Chapter Text
Sirius didn’t sleep.
He’d spent too many nights like this in Grimmauld Place—ears trained for footsteps, back pressed against cold walls, wand beneath his pillow. Azkaban had stolen his years, but not his instincts. They whispered now, coiled tight inside him.
When the knock came—soft, deliberate, threaded with magic—he was already standing.
A house-elf waited. Its eyes were too wide. “The Dark Lord wishes to speak with you,” it said. “He says bring your wand.”
Of course he does, Sirius thought.
The walk through the manor was long and quiet. Velvet curtains, snake carvings in the stone. Everything here looked expensive enough to hurt.
The door the elf led him to pulsed with warmth and something older—magic that recognized its own. When it opened, Sirius knew instinctively that this was no study. No war room.
This was a throne room in disguise.
Tom Riddle sat at the hearth, legs crossed like a king in exile. His tea steamed gently. Harry lounged beside him on the edge of the sofa, still damp from a recent shower, skin flushed and glowing with leftover heat.
It was disturbingly domestic. A lover’s hour.
“Sirius,” Tom said smoothly. “Come in.”
He obeyed. Not because of fear. Because of Harry.
Tom didn’t rise. He didn’t need to.
“We want clarity,” he began. “You’re here, eating our food. Sleeping in our house. Protected by our spells. But you still belong to them, don’t you?”
“No,” Sirius answered flatly.
“Not yet,” Harry said, more gently. “But you’re not fully with us either.”
Sirius looked between them. One the devil in the chair. The other, his godson—scar faded, jaw sharpened, gaze impossibly old.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
Tom’s smile was polite and surgical. “Information. Discretion. Obedience.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m going to spy for you?”
“I think,” Tom said softly, “that if you don’t, your usefulness vanishes very quickly.”
Harry spoke before Sirius could. “Not like that. Not just like that.”
Tom didn’t look at him. He simply sipped his tea. But Sirius could feel it—the conversation had already been had. This was the compromise.
“You know Dumbledore isn’t what he pretends to be,” Tom said. “You know the Order won’t protect Harry. Not truly. So I offer you something else. Access. Power. A role that isn’t pitiful or ornamental.”
“What's the catch?”
“There’s always a catch,” Tom said. “This one is simple: don’t lie to me. Ever.”
Silence stretched.
Then Sirius laughed—a quiet thing, bitter at the edges. “You want me to play the Order’s loyal dog, then come back here and bare my teeth for you.”
Tom stood. Slow, graceful, calculating. “No, Sirius. I want you to be the blade they forgot they gave you.”
He stopped just in front of him, voice low.
“You’ve been used before. By Dumbledore. By the Ministry. Even by Harry, a little.”
“I’ve never used him,” Harry said immediately, sharp.
Tom raised a brow, but didn’t argue. That was new. Respect, Sirius realized. Mutual.
“I’m not a killer,” Sirius muttered.
“You were,” Tom said. “And you can be again. Just… smarter this time.”
Harry crossed the room and came to Sirius's side, not touching but close.
“I’m not asking you to do anything I wouldn’t,” he said.
“Exactly,” Tom murmured.
Sirius looked down at his hands.
He hadn’t meant to be here. Not in this room. Not in this war.
But here he was.
And Harry was looking at him like he still mattered.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
Tom smiled like someone who had expected nothing less.
“But I’m not one of your Death Eaters,” Sirius added, steel creeping into his voice.
“No,” Tom said. “You’re our knife.”
Harry gave Sirius a look—warm, sad, a little proud. “Thank you.”
Sirius nodded, then turned for the door.
Just before he left, Tom said quietly, “Your first report is due in three days.”
He didn’t say don’t fail me.
He didn’t have to.
The door shut behind him.
And Sirius kept walking, until the hallway felt like it belonged to him again.
—---
The door closed with a soft click.
Tom remained still, facing the empty air Sirius had occupied only moments before. The fire crackled behind him, casting long shadows against the stone.
Harry didn’t move either.
“You pushed him,” he said finally, voice low and edged.
Tom turned. “He needed pushing.”
“He needed space.”
“He needed orders.” Tom poured more tea, calm as a priest. “He’s dangerous. Lost. Angry. All useful things, if guided properly.”
Harry scoffed, crossing his arms. “You say guided , I say controlled .”
“You should know by now,” Tom said without looking at him, “that I don’t control people. I simply offer them clarity.”
Harry moved, quick and sharp, standing across from him with a glare that could cut. “You’re not the only one who gets to decide what clarity looks like.”
Tom's eyes flicked up to meet his. “Then what would you have done, Harry? Pat his head? Bake him a cake?”
“Maybe I would’ve treated him like a person, not a pawn.”
Tom's jaw tightened—just barely, but Harry saw it.
“And you think I treat you like a pawn?”
Silence. The air between them vibrated.
Harry opened his mouth, then shut it. His throat moved like he’d swallowed something bitter.
“No,” he said eventually. “But sometimes you forget I’m not yours to move around either.”
Tom’s eyes darkened. “You came to me. You chose this. Don’t act like you didn’t know what it would cost.”
Harry stepped back, just once. Like distance might keep the heat from consuming him.
“I did know,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you get to stop seeing me.”
He turned before Tom could respond.
And he left.
—---
Barty Crouch Jr. was draped across an armchair like a spoiled cat. A book lay half-open on his chest. He didn’t look up when Harry entered—just gave a slow, knowing smile.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “Storming off already? What was it this time—philosophical differences or romantic jealousy?”
Harry gave him a look that could’ve cracked marble. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, come on,” Barty said, sitting up and stretching. “Lover’s quarrel in the drawing room, all that intensity… You two do know there’s an entire west wing for dramatic arguments, yes? No need to clutter up the war room.”
Harry flopped onto the sofa, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “He’s impossible.”
“Yes,” Barty said. “And so are you. That’s why it’s fun to watch.”
Harry glared at the ceiling. “He treats everyone like they’re weapons.”
“He treats everyone like they could be weapons,” Barty corrected. “There’s a difference. It’s called optimism.”
“I’m not a weapon.”
“Of course not.” Barty leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “You’re the bomb. ”
Harry threw a pillow at him.
Barty caught it with a grin, then let the silence settle a bit, more companionable now.
“Still,” he said after a moment, “he doesn’t get angry like that for just anyone. You rattle him.”
Harry didn’t answer.
“He’s scared of losing you,” Barty added. “Not scared like Tom Riddle is afraid of the dark —more like... like a god realizing the altar might go empty.”
Harry closed his eyes.
Then: “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
Barty’s voice turned uncharacteristically soft. “Doesn’t mean you can’t use it.”
They sat in silence.
Somewhere down the corridor, the manor exhaled—walls shifting, wind threading through old stone.
War was coming.
But for now, they were just two boys in a quiet room.
Waiting.