” he said softly. “Not a spectacle, not vengeance. Strategy. You didn't just shake the board. You reset it.”

Harry tilted his head, trying to meet the unreadable expression in Tom’s eyes. “You’ve been in my head all day,” he said with a crooked smile. “How do you still surprise me?”

Tom’s lips quirked. “Because you underestimate how closely I watch when I care.”

That stunned Harry into silence. Not because it was dramatic—but because it sounded honest.

Tom’s hand found his again, familiar now, fingers interlacing with an ease that belied how new this all still was.

“You were brilliant,” Tom said. “Not just brave—astute. Dumbledore didn’t see this coming because he still thinks you’re a boy he can guide with half-truths and lemon drops.”

“I used to want him to like me,” Harry admitted, almost shyly. “Now I just want the truth. About everything.”

Tom leaned in, just enough that Harry could hear the smirk in his voice. “Then let’s pull it all into the light. One thread at a time.”

Harry glanced at their joined hands, then back up at him. “You’re not just here because of the soulbond, are you.”

Tom raised a brow, as if amused that Harry only now asked. “I’m here because you are finally being seen. And because,” he added, softer this time, “there’s no one I’d rather see win.”

Harry felt it then—that strange flicker of warmth that wasn't just the bond, but something quieter. Steadier. Something chosen.

He squeezed Tom’s hand gently. “Then I guess we’re playing the long game.”

Tom’s smile was slow, dangerous, and oddly tender. “And we never lose.”

The days passed in a blur as the lead-up to school intensified. I had gone to the Ministry with Lucius and successfully tested into both Runes and Arithmancy. Lucius took my results straight to the Board of Governors, and with their approval, I was officially transferred into those classes—dropping Care of Magical Creatures and Divination in the process. We owl-ordered the rest of my school books so Dumbledore couldn’t corner me at Flourish and Blotts.

The night before our return to Hogwarts, Narcissa and Lucius hosted a beautifully arranged dinner. It was just the five of us: them, Tom, Barty, Draco, and me.

“Now, Harry, Draco—dears,” Narcissa began, her tone gentle but firm, “we want you to remember: if Dumbledore requests a private meeting with either of you, go directly to a Floo and call us first. There’s one in every common room—though it’s not widely known—as well as in the hospital wing and in all the Heads of Houses’ offices. If either of you ends up in the hospital wing, the other is to contact us immediately.”

She turned specifically to me. “And Harry, you’re entitled to request a different Head of House or even a Governor from the Board to be present. We know Professor McGonagall is very close to Dumbledore. Do not allow yourself to be cornered—call us, and we will come.”

“You’re not to be left alone with that man,” Lucius added, his agreement echoing hers. “And I’ve no doubt he’ll try to isolate one or both of you at some point.”

Narcissa nodded. “If anything happens—tournament-related or otherwise—and it feels off, you call us. No exceptions. And we’ll be expecting regular letters.”

Tom’s voice cut through the gentle hum of post-dinner conversation, quiet but firm.

“Actually, Lucius, Narcissa—if Harry ends up in the hospital wing at all, I want him transferred directly to St. Mungo’s for treatment.”

Narcissa blinked, setting down her glass. Lucius looked mildly surprised but said nothing yet.

Tom’s gaze was steady, almost clinical. “I don’t trust Poppy Pomfrey. There are… a number of things she should’ve caught. Should’ve healed. And until we know if she’s acting on Dumbledore’s behalf, we can’t afford to take chances.”

He paused, thoughtful for only a moment. “Actually—no. Even if she isn’t. I’d still prefer he be treated elsewhere. There’s too much opportunity for interference at Hogwarts. St. Mungo’s is better monitored, more secure. Less chance of Dumbledore slipping in under a cloak of familiarity.”

Narcissa inclined her head in agreement, tone crisp. “We’ll make arrangements. I can liaise with Healer Selwyn personally—she’s discreet.”

Lucius gave a nod, more approval than concession. “I’ll speak to the Board as well. We’ll have it documented that Harry is not to be treated at Hogwarts without immediate guardian notification.”

Harry, watching silently, gave Tom’s hand an affectionate squeeze under the table.

“Bossy,” he said softly, though his eyes were warm.

Tom leaned closer with the ghost of a smile. “Protective,” he corrected, and if his fingers curled more tightly around Harry’s, no one called attention to it.

Harry turned slightly toward Barty, voice lowered just enough to keep it between them. “Is Moody secured away yet? You ready for tomorrow?”

Barty’s grin was sharp. “Of course. He’s locked up tight—secure, silenced, and on just enough potion to keep him from chewing through the restraints.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. Draco gave a soft snort and returned to his drink.

“It’s surprisingly easy to play paranoid at Hogwarts,” Barty added wryly. “Especially when Dumbledore’s the Headmaster. Paranoia looks downright reasonable when the man in charge keeps secrets like they’re a currency.”

He gave Harry a pointed look. “But remember—the portraits and ghosts talk to him. Constantly. You can’t assume privacy, especially near his office or in the hallways. Don’t say my name. Don’t refer to me at all. I’ll keep an eye out for you both—watching where I can.”

Harry nodded once in understanding. Tom was quiet beside him, but the bond between them pulsed with calm satisfaction. Pieces were in motion.

“When the tournament starts,” Barty continued, “you and Draco can start slipping into the Defense office if you need a break—or privacy. You’ll have the perfect excuse.”

Then his eyes gleamed. “And you’ll have to come by anyway,” he added, glancing toward Tom, “so His Lordship can give orders without being seen.”

Tom didn’t react outwardly, but Harry felt the amused flick of smug agreement through their link.

The rest of the night was filled with quiet, comfortable camaraderie between family and friends—the calm before the storm of what’s to come. Tom and I are fully packed, and I know he’s keeping his trunk shrunk and tucked safely in his pocket. Tomorrow marks the first day of the new political war we’ve been planning, and all of us can feel it—the magic in the air crackles with anticipation.

The game is beginning.