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Chapter Text

The fire crackled softly in the cold, stone chamber beneath Riddle Manor. A single candle flickered on the far wall, casting long shadows over ancient runes carved into the floor. It was there that Thomas Gaunt—known to the fearful and foolish alike as Voldemort—stood in silence, his red eyes narrowed.

He had just killed her.

Not Sybill Trelawney, not the fraud who would deliver Dumbledore his half-truth a year too late. No—this one had been real. Mad, yes. Starving, yes. But she had spoken with the weight of something true in her voice, even as her body shuddered under his Imperius Curse.

“He who bears both bloods—your blood and the lion’s—shall rise beside or raze you. One path is the boy. The other is ash.”

Voldemort had listened carefully.

And for once, he had not chosen destruction.

⸻

The air in Godric’s Hollow was bitter and sharp that Valentine’s night. Snow lined the streets in soft white silence, masking the horror that unfolded inside the Potter home.

James fell first—his wand still raised, heart still charging forward, as if love and loyalty could stop death.

Lily had screamed, begged, pleaded—and then hissed when her shield spell ricocheted uselessly from his Protego Maxima. He didn’t bother offering her a second chance. Her blood painted the nursery floor where she’d thrown herself between her son and fate.

And then there was the boy.

Nearly seven months old. Wide green eyes, blinking in confusion, a wisp of raven-black hair curling at his forehead.

He did not cry.

He reached out instead.

Toward him.

Toward Tom.

Something strange twisted in the Dark Lord’s chest as the child’s tiny fingers wrapped around the edge of his robe. The boy did not flinch. He looked at Voldemort as if he were… expected.

“Hydras,” Voldemort murmured after a pause. “Hydras Gaunt.”

He vanished into the night, leaving behind only a broken cottage and two cold corpses.

⸻

Years passed.

Hydras Gaunt was raised in seclusion at Riddle Manor. There were no nursery rhymes. No photos of Lily, or James, or lullabies hummed in a mother’s voice.

But there was order.

There were spellbooks, handwritten in looping, obsessive ink. There were dueling lessons in the atrium and runes carved into garden stones. There were long walks through the overgrown estate grounds, shadowed always by two presences: one silent, cold and dark like smoke—his father. The other quieter, sterner, but warm beneath the surface—Severus.

To the world, Thomas Gaunt was an eccentric recluse with old family gold, a scholar of bloodlines and ancient magic. His ward, Hydras, was rarely seen, but always spoken of in whispers at the Ministry and pureblood balls.

To Hydras, they were simply: Father and Severus.

And he adored them both.

⸻

On the morning of his eleventh birthday, Hydras awoke to find a letter on his bedside table—ivory parchment, green ink, and the Hogwarts crest.

But he already knew it would come.

Because the night before, he had dreamed of a lion made of fire—and a phoenix screaming in rage.

Chapter Text

Hydras Gaunt walked barefoot through the halls of Riddle Manor, letter in hand, the wax seal already broken. He’d read it twice. Not because he was surprised—he wasn’t—but because something about holding it made it feel real. Like the beginning of something much larger than a letter.

He reached the end of the corridor and pushed open the heavy oak door to his father’s chambers.

The room smelled faintly of old parchment, forest incense, and the subtle, clinical sharpness of Severus Snape’s favored potions. Long velvet drapes blocked the morning light, and a fire burned low in the hearth despite the summer warmth. The two men sat side by side in matching armchairs. One pale, serpentine, and regal in a black silk dressing robe. The other sharp-eyed and elegant in a linen shirt, with his sleeves rolled up and a mug of coffee balanced on his knee.

Hydras held the letter out like a trophy.

“I’ve been accepted,” he said with a grin.

Severus looked up first, a small flicker of something fond crossing his face. “You were always going to be.”

Voldemort—Thomas, as he preferred to be called within these walls—tilted his head, lips twitching.

“Then it begins.”

⸻

An hour later, they Apparated directly into the shadowed alley just off Knockturn, and walked together until the curve of the street led them to the glittering mouth of Diagon Alley. It was busier than usual—families rushing to buy supplies, children begging for extra gold for ice cream or joke shop pranks.

Hydras stayed close to Severus, who walked just behind and to the left of him, robed in charcoal gray. Thomas Gaunt kept slightly ahead, a tall, composed figure whose presence parted the crowd like a knife through silk.

Their first stop was Gringotts.

Hydras presented his vault key to the goblin with the practiced ease of someone born into power, and walked alone into Vault 93—an opulent Gaunt vault that hadn’t been opened since before Voldemort’s original rise. Stacks of gold. Old heirlooms. An obsidian mirror carved with the ouroboros.

He left with a modest bag of galleons. The rest, Father had taught him, was just weight.

⸻

Madam Malkin’s was quiet when they entered—until a pale-haired boy in fine wizarding robes turned from the pedestal near the mirror.

Draco Malfoy was inspecting his sleeve as the assistant fussed with the hem, looking supremely bored. He glanced up as Hydras stepped onto the next stool.

“You going to Hogwarts too?” Draco asked, more out of obligation than interest.

“I am.”

Draco looked him over, eyes narrowing. Hydras wore a black high-collared robe, unadorned, his dark hair brushed neatly back, green eyes cool and unreadable.

“First year?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” Draco examined him like he might a chessboard. “What house do you want?”

Hydras tilted his head. “I was raised to value Slytherin.”

That got a smirk. “Good. None of that Gryffindor nonsense. I’m Draco, by the way. Draco Malfoy.” He extended a hand. “And you are…?”

Hydras accepted the handshake smoothly. “Hydras Gaunt.”

Draco froze.

It was comical, really. The way his face went stiff. The way his mouth opened just slightly before snapping shut again. He stared at Hydras like he had just declared himself Merlin reborn.

“G-Gaunt?” Draco’s voice cracked slightly. “As in the old Gaunt family? As in—”

“As in that Gaunt family,” Hydras replied calmly, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Yes.”

“I didn’t think there were any Gaunts left!”

“There weren’t,” said Severus smoothly from behind them, stepping forward, his dark eyes warning. “Until now.”

Draco backed off a step. “I—I just didn’t think—”

Hydras smiled politely. “It’s alright. I enjoy the effect my name has.”

Chapter Text

Ollivanders was silent when they stepped inside.

Dust floated lazily in the narrow beams of morning light that filtered through high windows. Stacks of wand boxes towered in precarious columns. Behind the counter, Garrick Ollivander appeared as if conjured by shadow—his pale eyes wide, restless, always watching.

Hydras felt something shift the moment he crossed the threshold. Like the magic here wasn’t just resting—it was waiting.

“You must be…” Ollivander stepped forward slowly. “Mr. Gaunt. I was expecting you.”

Hydras raised a brow. “You were?”

“There are few names left in the world that carry an echo. Yours… rings.”

Severus stood quietly at the doorway while Thomas Gaunt, hands clasped behind his back, watched the exchange like it was a chess match already three moves deep.

Ollivander moved quickly—boxes flying down, wands tested and discarded. Holly snapped. Ebony flared. Alder fizzled and smoked.

Until at last, Ollivander pulled down a box that looked older than the others. Dust clung to it like cobwebs.

“Curious,” he murmured, opening it slowly. “Very curious.”

Inside was a wand of yew—slightly shorter than most, rich and dark, with a glint of polished bone spiraling down the handle. The moment Hydras touched it, warmth shot up his arm like fire and sunlight and silk all at once.

A spark of emerald flared from the tip.

Ollivander’s eyes went wide.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold,” he whispered. “And this… this is the twin of another. Yew, thirteen and a half inches. Phoenix feather. The phoenix gave only two feathers. One lies in this wand. The other…”

His eyes flicked briefly to Thomas Gaunt.

“…belongs to one of the most powerful wizards I’ve ever known.”

Hydras tilted his head, absorbing the silence that followed.

He did not ask which wizard.

He simply said, “It remembers me.”

⸻

Platform 9¾

Steam billowed around them as the Hogwarts Express waited gleaming on the tracks, already filling with excited voices and rushing families. Hydras stood before the train with his trunk neatly packed and his new wand tucked into his sleeve.

Severus knelt to adjust the collar of his robes.

“You don’t need to prove anything to them,” he said quietly. “Just remember who you are.”

Thomas Gaunt placed a pale hand on Hydras’ shoulder.

“You will write weekly. I expect excellence.”

Hydras gave a brief, almost military nod, then turned to board the train.

He passed compartments of chattering first-years, until he found one with a quiet, dark-skinned boy reading a book and a tall, sleepy-looking blond twirling his wand like a baton. The moment Hydras slid the door open, the sleepy one glanced up.

“You looking for a seat?”

“I’m looking for people who don’t bore me,” Hydras replied calmly.

The boy with the book smirked. “Sounds like you’re in the right compartment.”

Hydras settled in, back straight, arms folded, and introduced himself with a cool nod. “Hydras Gaunt.”

The silence that followed was instant.

The sleepy blond blinked. “Wait. The Gaunt?”

“I wasn’t aware there were others.”

The boy with the book laughed under his breath. “Zabini. Blaise Zabini. This is Theo Nott.”

“Pleasure,” Theo said. “You’re going to make Hogwarts interesting.”

Hydras allowed a faint smile. “That’s the plan.”

Chapter Text

The Great Hall glittered with floating candles and the hushed excitement of hundreds of students craning their necks toward the front. The first years stood in a nervous cluster near the entrance, black robes crisp, eyes wide.

Hydras stood still as a statue, eyes focused on the enchanted ceiling above.

The stars were exactly as he remembered from the books in his father’s study.

He felt no nerves. He had been trained for this moment all his life.

Professor McGonagall read names from the scroll with a firm voice.

“Abbot, Hannah!”

“Bones, Susan!”

As the hat continued to shout its decisions, the buzz in the hall remained cheerful—until McGonagall’s eyes landed on a name she did not recognize from any list provided by the Ministry.

She hesitated.

Then cleared her throat.

“Gaunt, Hydras.”

Silence dropped like a stone in the Hall.

Hydras stepped forward smoothly and sat on the stool, his posture composed. The Sorting Hat was placed on his head—and even it paused for a beat.

“My, my,” it murmured into his mind. “Now what have we here… A Gaunt? But not any Gaunt… You’re woven of legacy and something else… something shaped by fear and fire…”

Hydras didn’t flinch. “You may place me in Slytherin. Or you may regret it.”

The hat chuckled.

“Oh, no regrets, boy. Only destiny. Better be—SLYTHERIN!”

The table erupted—mostly cheers, some confusion. Hydras rose, returning the hat with a polite nod and glided toward the Slytherin table.

Draco Malfoy was gaping openly, like a goblin who’d stumbled across a cursed vault. Blaise scooted aside to make room for him. Theo just grinned and said, “Told you.”

⸻

At the staff table, the silence was tangible.

Minerva McGonagall leaned toward Albus Dumbledore and whispered, “Albus, there were no registered Gaunts alive. Not in decades.”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes never left the boy who had just taken his seat beside Draco Malfoy. His fingers had stilled mid-stir in his goblet of mead.

“Indeed,” he murmured. “Curious.”

Severus Snape, seated two chairs away, didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t react at all.

If anything, he sat straighter.

Filius Flitwick whispered, “Could he be… related to that line?”

“Impossible,” Pomona Sprout muttered. “The Gaunts died out. Or vanished.”

Albus narrowed his gaze.

Or were hidden.

He had seen boys like this before. Elegant. Cold. Dangerous. He had seen Tom Riddle walk into this castle seventy years ago with that same coiled grace and intelligent silence.

But Riddle had been poor, wild-eyed, half in awe of the magic around him.

This boy—Hydras Gaunt—looked like he belonged on a throne.

⸻

The feast passed in a blur of food and whispers. Students leaned in across tables, asking each other:

“Did you hear that? A Gaunt?”

“Isn’t that You-Know-Who’s family?”

“I thought they all went mad.”

Hydras ignored it all. He ate calmly, engaged Blaise in a debate about basilisk venom preservation, and offered Draco a sliver of dry wit that made the other boy beam like he’d won the lottery.

At the staff table, Dumbledore studied him until the very last second.

There was something here. A shadow on the chessboard. A thread he hadn’t seen being pulled.

And for the first time in years, Albus Dumbledore wondered—

Had he already lost?

Chapter Text

The dungeons of Hogwarts were colder than Hydras remembered from the blueprints.

The walls were slick with condensation. The air carried the acrid scent of spilled wormwood and crushed hellebore. And the Potions classroom was as precise and unyielding as the man who ruled it.

Severus Snape stood like a storm in repose—robes black as ink, expression carved from shadow.

“Sit,” he said without looking up.

The Slytherins and Gryffindors scrambled into place at their shared tables. Hydras claimed the seat beside Blaise, with Theo on his other side. Draco, flushed with excitement, sat in front of them, looking determined to impress.

Snape’s eyes swept the room.

“There will be no foolish wand-waving here,” he began, voice low and sharp. “No loud incantations or silly theatrics. You are not charms children. You are apprentices of one of the oldest magics—crafted, brewed, and capable of both cure and curse.”

His gaze lingered briefly—barely—on Hydras.

Then the lesson began.

⸻

They brewed a basic Cure for Boils. Most students fumbled. Weasley chopped his snake fangs too early. Hermione Granger stirred counterclockwise instead of clockwise, then overcorrected. Theo and Blaise executed the potion with neat efficiency, though Theo nearly singed off his eyebrows lighting the flame.

Hydras, meanwhile, brewed in total silence. Every movement clean, surgical, elegant.

By the time Professor Snape reached his table, the potion was a perfect opalescent green.

Snape stared down at the cauldron, then glanced up at his son.

Without a word, he moved on.

⸻

When the bell rang, students packed up with clumsy haste, eager for lunch. But before they could flee, Snape’s voice cracked through the air like a whip:

“Gaunt. Malfoy. Zabini. Nott. Remain.”

Draco nearly tripped over his chair turning back, eyes wide. Theo arched a brow. Blaise leaned lazily against the desk. Hydras remained seated, completely unbothered.

Once the door closed behind the last Gryffindor, Snape turned, robes sweeping like smoke.

“You four,” he said softly, “will be watched.”

Draco paled. “Watched, sir?”

“Not for discipline,” Severus said, folding his arms. “For potential.”

Hydras met his eyes, a flicker of something like amusement in his gaze. “We’re not in trouble, then?”

Severus stepped forward. “Hydras, you were perfect. Again. I trust you’re finding your surroundings tolerable?”

“They’re primitive,” Hydras said smoothly. “But manageable.”

Blaise smirked. Theo muttered, “He means Weasley.”

Draco’s laughter broke loose, a bright, pleased sound.

Snape’s eyes glittered.

“I expect excellence from all of you. You are not average students, and you will not be treated as such. You are Slytherin’s spine now. If you rise—” he looked directly at Hydras, “—others will follow.”

There was a beat of silence before Hydras responded.

“Then let them rise carefully,” he said, “and not in my shadow.”

The room chilled ever so slightly. Blaise glanced sideways at Hydras with newfound interest. Theo’s grin sharpened.

Draco looked like he’d found a new idol.

⸻

That night in the Slytherin common room, the whispers started again.

Four boys in the corner. The Nott heir. The Malfoy heir, the half-blood prince’s godson. The beautiful son of a veela. And in the center—*

The Gaunt.

The one with the twin to the Dark Lord’s wand.

Chapter Text

The summons came at breakfast.

An owl, snowy white and silent, dropped a sealed letter beside Hydras’ plate as he was calmly slicing a honeyed fig. He did not flinch at the dramatic delivery — only peeled the wax seal with a flick of his wand.

**“Dear Mr. Gaunt,

If you are not otherwise engaged, I would be pleased to speak with you in my office at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore”**

Hydras read it twice. Then folded it neatly and set it beside his goblet.

Blaise leaned in. “The old man’s finally curious.”

Draco whispered, “You going?”

“Of course,” Hydras said mildly. “I enjoy examining relics.”

⸻

Later that afternoon, he climbed the spiral staircase outside the stone gargoyle — not alone.

Professor Snape stood beside him, his robes billowing with every calculated step.

When they reached the door, Severus rapped once with the back of his knuckles.

“Enter,” came the calm voice from within.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk in a chair that seemed just slightly too grand. His robes were pale blue, embroidered with faint stars. His half-moon spectacles gleamed. And his eyes — those piercing, ancient blue eyes — lit with something unreadable as Hydras stepped through the door.

“Ah,” he said. “Mr. Gaunt. Thank you for coming.”

Hydras dipped his head, just short of a bow. “Headmaster.”

“Please, sit.”

Severus remained standing.

Dumbledore offered a polite smile. “I had hoped to speak with Hydras privately, Severus—”

“That will not be happening,” Severus said, voice sharp and cool. “As his father, I will be present for any and all conversations held between you and my son.”

Dumbledore’s smile flickered.

Hydras sat in the chair without waiting to be invited twice. He crossed his legs with effortless grace, glancing idly around the room — portraits, trinkets, and artifacts. A table of peculiar instruments ticking softly.

“I understand you were surprised to see the Gaunt name on the rolls,” Hydras said conversationally.

“I was,” Dumbledore admitted. “The Gaunt line was believed extinct. And yet—here you are.”

“I was raised privately,” Hydras replied. “As befits my bloodline.”

“And who raised you, if I may ask?”

Hydras tilted his head, just slightly. “My family.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flicked toward Severus, whose expression was impassive, unreadable.

“And who is your guardian of record?”

“I am,” Severus said calmly, stepping forward. “My legal claim was filed through the Wizengamot under a sealed petition. You would have been notified had you not recused yourself from bloodline affairs in 1981.”

Dumbledore’s jaw tightened.

Hydras offered a small smile. “Paperwork is everything, Headmaster.”

The room was heavy with tension — not outright hostility, but something colder. Like chess pieces being placed in silence.

“I sense,” Dumbledore said softly, “that you are not here to learn, Mr. Gaunt. You are here to win.”

Hydras stood, elegant and unhurried.

“I’ve already won,” he said, “simply by existing.”

He turned to leave.

Severus offered a last glance, sharp and final. “If you have further questions, Headmaster, direct them to me. My son is not a curiosity for you to study.”

The door shut behind them with the hush of silk on stone.

⸻

Behind his desk, Dumbledore sat back slowly.

The Gaunt boy was too poised. Too prepared. And Severus—Severus—was not posturing. He was protecting something.

Or someone.

And if Albus was right…

Then Tom Riddle had never died at all.

Chapter Text

Professor Quince was everything Hydras expected a Ministry puppet to be.

She was brisk, middle-aged, wore bubblegum-pink robes under her teaching cloak, and had the permanent look of someone suppressing a sneeze. Her hair was shellacked into a tight twist, and her smile was the kind that suggested she’d like very much to be anywhere else.

“Good morning, class,” she chirped. “I’m Professor Lavinia Quince, and I’m delighted to be your new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor!”

Theo whispered to Hydras, “She’s already my favorite. I hope she dies by lunch.”

Hydras didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

Professor Quince continued, “The Ministry believes it is vitally important that young witches and wizards learn a safe, structured understanding of dark magic. There will be no practical spells, only theoretical discussion, and we’ll be starting with an exciting overview of basic jinxes, hexes, and why casting them makes you morally compromised!”

The Gryffindors looked vaguely bored.

The Slytherins looked offended.

Hydras, for his part, looked like someone watching a crumbling statue try to sell itself as a monument.

Quince beamed. “Can anyone tell me what makes the Cruciatus Curse so effective?”

Hermione’s hand shot up. “It causes excruciating pain by targeting the victim’s nervous system directly—”

“No, no!” Quince said brightly. “Pain isn’t the point, dear. It’s fear. That’s the official stance. Fear weakens the magical core. Pain is only the secondary effect!”

Hydras raised a hand, slowly.

Quince blinked at him, surprised. “Yes, Mr… Gaunt, was it?”

“Hydras Gaunt, yes.” His voice was soft. “You’re wrong.”

A hush fell over the room.

Professor Quince stiffened. “Excuse me?”

Hydras stood, elegant and cool. “Fear may amplify pain, but the Cruciatus Curse draws power from the intent to harm. Not the fear it causes. You cannot cast it properly if you’re only trying to frighten someone. You have to mean it.”

Hermione looked shaken. Ron looked like he might be sick.

Draco, behind him, was trying very hard not to applaud.

Quince’s smile froze. “I beg your pardon, but the Ministry’s approved curriculum—”

“Is incorrect,” Hydras said simply. “Ask anyone who’s cast it.”

Theo let out a low whistle. Blaise’s eyebrow arched like he was seeing Hydras for the first time again.

Quince faltered. “You will sit down, Mr. Gaunt.”

“I was correcting a dangerous falsehood,” Hydras said. “But of course. Do carry on.”

He returned to his seat, posture perfect, calm as ever.

Quince cleared her throat and didn’t call on anyone else for the rest of the lesson.

⸻

After class, Blaise muttered, “You knew that firsthand, didn’t you?”

“I’ve read extensively,” Hydras said smoothly. “And I’ve been… educated.”

Theo snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

Draco just stared. “You’re going to make half the professors cry.”

Hydras didn’t answer.

He was already imagining how much more nonsense he’d have to correct before the year was over.

And how much Dumbledore still didn’t know.

Chapter Text

It began with a whisper.

A suggestion in the firelight.

A glance across the Slytherin common room that lingered too long.

By midnight, four boys stood cloaked in shadow, barefoot on cold flagstones, led by a boy who did not flinch at the silence of the dead.

Hydras moved through the castle like he belonged to it — and it to him.

“Where are we going?” Draco asked, low but curious.

“You’ll see,” Hydras murmured.

Theo glanced back once. “If you say ‘grave robbing’ I’ll need a shovel.”

“Better,” Blaise said. “I hope it’s ancient magic or murder.”

They passed through the third-floor corridor, hidden behind a suit of armor that moved aside after Hydras murmured a word it shouldn’t have understood. Down a spiral staircase. Then another. They entered the girls’ lavatory without hesitation.

Theo blinked. “Seriously?”

“Try to keep up,” Hydras said.

He approached the sink with the tiny snake carved into its side. Laid a hand upon the porcelain. Leaned in.

Then hissed in a voice not human:

“Open.”

The sink groaned, gears grinding behind stone that hadn’t moved in fifty years. With a lurch, the pipes widened, retracted, and a great yawning tunnel opened into the black below.

Draco’s mouth fell open.

Blaise exhaled. “Well, shit.”

Hydras didn’t wait. He dropped into the darkness like he was born from it.

The others followed.

⸻

The tunnel was long, damp, echoing with the faint hiss of something old. When they emerged, it was into a cathedral of serpentine architecture—stone coils, scales carved into columns, and a door carved with intertwining snakes.

Hydras turned to them. His face unreadable.

“This is the Chamber of Secrets.”

Theo let out a stunned breath. “Merlin.”

Draco whispered, “Is this real?”

Hydras raised his hand. The snakes on the doors unwound themselves at his command — parting with a hiss that vibrated in their bones. Beyond lay the main hall: vast and dark, the statue of Salazar Slytherin looming tall and grim at its far end.

“This is where we meet now,” Hydras said softly. “Not the common room. Not the corridors. Not in the open.”

“This is real power,” Blaise murmured.

“No,” Hydras said. “This is history. Power is what we build next.”

He turned to face them fully. The torchlight caught the green in his eyes like coiled emeralds.

“Slytherin’s legacy was not blood purity,” he said. “It was secrecy. Knowledge. Control. Those who remember that… survive.”

The others stood in awe, too wrapped in silence to speak.

Then Theo asked, “Are we a club?”

“No,” Hydras said. “We’re a foundation.”

Draco grinned. “Do we get a name?”

Hydras smiled — something cold and elegant.

“In time.”

⸻

That night, the Chamber sealed again with a hiss, and Hogwarts did not know what had awoken beneath its bones.

But the stones remembered the Gaunt voice.

And the snakes were listening.

Chapter Text

It began, as many tragedies do, in silence.

The upper corridor near the Charms classroom was empty and dimly lit when curfew fell like a velvet curtain over the castle. But sometime in the dead of night, a shrill scream shattered the stillness — followed by hurried footsteps and the sound of books scattering.

Neville Longbottom was the first to see it.

Then Seamus, then Ron.

All three froze mid-step, staring at the horrific sight dangling before them.

Mrs. Norris, Argus Filch’s cat, hung stiff and lifeless from the iron torch bracket, her body twisted unnaturally, limbs extended mid-sprint as if frozen in time. Her eyes were wide — glassy, unblinking.

But worse, painted in dripping red letters just above her—

“THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR… BEWARE.”

Ron staggered backward. “Bloody hell—”

Seamus gagged. “Is that blood?”

Neville couldn’t speak. His mouth worked soundlessly as the castle seemed to tilt around them.

⸻

By morning, the castle was a hornet’s nest. Classes were suspended, students were confined to their common rooms, and the hallway was sealed off with magical barriers. Whispers flew like flocks of startled birds from every corner.

Dumbledore stood before the message with hands folded solemnly.

Flitwick looked pale. McGonagall pursed her lips to a thin line. Professor Quince stood off to the side, wringing her hands like a damp rag.

No one noticed when the Slytherins arrived — or rather, when Hydras arrived, with Draco, Theo, and Blaise in tow.

He stepped to the edge of the perimeter, gazing calmly at the wall, eyes tracking the crimson message with detached curiosity.

“Well,” he murmured, “isn’t this dramatic.”

Professor McGonagall turned sharply. “Mr. Gaunt, this area is restricted—”

“Headmaster?” Hydras interrupted softly, still staring at the writing.

Dumbledore looked at him slowly. “Yes, Mr. Gaunt?”

“Has anyone determined how it was done?”

“We’re still investigating.”

Hydras nodded once. “I’d recommend examining magical signatures left in the residue. Certain… ancient enchantments don’t fade easily.”

A pause. Dumbledore blinked at him.

“You seem well-versed in magical theory,” the headmaster said carefully.

Hydras gave a polite smile. “I was educated thoroughly.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “Have you any knowledge of the legend surrounding the Chamber of Secrets?”

“Only what was passed down in Slytherin oral history,” he said, half-truthfully. “Most of it’s nonsense. Riddles and metaphors, not fact.”

At that, several Gryffindors behind the barrier whispered to one another, eyes flicking between Hydras and the bloody words.

Gaunt.
Heir.
Secrets.

Hydras turned and walked away, the hem of his robes brushing the cold stone floor.

Behind him, the castle murmured with suspicion.

⸻

That evening, in the dungeons, Blaise leaned against the wall of the boys’ dormitory.

“Did us going down there do that?”

Hydras looked up from the book in his lap. “Yes.”

Draco paced, glancing at the door. “Does Dumbledore know?”

Hydras shook his head. “He suspects I’m dangerous. But he doesn’t know how yet.”

Theo grinned. “Which means we’ve still got the advantage.”

Draco stopped pacing. “But why open it now?”

Hydras’ expression didn’t change. “Because the school needs a reminder.”

“Of what?”

He closed the book.

“That some bloodlines never die. They just wait.”

⸻

Far above, in his office, Dumbledore spoke quietly to Fawkes.

“I don’t believe this is the work of Voldemort.”

The phoenix trilled softly.

“But it may very well be the work of his legacy.”

⸻

And deep beneath the castle, the Chamber stirred.

Its doors had opened for the first time in fifty years.

And the heir — quiet, cunning, and smiling — walked the halls above.

Chapter Text

The memory came to Hydras in a dream.

But it wasn’t a dream.

It was a lesson — one that had branded itself into his bones before he could spell his own name.

⸻

He was eight.

The underground chamber was cold, darker than night, and echoed with the drip of distant water. The torches lit themselves as soon as the heavy stone door shut behind them. The air reeked of magic older than English.

Tom — Father — stood at the front of the long hall, his dark robes brushing the carved floor as he walked. His eyes glowed, not red, but burning — a human face on something ancient.

Hydras followed.

He didn’t ask questions. Not here.

Not when the statues watched him.

“Do you know where we are?” his father asked, voice soft and echoing.

Hydras looked up, taking in the arched serpentine columns, the still air, the way the shadows slithered.

“The Chamber of Secrets.”

Tom smiled faintly. “Good. You remember.”

Hydras stared at the base of the statue ahead — a towering wizard with a long beard, a face like cold judgment, and eyes that seemed to follow him.

“That’s Slytherin?”

“Yes,” Tom said. “Your ancestor. And mine.”

Hydras nodded once.

“Repeat after me,” said his father.

He knelt beside Hydras, lowered his voice, and hissed — a sound like scales on stone, like wind through a tomb.

“Sssevvv—iiissshaaa.”

Hydras blinked. His mouth moved uncertainly. “Sev—vis—sha?”

“Good,” said Tom. “Again. But mean it this time. Speak to the air like you would command a storm.”

Hydras squared his shoulders.

This time, the sound that left his mouth wasn’t English.

It was Serpent.

“Sssevvisssha!”

There was a long pause.

Then the eyes in the statue glowed faintly.

A click echoed through the chamber walls.

The air shivered.

Hydras stared in wonder. “It heard me.”

Tom knelt beside him, smiling.

“You have his tongue. His gift. You are a true Gaunt — more than I ever was.”

Hydras looked up at him. “Why me?”

“Because I chose you,” Tom said. “And because this world will not obey kindness or hope. It bows to will. To intention. The ability to speak to serpents is not just a talent. It is a birthright.”

Hydras was quiet.

“But Father…” he asked slowly, “why did Slytherin build a chamber in a school?”

Tom’s expression sharpened. “Because even among the so-called noble, there were traitors. Even among the founders, there were fools.”

He gestured to the massive stone door.

“Slytherin built this place to be his. A secret sanctuary. A weapon. And one day, it will be yours.”

⸻

Hydras woke before dawn, the dream settling around him like a second skin.

He didn’t speak.

Just got dressed, robes crisp, eyes calm.

Draco stirred from the next bed. “You all right?”

Hydras glanced at him, and for a second, he wasn’t eleven.

He was something far, far older.

“I’m fine,” he said softly. “It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

Hydras gave the faintest smile.

“To remind Hogwarts what it forgot.”

Chapter Text

The castle was colder than usual. The fires in the common rooms couldn’t seem to fight off the creeping chill, and students began walking in pairs — not because they were afraid of the dark, but of what it might be hiding.

The message on the wall hadn’t faded.

And the whispers had only grown.

“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware.”

No one knew who had done it.

No one had seen anything.

And that was exactly how Hydras Gaunt intended it.

⸻

That night, the corridors were quiet. The hour past curfew, the halls dimly lit and echoing.

Hydras stood alone in the third-floor girls’ bathroom — the one that no one ever used.

He faced the sink with the tiny serpent etched into the metal. Ran his fingers along the edge. And then he whispered.

“Open.”

The word hissed in Parseltongue, and the sink shifted, groaned, and began to descend.

Hydras stepped into the darkness, alone.

⸻

Justin Finch-Fletchley was on his way back from the library. He hummed softly under his breath, books tucked under one arm. His path took him through the empty courtyard and under the long, vine-covered arch near Greenhouse Three.

He stopped when he heard something strange.

A rustle. A hiss.

Like something sliding over the stone.

He turned.

“Hello?” he called nervously.

No answer.

The next moment, something moved in the shadows behind a pillar — fast, low to the ground, impossible to track. He spun, eyes wide—

And saw eyes.

Two massive, glowing yellow eyes staring straight into his own.

He didn’t even scream.

⸻

By sunrise, Professor Sprout was the one to find him.

Justin lay crumpled on the ground beside the ivy-draped pillar, his eyes wide open in a frozen mask of fear. His skin was pale, waxy — his entire body stiff as stone.

Petrified.

Just like Mrs. Norris.

His books were still scattered beside him.

And on the wall behind, freshly scrawled in that same red, dripping script:

“The Heir has spoken.”

⸻

Classes were canceled.

Students kept to their dormitories. Prefects were armed with detection wards. Dumbledore increased staff patrols, and rumors of a monster in the pipes filled every corner of the castle.

Some students cried.

Others whispered one name.

Gaunt.

But no one dared say it too loudly.

⸻

That night in the Slytherin common room, Theo closed the door behind him.

“Sprout’s hysterical,” he said with a satisfied nod. “She says there’s something stalking students.”

Draco looked shaken. “You used the basilisk?”

Hydras didn’t answer.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “No one died. That wasn’t a mistake. That was a message.”

Hydras finally spoke, his voice low and calm.

“They needed to feel it. Fear doesn’t work if it’s abstract. It must be personal.”

Theo leaned back in his chair. “And if they start hunting for the Heir?”

Hydras smiled faintly. “Let them.”

⸻

Far above, in his office, Dumbledore stared at the third message now written in blood.

McGonagall paced. “That’s two. We’ve gone from vandalism to petrification. If this is the Chamber—”

“It is,” Dumbledore said softly.

“And the Heir?”

Dumbledore stared out the window toward the North Tower.

“I have suspicions.”

⸻

In the dungeons, Severus Snape sat in silence, watching Hydras from across the room.

“You were careful?”

Hydras nodded. “Completely.”

Snape’s lips thinned. “He’s not dead. But he very easily could have been.”

Hydras met his gaze. “I don’t kill without cause. You taught me that.”

Snape didn’t smile. But his eyes softened — barely.

“Just be aware, my serpent,” he murmured. “The more they fear you, the closer they’ll try to get. Dumbledore will come knocking.”

Hydras leaned back in his chair.

“Then let him.”

Chapter Text

The summons came with breakfast.

A silver-winged spell dropped a folded parchment into Hydras’ hand while he was still sipping his tea. Draco glanced over as Hydras read it.

“The Headmaster requests your presence in his office. Immediately.”

Hydras folded the note calmly and tucked it into his sleeve.

Theo raised an eyebrow. “And so it begins.”

“I’ll handle it,” Hydras said, rising to his feet. “You’ll know if anything changes.”

Blaise gave a smirk. “If he doesn’t come back, we riot.”

Hydras didn’t smile. But he appreciated it.

⸻

He wasn’t alone when he arrived at the Headmaster’s spiral staircase.

Severus stood at the base, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“You received the message,” he said.

Hydras nodded.

“I’ll be accompanying you.”

Hydras tilted his head. “He won’t like that.”

“I’m not here to be liked.”

The gargoyle shifted aside with a groan of stone. Together, they ascended.

⸻

The office was warm, cluttered, and quiet.

Fawkes blinked at them from his perch. The walls of silver instruments whirred faintly, as if sensing tension.

Dumbledore stood behind his desk, hands clasped.

“Hydras,” he greeted gently. “Thank you for coming.”

Hydras inclined his head. “Headmaster.”

Severus stepped forward. “Before this conversation begins, I will make one thing clear. Hydras is a child. A student. And my son. If you intend to treat him as a suspect, this meeting ends now.”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes moved to Snape’s. “That was never my intent.”

“Then get to the point,” Severus said coolly.

Dumbledore exhaled softly. “There have been… troubling incidents. Two messages written in blood. Two petrifications. And I must ask, Hydras—”

He turned his gaze directly to the boy.

“—are you the Heir of Slytherin these messages refer to?”

The office fell still.

Hydras met his gaze unflinchingly.

“I am the son of Thomas Gaunt,” he said. “The last blooded heir of the Gaunt family. Descended from Salazar Slytherin through his daughter Ismene, via the House of Morfin.”

Dumbledore blinked, taken slightly aback by the precision of the response.

“Legally, magically, and by inheritance,” Hydras continued evenly, “yes. I am the Heir of Slytherin.”

Severus’s face didn’t change. He knew that answer was coming.

But Hydras wasn’t finished.

“However,” he said calmly, “I have not opened the Chamber of Secrets. Nor have I harmed any student.”

Dumbledore studied him. “You do not deny the bloodline. But you deny the crimes.”

“I deny having committed them,” Hydras said. “I am not responsible for fear. People choose fear. I do not control it.”

Severus gave the faintest smile — almost imperceptible.

Dumbledore stepped closer to the desk. “You speak very carefully, Hydras. As though every word is part of a script.”

Hydras tilted his head.

“Perhaps that says more about the stage than the actor.”

The room was silent again.

Finally, Dumbledore said, “If there is anything you know that could prevent more harm—”

“I know that power, misunderstood, breeds paranoia,” Hydras said coldly. “And that when people fear what they don’t understand, they turn on it. I know the Chamber is not a myth. I know that no bloodline guarantees goodness.”

He stood straighter.

“And I know you have never trusted my father. Which makes me curious as to why you’d believe I’d trust you.”

That hit home.

Dumbledore’s expression faltered, just slightly.

Severus stepped forward. “Unless you have concrete evidence, this meeting is over.”

Dumbledore said nothing.

Hydras turned and followed Severus out the door without another word.

⸻

Outside the office, down the winding stairs, Severus walked quietly for several moments.

“You handled that well,” he finally said.

“I was raised to,” Hydras replied.

Severus didn’t look at him. But his voice was softer now.

“I will always protect you, Hydras. But be cautious. Dumbledore does not like to be outmaneuvered.”

Hydras gave a slow, steady nod.

“Then let him learn.”

Chapter Text

The Slytherin common room was unusually still.

Hydras sat at the long, curved lounge by the hearth, flanked by Draco, Theo, and Blaise — the only three who knew just how close to the truth they all walked.

Theo leaned forward, eyes sharp. “It’s time.”

“For what?” Draco asked.

“For a name,” Blaise said simply. “We’ve been acting in concert. Planning. Pressuring. And now the school whispers about us, but they don’t even know what to call us.”

Theo grinned. “We’re not just cronies. We’re something bigger now. We should call ourselves something that makes people listen.”

Hydras didn’t move. He stared into the fire, the orange glow flickering across his pale face.

“There was a name,” he said slowly. “Before the Death Eaters. Before the masks and the madness. My father once told me that when he was young, he dreamed of building something different. More refined. More deliberate.”

He looked up, meeting their eyes one by one.

“They were called the Knights of Walpurgis.”

Draco’s breath caught.

Theo muttered, “Old blood name if I’ve ever heard one.”

“But we are not knights,” Hydras said. “Not yet. We’re still learning. Still rising. Still becoming.”

He let the silence settle like coals.

“So we’ll be the Squires of Walpurgis. The ones who follow. The ones who train. The ones who endure.”

Blaise smirked. “It sounds like prophecy.”

Theo laughed once, dark and delighted. “It sounds like we’re coming.”

Hydras gave the faintest smile.

“We are.”

He lifted his goblet — not of wine, but firewhisky charmed to taste like clove and storm.

“To ambition,” he said softly. “And to what waits on Walpurgis Night.”

They drank.

And far above, in his tower office, Albus Dumbledore dreamed of serpents with green eyes.

Chapter Text

The chamber beneath the castle was cold and ancient — older than Hogwarts, some said, carved out by Slytherin himself. Its walls pulsed faintly with old magic, and in the candlelight, two men stood waiting.

Thomas Gaunt, known only to a few as Lord Voldemort, sat in a high-backed chair carved from blackened wood. Beside him stood Severus Snape, arms folded, dark eyes unreadable.

Hydras entered the way he always did — silently, confidently, his green-lined robes sweeping over stone like whispered threat.

“You’re late,” Voldemort said without ire.

“I was being thorough.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “That usually means you’re about to say something I won’t like.”

Hydras smirked faintly. “On the contrary. I’ve come to inform you both of a… development.”

Voldemort tilted his head, interested. “A conquest?”

“A foundation,” Hydras replied. “Draco, Blaise, Theo — they follow me. Not just in name, but in intent. We’re building something that stretches beyond schoolyard posturing. It needed a name.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You gave your cabal a title?”

Hydras met his gaze calmly. “I did.”

Voldemort leaned forward, fingers steepled. “And?”

Hydras smiled — the sort of smile that looked far too comfortable on a twelve-year-old.

“The Squires of Walpurgis.”

A silence followed — sharp and echoing.

Severus blinked, slowly. “A revival.”

“No,” Hydras corrected. “An echo. We are not knights. Not yet. But we are watching, learning, preparing. One day, the world will remember that name.”

Voldemort was silent for a long moment.

Then — softly — he began to laugh.

It wasn’t mad or unhinged. It was cold, delighted, ancient.

“The Squires,” he murmured. “I chose Knights because I was arrogant. You chose squires because you’re patient.”

His eyes gleamed, red behind the illusion. “How very unlike me.”

Hydras said nothing.

Voldemort stood and crossed to his son. He placed a hand on his shoulder, a rare gesture.

“Do not let them worship you too soon, Hydras. Make them need you first.”

Severus looked between them, mouth drawn tight.

“You are playing with legacy,” he said. “Names are power, and power attracts eyes.”

“Let them look,” Hydras said, voice cool. “As long as they look up.”

Chapter Text

In the stillness of the night, the candlelight in Dumbledore’s office flickered as the Headmaster turned another brittle page in the ancient registry.

The genealogy records for magical Britain were kept beneath the Department of Mysteries, but he had access. He’d pulled every file connected to Hydras Gaunt.

The first few entries were clean, almost too clean.

“Hydras Salazar Gaunt, born 14 February 1981, St Mungo’s. Father listed: Thomas Morfin Gaunt. Mother: Elladora Crane, deceased.”

Crane. Dumbledore’s brows furrowed. The name was familiar. He flicked through the ledger again, searching backwards.

Elladora Crane – Squib, born 1961. Died 12 February 1981. Cause of death: magical hemorrhage. No wand registered. No siblings. No burial site listed.

Dumbledore sat back in his chair, frowning.

Two days before Hydras’s birth.

He turned to Fawkes, who watched him silently from his perch.

“No midwife would register a birth two days after the mother died,” Dumbledore muttered. “Not without falsifying time, memory, or magic itself.”

He opened a separate log — the St Mungo’s birth archive. A quick flick of his wand, and the name appeared again.

Hydras Gaunt. Birth registered by: Thomas Gaunt. Witnessed by: M. Pyrites, Healer.

Another name that tugged at something dark. Merton Pyrites. A known sympathizer to the early Death Eater cause — presumed dead in 1981, never confirmed.

The smell of fire filled the room as Dumbledore closed the final ledger with a quiet snap.

This wasn’t just odd.

It was impossible.

A child born two days after his mother’s death.

A father with no ancestry traceable beyond an extinct branch of the Gaunt line.

And that name…

Hydras. Ancient. Mythic. Serpentine.

Dumbledore’s fingers curled around the edge of his desk.

You’re not his son, he thought grimly. You’re something else entirely.

He reached for a fresh sheet of parchment.

It was time to send a letter to the Department of Mysteries.

Chapter Text

Dumbledore walked deeper into the Department of Mysteries than most ever dared.

The room was dim, unnaturally so — not from lack of light, but because the very air resisted illumination. The further one went, the less certain reality became.

At the end of a narrow, spiraling corridor sat a thick black door. It opened without a sound as he approached.

Inside, a man stood waiting — pale, thin, and sharp-eyed beneath neatly combed black hair streaked with gray.

Cassian Mulford, Head of the Department of Mysteries.

Never tried. Never marked. Never trusted.

“Headmaster,” Mulford said, his voice smooth as polished marble. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this… curious visit?”

Dumbledore stepped inside without smiling. “I’m requesting clarity on a birth record your department helped seal. One Hydras Salazar Gaunt.”

Mulford’s brow arched with practiced surprise. “The Gaunt boy? Unusual request. He’s a Hogwarts student, no?”

“He is. But the record lists his mother — Elladora Crane — as deceased two days before the boy’s birth.”

Mulford made a show of flipping through his own file. “Ah. Yes, well. A peculiar case, that one. It was handled quietly.”

He looked up.

“Crane hemorrhaged during labor. Died. The boy was pulled from her by Healer Pyrites — no breath, no cry, presumed stillborn. But…”

A slight smirk.

“Two days later, before the burial, the infant began to breathe. On his own. No spell cast. No stimulation. Simply… life.”

Dumbledore said nothing. His expression didn’t shift.

Mulford continued, tone mild. “The Gaunt line is ancient. Magic clings to it in strange ways.”

“Magic doesn’t delay respiration for forty-eight hours,” Dumbledore said, voice cool.

“No,” Mulford agreed. “But resurrection charms don’t work either, and yet the boy lived. His father requested the record state the true moment of breath, not removal. We obliged.”

He folded his hands neatly. “Is that all?”

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment. “You’ve always been slippery, Cassian.”

Mulford smiled faintly. “Slippery men survive wars they never admit they fought.”

Dumbledore turned to leave — but paused at the threshold.

“I do believe the child is not who he claims to be,” he said softly.

“And who do you believe he is, Albus?”

Dumbledore didn’t answer.

But as the black door whispered shut behind him, his fingers tightened on the wand hidden in his sleeve.

Thomas Gaunt was a ghost.
Hydras Gaunt was a riddle.
And ghosts and riddles never existed without a grave.

Chapter Text

The chamber beneath the castle was lit only by the flicker of enchanted torches, bathing the stone walls in soft, silvery-blue light. No threat lingered here tonight. No plans, no titles, no wars.

Just them.

Thomas Gaunt stood by the carved serpent basin, one hand resting on the edge. His illusionary features — refined, unassuming — shimmered faintly, but his true presence filled the space more fully than magic ever could.

Severus entered without a word, his black robes trailing behind him. He paused at the threshold, then let the silence stretch a moment longer before speaking.

“He told me,” he said finally. “About the name.”

Thomas looked over his shoulder. “And?”

“The Squires of Walpurgis.” Severus’s mouth quirked in the faintest smile. “He’s dramatic.”

Thomas laughed softly, and the sound echoed warm through the chamber. “He gets that from you.”

Severus arched an eyebrow. “I think we both know he gets that from you.”

Thomas turned fully now. The illusion melted away, just for this moment — the angular, inhuman beauty of Voldemort’s true face emerging in the soft light. Still terrifying, still powerful, but not to Severus.

Never to Severus.

“I worry sometimes,” Thomas said quietly. “That we’ve made him too much like us.”

Severus stepped closer. “He’s stronger because of it. And kinder than either of us expected.”

Thomas looked at him — really looked — and there was something rare in his expression: affection, raw and unguarded.

“You make me softer,” he murmured.

“And you make me sharper,” Severus replied.

There was a pause — and then, without pretense, Severus closed the space between them and laid his hand on Thomas’s chest, just over where a heartbeat should be.

“You’re cold,” he said quietly.

Thomas caught his hand, held it. “Then warm me.”

They kissed — slow and certain, without desperation. Not the heat of war, but the heat of trust. A moment stolen from time, grounded in something far older than either of them had words for.

When they broke apart, Thomas rested his forehead against Severus’s.

“He’ll remake the world,” he whispered.

Severus closed his eyes. “Let’s make sure he survives it first.”

Chapter Text

The stone doors groaned open as Hydras Gaunt led his Squires into the Chamber of Secrets. The torches flared to life, revealing the massive statue of Salazar Slytherin, ancient and watching.

Blaise and Theo walked just behind him. Draco followed a step slower, his posture equal parts suspicion and reverence. None of them spoke until the doors sealed behind them.

Hydras turned to face them, standing before the basin like a young king before his court.

“Dumbledore is looking,” he said simply. “Too deeply.”

Theo folded his arms. “Let him look. He won’t find anything.”

“He might,” Hydras replied, voice calm. “The Gaunt bloodline was always shrouded in madness, not mystery. He knows something’s off.”

Draco looked around the chamber uneasily. “I still don’t understand how you opened this place.”

Hydras smiled, eyes gleaming faintly green. “You don’t have to understand, Draco. You only have to follow.”

The other two said nothing. They already had.

Hydras ran a hand along the stone wall and whispered in Parseltongue. The wall shifted slightly — not enough to reveal secrets, but enough to remind them who he was.

He turned back. “We are not Death Eaters. We are not children playing war. We are Squires. Learning. Training. Becoming.”

Blaise tilted his head. “Becoming what?”

Hydras’s smile was sharper than before. “Whatever the world needs next.”

⸻

In his office, Dumbledore poured over tomes older than the castle itself. His spectacles slid low on his nose as he scanned the Gaunt family tree again.

No Thomas Gaunt. Not in any branch. Not as a son, cousin, or uncle.

He tapped the parchment with his wand, murmuring, “Revelare sanguinis.”

The chart shimmered… and then fizzled. No reaction.

Fawkes shifted on his perch, letting out a low trill.

“They erased it,” Dumbledore murmured. “Or worse… invented it.”

He set the family tree aside and picked up the copy of Hydras’s birth record again. February 14th, 1981. But Elladora Crane was buried on the 12th.

And Thomas Gaunt? No Ministry employment record. No wand purchase. No official schooling. Nothing before 1980.

Dumbledore leaned back, the shadows of the office falling across his features.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said softly. “But I will find out.”

⸻

In the secret chamber beneath the castle, Severus lay beside Thomas on the conjured bed of enchanted fabric — his hand resting over Thomas’s, fingers loosely intertwined.

Neither spoke for a long time.

Finally, Thomas broke the silence. “He’s naming them. Teaching them. He’s forming loyalty now, before they even understand what they’re giving.”

Severus nodded. “He’s mimicking you.”

Thomas smiled faintly. “He’s improving on me.”

The silence that followed was not tense — but full. Like the breath before an incantation.

Severus turned to face him fully. “You said I make you softer.”

Thomas met his eyes. “And do you regret it?”

Severus’s answer was a kiss — not fierce, but firm. Grounded. And when he pulled back, he said quietly:

“If softness is what makes him stronger, then no. I will never regret it.”

Thomas exhaled. “He chose the Squires well.”

“They’d kill for him.”

Thomas looked toward the ceiling, eyes distant. “Let’s hope they never have to.”

Chapter Text

The scream echoed through the marble corridors just as the afternoon classes let out.

Hydras and his Squires had just exited the library when the noise cut through the air like a blade.

Students froze. Some ran toward the sound; most shrank back. But Hydras — calm, composed — turned on his heel and strode toward it.

Theo and Blaise flanked him immediately. Draco hesitated only a moment before following.

They arrived outside the Arithmancy classroom to find a crowd forming. Professor Vector stood stiffly in the doorway, wand raised, trying to push back the students.

And there — at the base of the stone wall — lay Megan Jones, a quiet Hufflepuff girl from third year.

Frozen.

Her face twisted in a silent gasp. Her limbs stiff, a book fallen just out of reach.

Seamus Finnigan was standing nearby, pale and shaking. “She just — she turned the corner and screamed! I didn’t see anything!”

Professor Sprout knelt beside the girl. “Her eyes,” she whispered. “She saw something before it reached her.”

Dumbledore arrived a moment later, flanked by McGonagall and Snape.

Hydras turned as they passed — and met Severus’s eyes for only half a second.

A flicker.
Nothing.
But it said everything.

Dumbledore looked over the scene, his blue eyes shadowed. “The third,” he murmured.

First the cat. Then Justin. Now Megan.

Too many houses. No clear pattern.

Exactly how Hydras wanted it.

He stepped closer to the wall — and there, again, the words had reappeared in streaks of red:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE

Hydras tilted his head and made a small show of reading it, brow furrowed. “Again?”

“Why her?” someone whispered. “She’s not even Muggle-born…”

Dumbledore’s voice was steady. “Everyone return to your dormitories. Now.”

Hydras lingered a moment longer — just long enough to watch Madam Pomfrey levitate Megan’s body away — then turned and left with his Squires.

No one noticed that he was already writing down names in his head.

Not of victims.
Of witnesses.

Chapter Text

The Potions classroom was silent, lit only by the flicker of green flame in the far hearth. Severus stood behind his desk, arms folded, watching as Hydras Gaunt slipped through the side entrance after curfew.

The boy removed his outer cloak and set it across a chair like he belonged there. And in a way — he did.

Severus spoke first. “Megan Jones.”

Hydras raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t do it myself.”

“That’s not a denial.”

Hydras stepped closer, expression cool. “You’ve warned me to be cautious. I listened. Three attacks, three different houses. One Squib’s cat. One Muggle-born. One girl no one notices.”

“And you think that makes you untouchable?” Severus asked sharply.

“No,” Hydras said. “It makes me unreadable.”

A pause.

Severus exhaled slowly. “Albus is pushing harder.”

Hydras tilted his head. “Then he’ll keep making mistakes.”

“Not all of them,” Severus warned. “He’s going to bring your father into this. One way or another.”

Hydras’s eyes darkened, the mask faltering for just a moment. “Then let him. My father can lie better than anyone alive.”

Severus moved from behind the desk, coming to stand directly in front of him.

“This game you’re playing — it’s no longer just a mystery. It’s fear now. Chaos. And the more dangerous you become, the more Albus will risk.”

Hydras met his gaze evenly. “Then I’ll become so powerful they’ll fear the consequences of trying.”

Severus didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached out — briefly, almost imperceptibly — and adjusted the collar of Hydras’s robes. An old gesture, from when Hydras was small and arrogant and didn’t know how to dress for court.

“You’re not invincible,” Severus murmured. “Even if you act like him.”

Hydras allowed himself the smallest smile. “You still call me your son when no one else is listening.”

Severus didn’t smile back. “You still are.”

⸻

The Great Hall was unusually quiet at breakfast the next morning. The whispers had not stopped since Megan’s petrification, and now there was a low, anxious tension vibrating through every table.

Dumbledore rose at the staff table, tapping his spoon against the golden goblet for silence.

“I have an announcement,” he said, eyes sweeping the Hall. “In light of recent events and in the spirit of community, we will be holding Hogwarts’ first-ever Parents’ Day two Saturdays from now.”

There were surprised murmurs. McGonagall looked startled. Flitwick raised his eyebrows. Even Hooch looked confused.

But Severus didn’t react.

He knew.

Dumbledore’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Students will be allowed to invite their parent or guardian to spend the day on school grounds — to attend a sampling of lessons, enjoy a school luncheon, and meet the staff. More details will follow.”

Across the Hall, Hydras Gaunt leaned back slightly in his seat, one elegant brow arching.

Draco leaned in. “Parents’ Day? That’s new.”

Hydras smiled faintly. “So is the war he’s trying to win.”

Theo looked over, murmuring, “Is this about you?”

“Everything is about me,” Hydras said quietly. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Up at the staff table, Dumbledore looked down at the Slytherin table — not directly at Hydras, but near enough to feel intentional.

Severus said nothing. But under the table, his hands were clenched into fists.

Chapter Text

The manor was dimly lit, but warm — heavy with the scent of ancient books and dark polish. A fire crackled low in the hearth, and Hydras stood before it, his school robes traded for darker, finer clothes. Still elegant. Still dangerous.

Thomas sat behind a claw-footed desk, reading the official Parents’ Day letter aloud, his voice almost amused.

“‘In the interest of transparency and unity during this difficult time, we invite you to join your child for a full day of instruction, observation, and conversation with our staff…’”
He looked up. “He wants to look me in the eye.”

“He wants to see through you,” Hydras corrected. “He’s going to press. The name. My mother. The Gaunt blood. He doesn’t believe any of it.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Thomas said coolly. “But it doesn’t matter what he believes — only what he can prove. And he won’t.”

Hydras stepped closer. “You’ll come. Be polite. Be protective. Be boring. And when you leave…”

Thomas’s eyes sharpened. “You escalate.”

Hydras nodded once.

“There’s a list,” he continued. “Not enemies. Not Gryffindors. Just… people no one will connect.”

“Collateral,” Thomas said. “To muddy the pattern.”

“To blind it entirely,” Hydras confirmed.

Thomas stood slowly and walked to where Hydras stood near the fire. His hand brushed his son’s shoulder — not warmly, not cruelly, but as if grounding him.

“You’ve done well,” he said quietly. “Dumbledore suspects. That means he’s afraid.”

Hydras’s mouth curved slightly. “Let him be. Let him try.”

Thomas tilted his head. “Severus?”

“He’s worried,” Hydras said. “But not about the plan. About me.”

Thomas was silent for a long moment.

“Let him worry,” he said at last. “It will keep him sharp. And if we do this right, the next petrifications won’t lead him to you — they’ll lead him to chaos.”

⸻

Back in the Slytherin common room, Hydras poured over the crumpled parchment in his hand. Blaise, Theo, and Draco stood close by.

He didn’t look up as he spoke.

“No one obvious. No Muggle-borns. No targets of mine. Just students with the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong bloodlines.”

Theo leaned forward. “Who’s first?”

Hydras’s quill hovered, then scratched out a name in clean, slanted script:

Ernie Macmillan
Third-year Hufflepuff. Pure-blood. Loud. No enemies.

“Then,” Hydras said calmly, “we remind the school that fear isn’t about fairness. It’s about confusion.”

Draco swallowed. “And after that?”

Hydras smiled without humor.

“Then we let Hogwarts start to turn on itself.”

Chapter Text

The castle was decorated in soft golden hues for Hogwarts’ first-ever Parents’ Day — but the warmth was an illusion. Hydras stood with his usual stillness at the top of the stairs, watching the flow of visitors from the marble floor below. The chatter of students faded in his ears when the tall doors creaked open.

Thomas Gaunt entered like a storm contained in silk.

He wore tailored black robes, his signet ring gleaming in the torchlight, and his expression calm — unreadable to most, but Hydras recognized the satisfaction in his father’s eyes.

And Severus was already waiting.

For a long breath, the two men stood silently before each other.

Then Severus reached for Thomas’s hand — not formally, but as one might do at the end of a long war. Thomas took it at once, fingers tightening slightly.

“You came,” Severus murmured, voice barely audible over the hum of the Hall.

“Did you doubt me?” Thomas’s tone was soft, but teasing.

Severus stepped forward, just enough to press his forehead lightly to his husband’s — an old gesture, one born of battles fought behind closed doors. For a moment, they stood there, silently connected. Two dangerous men in love, the world none the wiser.

“I always knew you’d be magnificent at lying to Dumbledore,” Severus murmured.

Thomas gave him a rare, quiet smile. “I learned from the best.”

⸻

Later, the meeting with Dumbledore would come. The questioning. The veiled accusations. But before that — before the show and the tension — Hydras met his father alone in the upper cloister of the west wing, away from the crowds.

He had waited in silence, perched on the stone banister, until Thomas appeared.

“You look like you own this place,” Thomas said approvingly.

Hydras smirked. “I might.”

Thomas stood beside him, the two of them watching the quad below.

“He tried to rattle me,” Thomas said after a pause. “The certificate. Your name. My marriage.”

“What did you give him?” Hydras asked.

“Nothing,” Thomas replied. “Because there’s nothing to give.”

Hydras looked over at him, his voice lower. “You did well.”

Thomas turned to face him then, gaze sharpening. “You’ve done more. I’m proud of you, my son.”

Hydras swallowed once, barely visible, then looked away.

“I’ve always been proud of my magic,” Hydras said after a moment. “But I’ve never wanted anything more than to be worthy of you.”

“You already are,” Thomas said, stepping closer. “Hydras, you were never made to follow. You were forged to lead.”

“And the world will bleed for not seeing that sooner.”

Thomas didn’t smile — but his eyes gleamed with pride.

“You have my name,” he said. “But the power is yours.”

Hydras nodded, the fire behind his cool expression flaring just briefly. “I’ll wear both like a crown.”

⸻

The meeting with Dumbledore unfolded much the same.

He questioned.

Thomas deflected — with Severus present, one arm draped lightly behind his husband’s chair, a show of quiet unity.

“You see shadows, Albus,” Thomas said smoothly, “because you’ve forgotten what the sun looks like.”

And when the interview ended, Dumbledore was no closer to unraveling the Gaunt illusion than when he began.

But he was closer to fearing it.

Chapter Text

The dungeons were silent after curfew. Most students were tucked in their dormitories. But Hydras Gaunt moved like a shadow, his footsteps soundless, his wand gripped lightly in his palm. Behind him, Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini kept pace, silent and steady — their trust absolute, their faces unreadable.

Draco had been left behind for this one. It wasn’t punishment. It was calculation.

“Downstairs corridor,” Hydras said softly, voice echoing faintly against the stone.

“Ernie?” Theo asked.

Hydras nodded. “He’s prefecting alone. Patrolling by the abandoned classroom.”

“Wrong blood, wrong time,” Blaise muttered. “That’s the point.”

“Exactly,” Hydras replied.

They reached the far corridor near the abandoned Artifacts Room, where the torches burned low and flickered wildly. Hydras spoke in Parseltongue, voice like silk sliding across old bones.

The wall groaned open.

From the dark mouth of the tunnel, something slithered.

Blaise and Theo turned away — not from fear, but from obedience. Their eyes fixed on the far wall as Hydras whispered again.

When it was over, the torches steadied. The silence returned.

And lying frozen in the hallway, wide-eyed and cold with shock, was Ernie Macmillan.

⸻

By morning, the school was in a frenzy.

“Another one?”
“Ernie was a prefect!”
“But he’s pure-blood!”
“There’s no pattern!”

In the staffroom, the professors sat in tight, drawn lines. Dumbledore stood before them, unblinking.

“Four petrifications,” he said softly. “Mrs. Norris. Justin Finch-Fletchley. And now Ernie Macmillan. What do they have in common?”

“They don’t,” said Professor Sinistra flatly. “That’s the problem.”

McGonagall looked ill. “If it were just Muggle-borns, we’d know where to look. But Ernie…”

Snape stood by the window, arms folded, face carved in stone. “Unless the attacker wants it to appear random. A red herring.”

Dumbledore nodded grimly. “Or to breed panic.”

Sprout looked like she might cry. “My student. My House. He never hurt anyone.”

Dumbledore didn’t answer at first.

Then, very quietly: “I fear we may be facing an heir cleverer than we expected.”

Snape’s eyes flicked toward him. “Or one being trained.”

For the first time, Dumbledore looked directly at Severus.

And Severus stared back, unblinking, unreadable.

⸻

Hydras sat by the fire in the Slytherin common room, legs crossed, firelight dancing in his cold eyes. Draco was pacing behind him.

“You’re saying no one saw?”

“Not even the portraits,” Theo confirmed. “Hydras handled it perfectly.”

Blaise smirked. “They think it’s chaos.”

“It is chaos,” Hydras murmured. “Curated chaos.”

He turned toward Draco. “Do you understand now why we wait? Why we don’t attack for rage? Or for blood?”

Draco swallowed. “Because fear spreads better when it doesn’t make sense.”

Hydras nodded. “Because if the pattern is shattered, everyone is a suspect.”

Theo looked around the room. “And no one will guess it’s us?”

“They’ll guess everyone,” Hydras said. “That’s the brilliance.”

Then, in a voice like smoke: “Long live the Squires of Walpurgis.”

And the others echoed:
“Long live the Squires.”

Chapter Text

The Great Hall glittered with enchanted summer light. Food was plentiful, and laughter echoed down the long tables — but Hydras barely touched his plate.

His eyes flicked occasionally to the Gryffindor table, where Neville Longbottom was leaning anxiously toward his friends, eyes darting to the staff table. He still limped slightly from the shock of finding Ernie.

Hydras looked away.

He could feel the cold weight of Severus’s gaze from the high table, but when he looked up, his father’s eyes were also on him — a brief nod of approval shared between them before the toast was raised.

“The year ends,” Dumbledore said, eyes sweeping the Hall. “But some mysteries remain. Let us hope, next year, they do not deepen.”

Hydras sipped his pumpkin juice and smiled faintly.

He hoped they would.

⸻

The fire was low, casting gold against the deep mahogany of Lucius’s study. Draco sat between his parents — Lucius alert and curious, Narcissa thoughtful. The room smelled of parchment and incense, and above the fireplace, Abraxas Malfoy’s portrait watched with narrowed eyes.

“You’ve seemed… different,” Lucius said carefully. “Since Christmas, and more so since Easter. More focused.”

“I am,” Draco said. “I’ve found purpose.”

Narcissa tilted her head. “And does this purpose have a name?”

Draco nodded. “The Squires of Walpurgis.”

There was a small, sharp silence. Lucius blinked.

From above, Abraxas stirred in his frame.

“You say what, boy?”

Draco turned his face upward. “The Squires. We’re being trained. Prepared.”

Abraxas straightened, his painted robes rustling. “You think that name a game? Where did you hear it?”

Lucius’s voice was suddenly careful. “Draco… who told you that name?”

Draco inhaled deeply.

“Hydras Gaunt.”

Silence again.

And then: “He’s Tom’s son,” Draco said, voice quiet but steady. “He told me. He told all of us.”

Lucius leaned back slowly, his face suddenly very pale.

Abraxas, meanwhile, had gone still. Then, almost reverently, he asked:

“Tom… is alive?”

Draco met his grandfather’s painted eyes. “Yes. Under another name. But yes. And he’s watching.”

Abraxas was quiet for a long moment. Then, he laughed — not cruelly, but with awe.

“Well,” he said. “The world isn’t ready for what’s coming. But I suspect that’s the point. And I must say, I have never been prouder of you, my grandson.”

“Thank you grandfather.”

⸻

Later that night, Lucius stood at the edge of the Malfoy gardens, robe brushing the grass, staring into the shadowed hedgerows.

Narcissa joined him silently. “You believe him.”

“I do,” Lucius murmured. “And I believe Hydras is exactly what he claims to be.”

“Then what do we do?” she asked.

Lucius’s eyes glittered. “We wait. And we prepare. And when the time comes…”

He looked back at the manor.

“We make sure the Malfoy name survives it.”

Chapter Text

The summer sky over Wiltshire was a pale violet when the knock came.

Lucius was in the study again, swirling brandy in a heavy crystal glass, still turning over Draco’s words. Narcissa was upstairs in the solar. Abraxas’s portrait was muttering to itself.

When the knock echoed — deliberate, sharp — the magic in the manor shifted.

Wards fluttered. Spells trembled. Even the doorknob of the front entrance glowed faintly for a moment before settling.

Lucius stood, wand already in hand.

He descended the stairs slowly, like a man going to judgment.

And when he opened the grand black doors —

There stood Thomas Gaunt.

Tall, composed, dark-robed and regal, with eyes that burned too ancient for his youthful face. His magic pressed like thunder just out of reach. He carried no wand in hand. He didn’t need to.

Lucius’s blood turned to ice.

“…My Lord,” he breathed.

Thomas tilted his head slightly. “You’re quicker than most.”

Lucius stepped back at once, heart hammering. “Please. Come in.”

⸻

They met in the drawing room.

Lucius had lit a new fire. It crackled faintly, nervous, as if aware of who sat before it. Thomas was elegant, unhurried. He sat in one of the carved chairs as though it were a throne. Lucius remained standing.

“You’ve had suspicions, I’m sure,” Thomas said, voice smooth as silk over steel.

“I’ve had nightmares,” Lucius murmured.

Thomas’s lips curved into something not quite a smile. “And yet here you are.”

Lucius’s throat tightened. “My Lord… they said you were destroyed.”

“Rumors. Whispers. Convenient stories for weak minds.” He leaned forward just slightly. “But you — you believed.”

Lucius nodded slowly. “I saw your mark fade. But never vanish.”

Thomas’s gaze sharpened. “And now, you’ve seen my son.”

“Hydras.” Lucius swallowed. “He is… terrifyingly brilliant.”

Thomas’s voice dropped an octave. “He is everything I was, and more. And Draco—”

Lucius’s eyes flickered. “Draco is devoted to him. He believes in him. Would follow him to the end.”

Thomas nodded once. “That is good. I’ll expect it.”

Lucius bowed his head, tension twisting in his spine. “What do you require of us?”

Thomas rose then, not fast, but with a presence that seemed to bend the air.

“For now,” he said, “nothing. Except your silence. The world does not yet know I walk it again. Nor will it — until I choose.”

“And when you do?” Lucius asked, barely above a whisper.

Thomas turned back, eyes gleaming in the firelight.

“Then the world will kneel.”

⸻

Narcissa met Lucius in the corridor after their guest departed. She had been watching from the window — she always knew.

“Was it him?” she asked.

Lucius didn’t speak at first. Then finally, he nodded.

“It was him.”

“Alive.”

“Yes.”

“And what does he want?”

Lucius turned, his voice faint. “For us to remember who we are. And who he is.”

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade under low clouds and fading sun. Hydras stepped off the train with his robes crisp, wand holstered, and Blaise and Theo flanking him like dark reflections.

Draco followed a pace behind, his hair neat and chin high.

This year, they didn’t draw attention by force.

They drew it by absence.

No dramatics. No speeches. No sudden, suspicious glances from staff.

Hydras had planned it that way.

“New professor smells like tragedy,” Blaise muttered.

Hydras raised an eyebrow. “Defense?”

Theo nodded. “Lupin. Remus Lupin.”

Hydras didn’t react. But inside, he filed it away with interest.

The past — Dumbledore’s past — always came back to his feet eventually.

⸻

Professor Lupin was soft-spoken, rumpled, and disarmingly kind. He smiled often. He stammered once or twice. But he taught clearly. Confidently.

The Slytherins — Hydras, Blaise, Theo, Draco — observed him like panthers eyeing a wolf.

Hydras turned in a perfect circle during the Boggart lesson, wand at ease.

The wardrobe rattled.

Lupin hesitated.

“Would you like to try, Mr. Gaunt?”

Hydras’s eyes glinted. “Not today, Professor.”

Lupin gave a polite nod, but his gaze lingered. Too long.

Later, Hydras would say quietly to Blaise, “He’s hiding something.”

Blaise smirked. “Aren’t we all?”

⸻

In the staffroom, Dumbledore poured tea for two — and handed the second cup to Severus without asking.

Severus didn’t sit.

“I’d rather stand,” he said curtly.

Dumbledore smiled gently. “As you like.”

There was silence.

Then, softly, “And how is Thomas?”

Severus looked up sharply. “You’ve asked me that three times this week.”

“I find it soothing,” Dumbledore replied. “To remind myself that some things remain constant.”

“He’s well.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled — but too deliberately.

“Tell him I miss his ideas on dueling theory. And his little thoughts on magical genetics. They were always so… imaginative.”

Severus stared, cold and unreadable. “If Thomas had anything to say to you, he’d say it himself.”

Dumbledore’s smile didn’t falter.

“But he never does, does he?”

Severus leaned forward just slightly. “You keep pressing, Albus. Be careful. Eventually you may learn something you won’t want to know.”

And with that, he left — robes sweeping behind him like a shadow through the door.

⸻

That evening, an enchanted parchment arrived in Hydras’s dormitory. He unrolled it and smiled faintly.

A single sentence in his father’s sharp script:

“Be still. Let them circle. Their desperation is the clearest proof we’ve succeeded.”

Hydras folded the note and set it aflame with a flick of his wand.

No chaos this year. No open war.

Just patience.

And the quiet flexing of power waiting for the world to blink first.

Chapter Text

The fire in the staffroom burned low. A tray of half-finished tea cups and a small plate of lemon biscuits sat untouched at the center table. The professors had gathered, as they did once a month, for updates, discussions… and, lately, Dumbledore’s pointed silences.

Remus sat near the corner, hands folded over a tattered notebook. Minerva watched him out of the corner of her eye. Hooch leaned back in her chair, twirling her wand idly. Filius Flitwick adjusted his spectacles.

And Severus Snape stood as he always did — off to the side, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded in patient disdain.

Dumbledore, seated comfortably in an armchair near the hearth, was finishing a benign update on supply orders when Remus, voice careful but firm, broke the lull.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but… I heard something recently I wanted to ask about. Not that it’s any of my business, but—” He looked at Severus, frowning gently. “Is it true you’re married?”

A beat of silence.

All eyes shifted to Severus.

His expression didn’t flicker. “Yes.”

Minerva blinked. “Truly?”

“Since 1989.”

Remus hesitated. “I… didn’t think you were the sort to— I mean—”

“I’m full of surprises,” Severus said coolly. “Though I prefer to keep most of them private.”

Dumbledore sipped his tea slowly, not looking up. “Thomas is quite the intellectual. Very private, as well.”

“That’s his name?” Remus asked, genuinely curious. “Thomas Snape?”

“No,” Severus said, tone clipped. “He retained his family name. Gaunt.”

Remus stiffened.

Flitwick’s ears perked. Minerva shifted in her seat.

“Gaunt?” she said quietly. “As in—?”

Severus’s gaze sharpened. “A distant line. A squib uncle and a squib mother. He was orphaned early. You’ll find the bloodline is not quite as illustrious as you may imagine.”

Remus still looked stunned. “You have a son as well?”

“I do.” Severus’s voice softened just enough to be noticeable. “Hydras.”

“Hydras Gaunt,” Minerva repeated softly, eyes narrowing.

Dumbledore finally looked up. “A promising student. And quite clever.”

Severus’s stare cut to him, flat and unreadable.

There was a beat of silence too long.

Then Hooch, trying to clear the tension, said dryly, “Well, I’ll say this — no one ever had that in the staff pool.”

A few chuckles followed. The meeting continued.

But as Remus sat back in his chair, a flicker of unease passed over his face.

Because Hydras Gaunt didn’t behave like any second-year student he’d ever seen.

And now, knowing who his father was…

It all made just a bit too much sense.

Chapter Text

It was Friday evening when a note was delivered to Hydras’s quarters in the Slytherin dorms. The parchment was crisp and unsigned, but the seal of the Defense Against the Dark Arts office was unmistakable.

Mr. Gaunt,
As you did not face the Boggart in your first lesson, I must ask that you attend a private session this Saturday in order to receive full marks.
Please report to my office at 11 a.m.
— R.J. Lupin

Hydras read the note twice before folding it neatly.

He didn’t like being cornered. But he liked failing even less.

⸻

The office was quiet when he entered — warmer than Hydras expected, bookshelves cluttered and a small kettle steaming gently on the hearth.

Lupin stood near a long wardrobe. He smiled gently.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Gaunt. I know this isn’t ideal.”

Hydras said nothing.

“I only ask this of students who haven’t shown they can perform the Riddikulus charm. That’s all. Nothing more.”

Hydras gave a shallow nod. “Fine. Let’s get on with it.”

Lupin stepped aside. His wand flicked — the lock snapped.

The wardrobe creaked open.

And the air changed.

Hydras’s posture faltered.

The Boggart spilled out, half-shadow, half-smoke —

—and formed not a monster, not Dumbledore, not a snake or flame.

But two bodies.

Severus Snape and Thomas Gaunt, lying motionless. Pale. Eyes wide and glassy.

Blood on the floor.

Hydras froze.

For a moment he couldn’t breathe.

Then — wand clenched, voice low but unwavering — he whispered:

“Riddikulus.”

There was no laughter in it. But the bodies vanished, replaced with a silent spray of red flower petals.

They floated to the floor.

Hydras stood still.

Lupin was watching him with something close to stunned compassion.

“…You love them,” he said quietly. “Not just respect. Not just loyalty.”

Hydras turned, voice colder than frost. “Of course I love them. What did you think I was?”

Lupin didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Hydras left without another word.

⸻

Later that evening, Lupin stood alone in his office, staring at the petals left behind.

He picked one up.

So fragile. So sharp-edged. Like a wound that remembered.

And on his desk, he scribbled a single note:

Whatever he is… he’s not just his father’s son.

Chapter Text

Severus was reorganizing the potions storeroom when he heard the knock at his office door.

He rarely received visitors who knocked first.

“Enter.”

Remus Lupin stepped in, tentative. His expression was unreadable.

“Severus,” he said gently, “I wanted to inform you about Hydras.”

Severus froze for just a second — not visibly, but enough for someone who knew him.

“What about him?”

Lupin folded his hands. “I asked him to complete the Boggart lesson. He agreed. Came this morning.”

“And?”

“I thought I’d be facing some sort of dark creature or spellwork. But it wasn’t that.”

Severus stared.

Lupin’s voice softened further. “The Boggart became you. And Thomas. Dead.”

There was a silence.

Severus closed the cabinet. “I see.”

“I don’t think he meant to reveal that. But I thought you deserved to know.”

Severus nodded, once. “You’re not wrong.”

Lupin turned to go, then hesitated. “He’s more than what the others think. I see that now.”

Severus didn’t respond.

He simply left.

⸻

Hydras was in the Slytherin common room, staring into the fire, alone.

The others had gone to dinner. He hadn’t moved in an hour.

He didn’t flinch when the fire parted for his father.

“Father.”

Severus crossed the stone floor and sat beside him.

There was no lecture.

Only a long silence between them.

Then: “Lupin told me.”

Hydras didn’t speak. Just clenched his jaw.

Severus said quietly, “Why didn’t you come to me?”

Hydras’s voice was flat. “Because it’s a ridiculous fear. You and Father are stronger than death.”

Severus exhaled slowly. “Even strong things fall, Hydras. That doesn’t make the fear foolish.”

“I couldn’t stop it,” Hydras said suddenly, his voice cracking. “I knew it was a Boggart, I knew it wasn’t real, but I—” He shut his mouth.

Severus reached out.

His hand came to rest on the back of Hydras’s neck, thumb brushing gently against the boy’s hair.

“You are allowed to be afraid,” he said. “You are not your name, or your magic, or your plans. You are a child. Our child. And you love.”

Hydras stared at the fire.

After a while, he said, “It wasn’t fear of being alone. It was the silence. You and Father—both gone. The world went quiet.”

Severus didn’t answer.

He simply drew Hydras closer, letting the boy rest his head briefly against his shoulder, rare as a comet.

Hydras whispered, “You won’t leave me?”

“No,” Severus said. “Not even death is that stupid.”

Chapter Text

Thomas Gaunt Apparated into Hogwarts late that night, summoned only by a single line from Severus:

He needs you.

He appeared just beyond the edge of the wards, long black cloak rustling in the wind as he crossed the familiar ground. There was no need to knock. The door to Severus’s private quarters opened before he even reached it.

Severus stood in the archway, expression drawn but composed.

“He’s asleep,” Severus said softly. “My bed. Wouldn’t go to his own.”

Thomas gave a faint smile. “He’s always liked our bed best.”

Severus stepped aside. “He was—unmoored.”

Thomas entered the dark quarters. Familiar shelves, cauldrons, books stacked in near-geometric perfection. The fire glowed low and warm.

And there — curled up under soft, dark green sheets, wrapped in the thinnest wisp of shadow magic like a second blanket — was Hydras.

His face was soft in sleep. Tense still, in the way only a boy born to war could sleep. His fist curled near his face. Severus’s scarf lay beside him.

Thomas didn’t speak. He only sat on the edge of the bed and brushed his fingers gently through Hydras’s hair.

After a moment, the boy stirred.

Bleary green eyes cracked open.

“Father…”

“I’m here,” Thomas said quietly.

Hydras turned and curled into his side. “Did you come far?”

“No,” Thomas whispered. “Just far enough to come home.”

Severus crossed the room, sat on the other side, letting his hand rest lightly on Hydras’s back.

The three of them sat in silence, the kind only born of certainty. There was no rush. No clock. No darkness that couldn’t be held back by their combined will.

And Hydras, nestled between the two most dangerous men in the wizarding world, finally let himself sleep for real.

Safe.

Chapter Text

The quiet crack of Thomas’s Apparition vanished like a sigh of wind.

Severus watched the warded corridor outside his chambers for a moment before closing the door with a flick of his wand. The room was peaceful again. Still scented faintly of Thomas’s cologne — leather, winter pine, and something darker, older.

Hydras sat at the small round table tucked beside the hearth, sipping black tea with just a little milk. He wore one of Severus’s soft, dark wool jumpers, far too big for him, sleeves past his fingers.

He looked calm. Not composed. Not guarded. Just… normal.

“Your father mentioned he’d be home before supper,” Severus said as he handed him a scone.

Hydras nodded, eyes fixed on the fire. “He said I could owl him if I needed anything before then.”

Severus sat opposite him with his own tea.

It was a soft morning.

Warm.

Normal.

Until the wards shifted.

⸻

The knock on the outer door wasn’t loud — but Severus felt the pressure behind it like a weight.

Dumbledore.

Hydras stiffened. Severus laid a calming hand on his shoulder.

When Severus opened the door, Dumbledore stood there in plum-colored robes, smile warm but eyes hawkish.

“Good morning, Severus,” he said smoothly. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“You are,” Severus said flatly. “But come in.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flicked past him as he stepped through.

And there — at the tea table, looking up with just a hint of irritation — sat Hydras Gaunt.

Wearing Severus’s jumper. Tea in hand. Toasted scone on a napkin.

Dumbledore blinked once.

“Hydras,” he said mildly, “I had noticed you were not in your dormitory this morning.”

“I wasn’t,” Hydras replied evenly. “I stayed here.”

“With your Head of House?”

“With my father,” he said firmly.

A beat.

“Your other father left just now, didn’t he?” Dumbledore asked casually, eyes narrowing as he glanced toward the hearth.

“He did,” Severus answered for him. “And no, you may not use the Floo to confirm it.”

Dumbledore smiled like they were playing chess. “Of course not. I simply like to keep tabs on who is entering Hogwarts unannounced.”

“Thomas is not unannounced,” Severus said silkily. “He is family.”

Dumbledore turned back to Hydras. “You’re feeling well, I hope?”

“I’m feeling better than yesterday,” Hydras said. “Now that I know some people still care what happens to me.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flashed.

“Well. As long as you’re not missing your lessons.”

“I’m caught up.”

“And how fortunate you are to have such devoted guardians.”

Hydras gave a tight smile. “Yes. I am.”

Dumbledore inclined his head and stepped back toward the door.

“Do let me know if you plan to be away from your dorm again,” he said with false cheer. “Wouldn’t want the other professors to worry.”

As the door shut, Severus poured more tea.

Hydras sipped his calmly. “He knows something.”

“Yes,” Severus said softly. “But not enough.”

“Should we worry?”

“No.” Severus met his eyes. “We’ll handle him. Together.”

Chapter Text

The Great Hall had been cleared of tables, banners pulled aside. A long, padded strip had been conjured across the center floor — the arena.

The Dueling Club had resumed.

Flitwick stood at one end, cheerfully giving instructions. Remus Lupin loitered nearby, watching pairs of students warm up. Professor McGonagall monitored from the back, stern-eyed, arms crossed.

And in the middle of it all — pale, composed, silent — stood Hydras Gaunt.

His robes were perfect, posture flawless. But his face—

Too drawn.

There were blue shadows beneath his eyes, like ink stains from too many sleepless nights. His wand hand was steady, but his gaze was tired in a way that did not match the precision of his stance.

Professor McGonagall leaned toward Severus, who stood at the edge of the floor in black robes that billowed like stormclouds.

“Your son looks… unwell.”

Severus’s jaw tightened.

“He hasn’t been sleeping.”

“Is he ill?”

“No.” A pause. “He saw his boggart last week.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows drew slightly together. “Ah.”

“I’ve given him potions, but—”

Remus, approaching, had caught the tail end. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t realize it would affect him this much.”

Severus didn’t look at him. “You didn’t know what his boggart was.”

Remus’s expression twisted with guilt.

“I should’ve guessed.”

“No,” Severus said coolly. “You couldn’t have.”

Hydras stepped forward to duel Theodore Nott, silent and exact as ever — spell after spell sharp and clinical, never flashy.

Flitwick clapped. “Beautiful form, Mr. Gaunt!”

But Hydras didn’t smile. Didn’t nod.

He just lowered his wand and returned to the edge of the room, face unreadable.

⸻

As students rotated partners, Dumbledore entered the back of the Great Hall, half-hidden in shadow.

He observed without a word.

His gaze settled on Hydras.

Too pale. Too silent. Too composed for a boy his age.

He turned to Severus, who now leaned against the far wall, arms crossed.

“How is he doing, really?”

Severus didn’t glance at him.

“He’s learning to carry things too heavy for children.”

Dumbledore nodded once, slowly. “Like his father.”

Severus’s voice was low. “Like both of them.”

Chapter Text

Hydras walked through the common room with the grace of someone balancing on a blade.

The dungeons were colder than usual tonight, or maybe it was just in his bones. His robes still carried the scent of ward-fire and sweat from the dueling club, and though he’d said nothing to anyone, his wand hand ached.

The Slytherin common room was low-lit and warm, tucked deep beneath the Black Lake. Only a few students were still awake.

And in the alcove beneath the green-glass window sat Draco, Theo, and Blaise — a private pocket of stillness.

They looked up immediately when he entered.

Draco shifted and patted the cushion beside him. “Hydras.”

Hydras gave a slow nod and dropped down beside them, carefully, like he wasn’t sure his legs would keep holding him.

Blaise passed him a warm mug. “Chocolate,” he said softly. “Not laced with anything.”

Theo added, “We figured you wouldn’t want to talk. But you could sit.”

Hydras sipped. The warmth hit his chest like sunlight through a crack in stone.

And then Draco, subtle as ever, leaned just slightly sideways so that their shoulders touched.

Hydras didn’t move for a long time.

Then, slowly — wordlessly — he tilted. Rested his head against Draco’s shoulder. He exhaled.

Draco didn’t flinch.

He only leaned his own head lightly against Hydras’s.

The others fell quiet. No need to speak. No need to fill the air with false reassurances.

They were his.

And he, for this moment, let himself belong.

⸻

It was Theo who noticed first, when Hydras’s mug began to dip.

“He’s asleep.”

Draco glanced down.

Hydras’s hair had fallen into his eyes. His breathing was even, soft.

Draco reached up gently and brushed it back.

“About time,” he murmured.

Blaise transfigured a nearby throw into a soft blanket and draped it over them both.

“We’ll keep watch.”

The Squires didn’t need to say anything else.

The heir of Gaunt — the boy raised by power and secrets — slept soundly in the arms of the only people who knew how much he carried.

Chapter Text

The school year ended not with a bang — but with a whisper.

Remus Lupin was simply gone.

There was no formal announcement. No fanfare. Just an empty chair at the staff table, and a notice on the board saying that Defense Against the Dark Arts would have a new professor next term.

But the students whispered.

They always did.

“…someone’s parent wrote the Board…”
“…said he was dangerous…”
“…he is a werewolf, isn’t he?”

Hydras listened without comment. He’d known. Severus had told him privately.

“Dumbledore fought for him,” Severus had admitted. “But not hard enough.”

Hydras had only nodded once. “Then he deserved to lose.”

He wasn’t angry. Just… done.

No sympathy for a man who made him confront his greatest fear and called it a lesson.

⸻

The banners in the Great Hall shimmered emerald and silver.

Slytherin — for the second year in a row — claimed the House Cup.

Professor Snape’s expression was unreadable, but the flicker of pride in his eyes wasn’t missed by the staff.

Dumbledore clapped politely. Smiled as he always did. But Hydras watched the tightness around his eyes.

He was running out of pawns.

Hydras sat with his Squires near the front. Draco beside him, all smug elegance. Theo unreadable as ever. Blaise polished and amused.

The goblet of honor glowed deep green above the staff table.

Hydras took a long drink from his cup, never breaking eye contact with the headmaster.

They were smiling at each other.

But it wasn’t friendly.

⸻

As trunks were loaded onto the Hogwarts Express, Hydras remained still near the carriages.

Severus came to stand beside him, watching the students move.

“You did well,” Severus said.

Hydras didn’t look away. “We did.”

“Thomas is expecting you by dinner.”

“Do you think he’ll be proud?”

Severus finally glanced at him. “He already is.”

Hydras smiled faintly. “Next year, we make our move.”

“Yes,” Severus murmured. “Next year, the board opens properly.”

Chapter Text

The Gaunt estate was a palace of shadows and silver — not grand in the way of Malfoy Manor or regal like the old Black strongholds, but older. More secret.

Built half into the cliffs along the northern coast, with jagged stone halls and windows charmed to filter only moonlight, it was a place where magic clung to the walls like lichen.

Hydras walked barefoot through the western hall, runes glowing faintly as he passed. A thin black robe swept behind him, stitched in deep green thread — the mark of the heir.

He paused only when he reached the study, where Thomas sat reading through a parchment from Bulgaria, a faint smirk on his lips.

“News?” Hydras asked, folding himself into the chair opposite.

Thomas looked up — eyes sharp and gleaming.

“The Triwizard Tournament is being revived.”

Hydras blinked. “At Hogwarts?”

Thomas slid the parchment forward. “Announced only to select international delegations so far. The school will receive official notice in two weeks’ time. But… we know first.”

Hydras tapped the edge of the parchment, mind already turning. “That’s why they pushed Lupin out.”

Severus, leaning against the hearth in black robes open at the throat, snorted softly. “You think they’d trust a werewolf with international guests present?”

Thomas’s smile curled. “Exactly.”

Hydras sat back. “Dumbledore won’t like this.”

“No,” Thomas said. “Which is why it’s useful.”

⸻

That evening, they ate by candlelight — not because they had to, but because Thomas preferred the aesthetic. Silver goblets, carved obsidian plates, and a table set for only three.

“The tournament could be an opportunity,” Severus said, sipping his wine. “For visibility. Influence. If one of the Squires could be selected—”

“They’re too young,” Hydras said, cutting his steak.

“Perhaps officially,” Thomas murmured, “but we’ve manipulated harder rules before.”

Hydras glanced between them. “We’ll need access to the rules. The goblet. And the staff overseeing the event.”

Thomas gave a slow nod. “Leave that to me.”

Hydras smiled, sharp and soft at once. “Then I suppose I’ll start planning how to make Hogwarts mine before the Beauxbatons carriages even touch down.”

Chapter Text

The carriage touched down in the manicured outer courtyard of Malfoy Manor, gleaming obsidian against a sky just beginning to rain.

Hydras stepped out before the driver could reach the door.

He wore traveling robes of dark green velvet, silver embroidery catching the light like frost. No guards. No entourage. Just him.

Lucius wasn’t the one to greet him — Draco was.

The blond stood under the awning with a raised brow and half a smile, arms crossed.

“Didn’t expect to see you before September.”

Hydras blinked slowly. “I was bored.”

Draco snorted. “I don’t believe that.”

“Fine.” Hydras adjusted his gloves. “I wanted to see someone who doesn’t talk to me like I’m a chessboard.”

Draco tilted his head slightly, smile twitching. “That sounds like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“You’re getting soft.”

“You’re still short.”

They both smirked — and then Draco opened the door wider.

“Well. Come on then.”

⸻

The drawing room had high windows and stormlight streaming in through sheer curtains. Rain tapped softly on the panes.

Draco had dragged two high-backed chairs close to the hearth. There was tea, of course, and charmed books floating between the shelves. One was a magical bestiary Draco kept annotated in the margins.

Hydras curled up sideways in his chair, hair falling into his face as he read over Draco’s notes.

“You drew the fangs wrong,” he murmured.

“They’re artistic.”

“They’re inaccurate.”

“Hydras, you can conjure a basilisk. I think I get to stylize my sketch.”

Hydras let his head rest on the back of the chair, watching Draco sip his tea and pretend not to be pleased.

“I meant what I said,” Hydras murmured after a moment.

Draco glanced at him.

Hydras didn’t look away. “About you not treating me like something to manipulate. It’s… rare.”

Draco didn’t smirk this time.

Instead, he said, “I think you like being seen, Hydras. Just not by everyone.”

Hydras blinked. “Maybe.”

A beat.

Draco leaned over slightly. “You can stay for dinner.”

“I already planned to.”

Draco smiled. “Knew it.”

Chapter Text

Dinner at Malfoy Manor was elegance made into ritual.

Crystal stemware, silver flatware, hand-embroidered linens — every item perfectly placed. Narcissa sat at the head of the table, regal in sapphire silk. Lucius, statuesque and coldly polite, presided opposite.

Draco took his usual place to the left of his mother.

And beside him, unannounced but perfectly at ease, sat a boy in rich green velvet — long dark hair brushed back, emerald ring glinting on his left hand.

They were halfway through the entrée when Lucius finally spoke.

“Draco.”

His son didn’t look up from his wine. “Yes, Father?”

“You know the rules. If you intend to invite someone for supper, proper notice is expected.”

Draco gave the faintest shrug. “He’s not just someone.”

Narcissa’s gaze, cool and curious, turned to the stranger. “And who, exactly, are you?”

Hydras set down his fork with grace, then lifted his eyes — cold, ancient, and amused.

“Hydras Gaunt,” he said softly.

The room stilled.

Lucius leaned back, expression unreadable.

“The Dark Lord’s son,” he said, voice low. “I wasn’t aware you’d taken Draco’s friendship so… personally.”

“You were aware I existed,” Hydras replied. “You just never asked what I looked like.”

Narcissa, to her credit, didn’t flinch. But her hand tightened slightly on her goblet.

“Of course,” she said, voice honeyed and formal. “We’ve heard… rumors. Whispers. That the Dark Lord raised a son in secret. But we assumed—”

“That he was a myth?” Hydras smiled. “I don’t mind. Myths are useful.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed faintly. “You’re not what I expected.”

“I rarely am.”

Draco, now comfortably slouched with a lazy grin, added, “So, can he come to dinner whenever, or…?”

Lucius didn’t answer immediately. But after a moment, he gave a shallow nod — just enough to show respect without groveling.

“Of course. The heir of Lord Gaunt is always welcome in this house.”

Hydras lifted his glass. “Then allow me to toast to better understanding between old families.”

Narcissa clinked his glass gently.

Draco smirked. “Told you it’d be fun.”

Chapter Text

The Gaunt estate was silent save for the low crackle of firelight in the hearth of the master bedchamber. Thomas lounged in his chair, robes undone, hair damp from a late bath. A brandy sat untouched on the table beside him.

Severus, in his nightshirt, sat cross-legged on the settee, a book open in his lap, but unread.

“He handled the Malfoys well,” Severus said after a long pause.

Thomas smiled faintly. “Lucius nearly swallowed his tongue.”

Severus smirked. “You knew they’d recognize the name.”

“I counted on it,” Thomas murmured. “I needed to see whether they’d bow or bite.”

“And?”

“They bowed.”

A beat.

Severus closed his book and set it aside. “You worry about him.”

Thomas looked up sharply. “Of course I do.”

“He’s careful. But he’s… lonely.”

Thomas leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled. “He’s playing the part I gave him. The heir. The leader. The shadow of my name. But he’s still a boy.”

Severus’s voice softened. “He crawled into bed with me the night before he left for the Manor.”

Thomas’s expression twitched. “Did he.”

“I didn’t say no.”

Thomas’s smile was tired, but fond. “You never do.”

⸻

The bedchamber was quiet. The windows open just enough to let in the night wind from the cliffs.

Severus lay on the left side of the bed, long limbs coiled in sleep. Thomas, shirtless beneath the dark sheets, lay with one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling, thoughts running like wildfire.

He didn’t hear the door open — only the soft rustle of slippered feet.

Then a dip in the mattress.

Hydras said nothing as he pulled back the covers and slid between them, curling instinctively toward the middle.

Thomas blinked and looked down at the familiar mop of dark hair pressing gently into his side.

“You’re back,” he murmured.

Hydras nodded. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and small.

“They looked at me like I was a legend.”

“You are.”

Hydras hesitated. “It felt like… armor. Like they didn’t really see me. Just you.”

Thomas shifted to curl his arm around Hydras’s back. “They’ll learn to see you. Not just what I made you.”

Hydras was quiet, pressed against his father’s side.

Severus stirred faintly but didn’t open his eyes. He reached out, one hand brushing gently through Hydras’s hair without a word.

Thomas leaned in, pressing a kiss to the crown of his son’s head.

“Sleep,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

Hydras exhaled.

And for once, the heir of the Dark Lord allowed himself to rest — not as a name, not as a legacy — but as a boy between the only two people who had ever truly loved him.

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express hissed into Hogsmeade Station beneath a sky bruised with the colors of early autumn. Hydras stepped down from the train flanked by Blaise, Theo, and Draco, all in well-tailored cloaks, all radiating the cool detachment of those who knew power by name.

The Squires of Walpurgis did not speak of leadership. They simply moved in orbit around Hydras as if the world had always done so.

They boarded the carriages in silence. Students whispered behind cupped hands and half-turned shoulders — some emboldened over the summer by rumors, others chilled by the memory of Hydras’ still, sharp presence during the Chamber attacks.

By the time they entered the Great Hall, the whispering had reached a low hum.

Hydras sat at the Slytherin table, long fingers drumming lightly on the wood as the golden plates filled with the feast. Across the room, the Gryffindors stared. Even the Ravenclaws glanced more often than not.

Hydras caught sight of Dumbledore watching him with that same damnable twinkle — less amused now, more appraising.

He knows something, Hydras thought. But he still doesn’t know enough.

⸻

When the desserts vanished from the tables, Dumbledore rose with the usual clinking of his goblet.

“Before you all flee to your towers and dungeons,” he said cheerfully, “a rather exciting announcement must be made. As some of you may already know…”

There was a pause.

“…this year, Hogwarts will be hosting a legendary competition not seen in decades.”

A murmur rippled through the Hall.

“The Triwizard Tournament.”

The room exploded in noise.

Hydras didn’t flinch — but his eyes narrowed.

Draco leaned in, whispering, “They’re not seriously going to make us do it, are they?”

Hydras shook his head slightly. “There’s an age line. Meant to keep fourth-years out.”

Theo gave a dry chuckle. “That’s never stopped people like Weasley.”

Up at the staff table, Dumbledore lifted his arms to calm the crowd. “The Ministry will arrive in two weeks, and the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will follow soon after.”

His eyes scanned the Hall — briefly brushing over Hydras before flicking away.

“Until then, rest. Reacquaint yourselves with your studies. And prepare to witness history.”

⸻

That night in the Slytherin common room, Hydras stood by the emerald-glowing fireplace, arms folded, listening to the others talk.

Blaise was already placing bets. Theo was theorizing which Durmstrang student would try to hex someone before the first task. Draco sat beside Hydras, occasionally nudging his shoulder in quiet camaraderie.

But Hydras was not relaxed.

His mind was racing.

The Triwizard Tournament is meant for spectacle… but someone invited danger. Deliberately.

A storm was coming. He could feel it.

Chapter Text

The air was crisp and tense two weeks later, as students stood outside the castle awaiting the foreign schools.

Hydras stood with the Squires of Walpurgis. His dark green cloak caught the wind like a banner. He said little, but his presence was a constant axis around which the others turned.

Beauxbatons arrived first, descending from a towering blue carriage drawn by winged Abraxan horses. Madame Maxime’s smile did not quite reach her eyes as she scanned the sea of students.

Durmstrang arrived second, emerging from the depths of the Great Lake aboard a black iron ship cloaked in mist. Viktor Krum led them — gaunt, serious, and quiet. Hydras watched him carefully.

“Impressive,” Blaise murmured.

“Loud,” Hydras replied. “But impressive.”

Dumbledore, ever the host, welcomed both schools with the warmth of someone hoping to distract from deeper worries.

But even he can feel it, Hydras thought. Something isn’t right.

⸻

The Goblet of Fire was set in the Entrance Hall beneath Dumbledore’s watchful gaze, surrounded by enchanted age lines to prevent underage entries.

Hydras did not attempt to cross.

But others did.

Fred and George Weasley failed spectacularly.

No one expected what happened next.

On the night of the choosing, the Great Hall was electric. Students buzzed and gossiped as the Goblet flared.

First: Viktor Krum for Durmstrang.

Then: Fleur Delacour for Beauxbatons.

Then: Cedric Diggory for Hogwarts.

The Hall cheered. All seemed as it should be.

Until the Goblet flared again.

Blue-white fire spat out a fourth name.

Dumbledore caught it, frowning. He read aloud—

“…Neville Longbottom.”

Silence.

Neville stood at the Gryffindor table, frozen in place, horror etched on his face.

He hadn’t entered. Everyone knew he hadn’t.

But the Goblet had chosen him all the same.

Hydras leaned back, gaze sharpening.

Draco whispered, “That’s not right.”

Hydras didn’t reply. His mind was already calculating.

Someone’s using him. As bait. As proof. As a pawn.

⸻

Later, in the deep quiet of the Slytherin dorms, Hydras sealed the door to his private quarters and pulled out the enchanted hand-mirror.

“Father.”

Thomas’s face flickered to life on the glass — calm, dark-eyed, thoughtful.

“You felt it too?” Hydras asked.

“I did,” Thomas said. “The Longbottom boy was not meant to be a champion. He was meant to be watched.”

“They chose someone weak on purpose.”

“Or someone easy to dispose of.”

Hydras’s jaw clenched. “Why him?”

Thomas didn’t answer at first. Then, quietly: “To send a message. And to see who reacts.”

There was a pause. Then Thomas asked, “How are you holding up?”

Hydras hesitated. Then — honest, rare: “I hate not knowing who’s moving the pieces.”

“You’re my son,” Thomas said, voice firm. “You will learn.”

“I will,” Hydras agreed softly. “And when I do, I’ll break the board.”

Chapter Text

The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom felt more like a dungeon than ever. Cold stone, iron sconces, and one lone desk at the front. No windows. No warmth.

Hydras Gaunt entered in silence, flanked by Blaise, Theo, and Draco — the Squires of Walpurgis cutting a sleek, watchful line through the chattering third-years.

Gryffindors muttered behind their hands. Lavender Brown looked pale. Ron Weasley shot Hydras a suspicious glare. Hydras didn’t look back.

At the front of the room, Alastor Moody stood like a monument of paranoia — his face scarred, one eye ordinary and bloodshot, the other spinning madly in its socket.

He did not greet them.

He merely growled.

“Sit.”

They did.

“Name’s Moody. And I don’t care if you’ve had lazy fools teaching you before now. This year, you’ll learn something useful. Maybe even something that keeps you alive.”

The magical eye rotated once — landed briefly on Hydras.

Hydras met it without blinking.

A quiet standoff.

Moody’s mouth twitched. “You. Name.”

“Hydras Gaunt.”

Several students glanced around. A few flinched. Others whispered.

“Gaunt, eh?” Moody muttered, scratching his stubbled jaw. “Old blood. Dark blood.”

“Is there another kind?” Hydras said mildly.

A few students gasped.

Moody barked a laugh — sharp and joyless. “There’s the kind that dies quick.”

⸻

Moody flicked his wand. A heavy tome slammed open in midair.

“Your lesson today: Curses. Minor and Major. You lot might think you know what’s dangerous. You don’t.”

He pulled a wooden chest from behind the desk and cracked it open. A few students leaned forward — Blaise did not.

Inside were objects: a cursed necklace, a cracked mirror that shimmered too much, and a silver coin pulsing faintly with a greenish hue.

Moody held it up.

“Cursed Galleon. Sticks to your skin. Burns through your hand if you try to drop it.”

He tossed it toward the students. It landed with a clink on the front row desk. Parvati Patil screamed and scrambled away.

Moody grunted. “Lesson one: look before you touch. Not everything that glitters is gold.”

Hydras sat back, fingers steepled under his chin, voice soft: “And some things that don’t glitter can still kill.”

Moody looked at him again — for longer this time.

Then he said nothing at all.

⸻

As they left, Theo murmured, “Well. He’s… intense.”

“He’s dangerous,” Blaise said. “But I think he likes you.”

Hydras raised a brow. “Or he’s trying to decide whether I’m a threat or an asset.”

Draco smirked. “Let him wonder.”

Chapter Text

The stadium was thunderous.

Built just beyond the Forbidden Forest, the stone and wood arena rose like a gladiator’s pit — magical banners whipping through the cold November air, shimmering with the names of the champions. Students, staff, and guests were filing into the stands, chatter building into a fever pitch.

Hydras Gaunt ascended the steps calmly, his black robes lined with silver and deep green. Blaise, Theo, and Draco followed a few paces behind, but stopped when he paused beside the faculty section.

“Wait for me here,” Hydras said.

Draco blinked. “You’re not sitting with us?”

“I’m sitting with my family.”

He turned without further explanation and stepped into the professors’ row. A few murmurs rose around them immediately — students nudging each other, Beauxbatons girls whispering behind gloves, and even a few Durmstrang boys watching with thinly veiled interest.

Severus Snape looked up from his seat as Hydras approached.

“You’re late,” he said, voice dry but not cold.

“I was choosing where I wanted to sit,” Hydras replied. “It wasn’t a hard decision.”

Severus shifted slightly to give him room. “You’ll be seen.”

“I intend to be.”

He sat, hands folded, gaze scanning the arena with the quiet calculation of someone already ten moves ahead. His presence beside Severus caused more ripples than any dragon could. Professors Flitwick and Sinistra exchanged glances. Karkaroff’s eyes narrowed.

Across the arena, Albus Dumbledore took note.

And from the champion’s tent below the stands, Neville Longbottom stumbled toward his fate — unaware that the Goblet had chosen him not for glory, but for manipulation.

⸻

The moment the dragon was revealed — a Hungarian Horntail, all scale and smoke — the crowd gasped.

Neville looked as if he might faint.

Hydras leaned toward Severus, voice low.

“They gave him the worst one,” he said.

Severus’s lips tightened. “Yes. Someone ensured it.”

Hydras’s eyes did not leave the arena. “He won’t last five minutes unless someone’s helping him.”

“We’ll find out who did this,” Severus said. “Before the second task.”

Hydras’s jaw clenched, but he nodded.

Down below, Neville raised his wand with a shaking hand.

⸻

When Neville — battered and bruised — emerged still alive, the crowd cheered. But Hydras didn’t clap. He simply stood.

“Shall we go?” he asked.

Severus rose beside him. “You enjoyed this?”

“No,” Hydras said. “But I’m learning.”

As they turned to leave, Hydras caught Dumbledore’s gaze from across the stands.

They held each other’s eyes for a moment.

And then Hydras looked away — like someone who had already seen too much.

Chapter Text

Yule Break: The World Cup

Snow fell in thick sheets as thousands gathered in the enchanted clearing for the Quidditch World Cup — held unusually this year over Yule break to accommodate the Triwizard Tournament schedule. Spectators from across Europe sat bundled in furs and enchanted warming cloaks as enchanted snowflakes melted before touching the pitch.

Hydras sat with Thomas and Severus in their private box — warded, of course, against prying eyes. Lucius Malfoy sat a few rows below with Narcissa and Draco, every inch of him proper and calm. Arthur Weasley sat on the opposite side with his family, including a scowling Ron and a wide-eyed Ginny.

Hydras watched the skies instead of the game. His senses were restless. Magic crackled faintly in the distance.

“I don’t like the feel of the air,” he murmured.

Thomas, eyes still fixed on the field, replied, “Nor do I.”

And then it happened.

⸻

A flash — green fire ripped through the clouds, and the Dark Mark surged high above the stadium. The serpent writhed from the mouth of the skull, a haunting symbol that hadn’t been seen in the skies for thirteen years.

Screams began to rise from the crowd, but not panic — confusion.

There was no attack. No burning tents. No rampaging Death Eaters.

Only four masked figures on the edge of the forest, cloaked and foolish. Ministry wizards swooped in immediately, stunning them before they could flee.

Inside the private box, Hydras stood. His hands clenched.

Thomas was already vanishing with a snap of his fingers.

⸻

At the edge of the forest clearing, the four caught Death Eaters lay stunned and twitching. Thomas appeared like a specter beside them — wand already raised.

They froze in fear as their masks were ripped off.

He knew them. Not loyalists. Opportunists. Weak men with more memory than loyalty.

“I gave no order,” Thomas hissed, his voice velveted with fury. “You drew my mark without my command. You have dishonored its meaning.”

One of them whimpered. “My lord, we thought—”

“You didn’t think.”

A flick of his wand. Silence.

He stepped away into the shadows as the Ministry finished arresting them.

⸻

Later, Arthur Weasley stood with his family near the portkeys.

He had seen Lucius Malfoy that night — wand in hand, but not raised. Standing between his wife and son with a protective stance, eyes sharp, doing nothing aggressive.

No riot. No curses.

Arthur frowned deeply.

Maybe — maybe — not all of them were what he had believed.

Chapter Text

The Burrow was warm that night, filled with the scent of beef stew, fresh bread, and cinnamon-roasted apples. Snow still clung to the windows outside, but inside, the long kitchen table was crowded with redheads and tense silence.

Dinner was unusually quiet. Not because anyone was tired — but because everyone had seen the Dark Mark.

And because none of them could explain what came after.

Finally, Arthur cleared his throat.

“I want to talk about what happened,” he said softly, setting down his fork. “About what we saw.”

Ron scowled. “We saw bloody Death Eaters! And the Dark Mark! Just floating up like it never left!”

“But that’s not all we saw,” Arthur said. “Is it?”

Everyone looked at him.

Bill frowned. “You mean… Lucius Malfoy.”

“Yes.” Arthur glanced around the table. “He was there. Front row. And he didn’t move. Didn’t cast a spell. Didn’t even draw his wand.”

Percy said tightly, “He probably didn’t need to. He has people to do that for him.”

Fred and George exchanged a look but didn’t speak. They had seen it too — Lucius, standing in front of Draco and Narcissa like a shield. Silent. Alert. Not attacking.

Molly set her spoon down with a faint clink. “Arthur… are you saying you believe he’s changed?”

Arthur paused.

“I don’t know what I believe,” he admitted. “But we saw what we saw. And we owe it to ourselves — and to our children — to acknowledge the truth of it.”

Ginny whispered, “He looked like a dad. Like… he was just scared for Draco.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the one before.

Ron opened his mouth, closed it, then said with visible reluctance, “Maybe he was. Doesn’t mean he’s not still a git.”

Arthur gave him a tired smile. “That’s fair.”

⸻

After the children had gone to bed, Molly lingered at the sink, scrubbing a perfectly clean bowl.

“You still think something bigger is happening, don’t you?” she asked.

Arthur nodded. “I do. But maybe not in the way we thought.”
—
Malfoy Manor, That Night

Snow had begun to fall again, silencing the world outside. The windows of Malfoy Manor glowed gold against the darkness, and the house itself seemed unusually still — the kind of hush that wrapped itself around fear like a second skin.

Draco sat on the edge of his bed, pale and silent, dressed in green silk sleepwear. His wand was on the bedside table, but he hadn’t touched it since returning from the Quidditch World Cup.

Lucius stood in the doorway, watching his son with a furrowed brow.

“Are you alright?”

Draco looked up slowly. His voice was small. “Hydras didn’t know.”

Lucius stepped inside.

“I spoke with him,” Draco said. “After. He was… furious. But scared, too. He kept saying his father gave no order. That it was a breach of control. And if Thomas didn’t do it…” He trailed off.

“Then who did?” Lucius finished.

Draco nodded. “If people are acting in his name without permission, it means he’s losing control. Or worse… someone’s trying to take it from him.”

Lucius’s face remained unreadable, but his voice softened. “That’s not your burden to carry.”

“I chose to follow Hydras,” Draco whispered. “I chose to be a Squire.”

“And you are still a boy,” Lucius said, stepping forward. “Still my son. And no matter what ideals you chase — no matter whose name you swear to — I will not let you be swallowed by someone else’s war.”

Draco looked down at his hands, jaw tight. “What if we’ve already been pulled into it?”

Lucius said nothing. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, carefully undoing the silver fastenings of his son’s robe and helping him lie down — like he had when Draco was small. His motions were slow, patient.

Draco turned on his side. He didn’t ask, but Lucius stayed.

The boy leaned against his father’s chest, breathing slowly, letting the weight of fear and loyalty and unspoken questions melt into silence.

Lucius held him as he fell asleep.

Outside the window, the snow fell thicker.

And inside, for a little while, this war paused.

Chapter Text

Snow still dusted the grounds like powdered sugar as Hydras entered the dungeon corridor with a book tucked under one arm and a wrapped parcel in the other.

He stopped at the Potions classroom door and waited until the final student left before stepping inside.

Severus looked up from the cauldron he was cleaning. “You’re early.”

Hydras smirked and set the book and parcel down on the desk. “Happy birthday.”

Severus blinked once. “You remembered.”

“I live with you,” Hydras replied dryly. “You and Father always talk about how depressing it is to have a birthday after the holidays.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Hydras pushed the parcel toward him. “Open it.”

Inside was a leather-bound copy of The Runes of Invocation in Potioncraft, first edition. Severus’s brow lifted slightly — appreciation glinting beneath the usual tired restraint.

“This is… rare.”

“I know,” Hydras said. “Father helped me track it down. Said it was the only thing you still wanted that you didn’t just buy yourself.”

Severus gave the smallest of nods — then, to Hydras’ secret pride, tucked the book carefully under his arm like it was something priceless.

Behind them, the door creaked.

Minerva McGonagall stood in the frame, eyebrows raised. “Well. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help overhearing.”

Hydras looked back innocently. “Overhear what, Professor? That it’s his birthday?”

Minerva froze for a moment, then offered Severus a thin-lipped smile — one that carried more guilt than amusement.

“I see,” she said softly. And left.

⸻

Twenty Minutes Later — Staff Room

Minerva stepped into the staff room mid-conversation, her expression unreadable.

She stood by the fireplace for a moment as the others laughed at a joke Hagrid had told, then cleared her throat.

“I feel we’ve forgotten something important.”

Dumbledore, mid-pour of tea, looked up. “Yes, Minerva?”

“It’s Severus’s birthday,” she said simply.

The room stilled.

“Today?” Pomona asked, blinking.

Minerva nodded.

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence.

“I thought— I assumed it was in the spring,” Flitwick mumbled.

“It isn’t,” Minerva said sharply. “It’s today. It’s always been today.”

Pomona frowned. “How long has it been since we last said anything?”

No one answered. Because they all knew. Too long.

When Severus finally entered — quiet, unreadable — the staff looked at him with something unspoken hanging in the air.

“Happy birthday, Severus,” Dumbledore said gently.

Severus paused. “Thank you.”

It was the only acknowledgment he gave.

⸻

The fire crackled low. A soft knock echoed through the sitting room.

Severus opened the door to find Thomas standing there, snow in his dark hair, the barest trace of a smile on his lips.

“You came.”

“You didn’t think I’d forget,” Thomas said, stepping inside. He held out a small, flat box wrapped in forest green ribbon. “I also brought wine.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “And not a cursed relic in sight. How uncharacteristic of you.”

“I’m trying to improve.”

They sat by the fire. Thomas poured two glasses, then leaned back into the warmth of the armchair beside him, ankles crossed, watching Severus with fondness in his eyes.

“You know,” Thomas murmured, “you’re always so careful not to expect anything from this day.”

“Expectations are dangerous things,” Severus said quietly, “especially when they go unmet.”

Thomas reached over and caught Severus’s hand, threading their fingers together.

“I love you,” he said. “Happy birthday.”

Severus didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against Thomas’s shoulder — a quiet surrender in the silence.

“I’m glad you remembered,” he whispered at last.

Chapter Text

The fire had burned down to glowing embers by the time Thomas and Severus retreated to the bedroom.

It wasn’t hurried, or intense — but deliberate, every kiss and touch a slow reaffirmation of familiarity. Thomas’s fingers lingered at Severus’s jaw, brushing strands of black hair behind his ear, and Severus — who rarely allowed himself to be vulnerable — didn’t look away.

“Your skin is cold,” Thomas murmured.

“Winter,” Severus replied, voice low. “And twenty years of stone walls.”

Thomas eased him back against the pillows. “Let me warm you up then.”

They didn’t speak after that.

Only quiet sighs, deep kisses, the whisper of robes falling away — and the softness of long-held love rekindled beneath enchanted starlight on the ceiling above their bed.

⸻

The Next Morning

Hydras padded barefoot into the chambers he considered home, yawning and tugging a book under one arm. He always brought Severus tea the morning after his birthday — a ritual now two years strong.

He pushed the door to the bedroom open with a quiet, “Are you—?”

And stopped.

The bed was in gentle disarray, the thick green coverlet pushed down to the foot. Severus lay on his side, hair unbound, pressed against Thomas’s chest. One of Thomas’s arms was looped lazily around Severus’s waist, and both of them were tangled in sheets and each other — clearly still asleep.

Hydras stood there in the doorway for a moment, silent.

Then:

“Gross,” he muttered — but not unkindly — and turned on his heel.

As he shut the door behind him with a click, he rolled his eyes and said to himself, “I’ll come back in twenty minutes. With very loud tea.”

Chapter Text

The February air was sharp, damp with lake-mist and the murmur of a thousand anxious voices. Students crowded the stands along the edge of the Black Lake, bundled in cloaks and scarves. Magical fog curled across the surface of the water, obscuring everything but the jagged rocks near shore.

“Champions!” Ludo Bagman shouted. “You have one hour to retrieve that which has been taken from you. Your time… begins now!”

The cannon boomed.

The four champions — Cedric Diggory, Viktor Krum, Fleur Delacour, and Neville Longbottom — dove in turn into the frigid water, each armed with their own chosen magical preparation.

Hydras sat beside Severus in the faculty row, expression placid but eyes narrowed.

He watched the surface calmly, but his mind was elsewhere — on possibilities, plans, and Potter’s old prophecy. The Triwizard Tournament had already gone off-course once… and Hydras didn’t like unpredictability.

Next to him, Blaise leaned in. “You think he’ll drown?”

“Of course not,” Hydras murmured, brushing a fleck of lint from his black gloves. “He’s stubborn. That’s harder to kill than skill.”

From the row below, Draco turned his head slightly to glance back at them.

“You’re worried,” he said under his breath, eyes on Hydras.

“I’m always worried,” Hydras replied, tone light. “That’s what separates us from idiots.”

⸻

Murmurs turned to cries of relief as the champions began to emerge. First came Viktor, water trailing from his hair like seaweed. Then Fleur — visibly shaken, her sister Gabrielle clinging to her side.

Cedric came next, dragging Cho Chang free with practiced efficiency.

Still, there was no sign of Neville.

Hydras stood, eyes narrowed. He began slowly descending toward the edge of the lake, Draco trailing behind him.

Just as whispers of “he’s not coming” crept through the crowd, a huge bubble rose near the pier — and then, with a splash, Neville broke the surface, gasping, red-faced, dragging the long, magical bubble that contained an unconscious Luna Lovegood.

There was a roar of applause. Hydras didn’t cheer — but he did release a breath.

⸻

Neville sat wrapped in a blanket, sipping hot chocolate under Madam Pomfrey’s supervision. His face was pale, but he looked oddly proud. Students clustered near him, offering congratulations.

Hydras stood in the courtyard archway with Draco and Theo, hands folded behind his back.

“Why do you even care?” Theo asked softly.

Hydras’s gaze stayed fixed on Neville. “Because if he’s a pawn, I’d like to know who’s holding the board.”

Draco tilted his head. “You think someone else wanted him in the tournament?”

“I think,” Hydras said, voice low, “that fate doesn’t usually favor Neville Longbottom unless someone’s pushing pieces behind the curtain.”

A flicker of movement caught his eye — and he turned to see Thomas, leaning in the far archway, watching him.

Hydras gave the smallest nod.

Thomas returned it. Then turned and vanished back into the shadows of the castle.

Chapter Text

The maze loomed over the Quidditch Pitch like a living fortress.

Its hedges were impossibly high, thick with magic and shadow, and enchanted to shift like breathing walls. The stands were packed with students and staff, and high above, the judges’ platform shimmered with protective enchantments.

Hydras Gaunt sat between Severus and Draco, his arms folded and expression unreadable.

“Looks like the world’s worst topiary,” Blaise muttered from behind them.

“Or the world’s most elaborate coffin,” Hydras murmured back.

Severus didn’t comment. His eyes were fixed on the maze.

From the other side of the pitch, Bagman’s voice boomed.

“Champions! You may enter the maze. The Triwizard Cup lies at its center. The first to reach it… wins!”

The cannon fired.

Cedric. Viktor. Fleur. Neville. Each entered through a separate path, swallowed quickly by the greenery.

⸻

Within the Maze

Neville moved carefully, wand raised, heart pounding. He had prepared more than anyone had expected — and this time, there was no dragon, no freezing lake. Just fear and cleverness.

Somewhere in the maze, he heard Fleur scream.

A hex, then silence.

Neville swallowed.

He pressed forward — only to stumble into Cedric, who looked equally shaken.

“Did you hear that?” Neville asked.

Cedric nodded. “I passed Krum. His eyes were… wrong. Something’s wrong.”

That’s when they found Viktor Krum, unconscious near a hedgerow, a faintly glowing curse curling off his robes.

Then — running footsteps.

Mad-Eye Moody barreled into the clearing, wild-eyed.

“Take the Cup!” he barked. “Go! I’ll take care of him!”

Cedric looked confused. “What?”

Neville hesitated. Something in Moody’s voice didn’t feel right.

That’s when Thomas Gaunt arrived.

Not in the maze — but on the pitch, beside Dumbledore.

He didn’t speak, just leaned to Severus and whispered.

The effect was instant.

Dumbledore rose, his wand out. “Close the maze. Now.”

The hedges began to collapse inward like retracting jaws.

⸻

Mad-Eye Moody had been dragged from the maze — fighting like a cornered beast. But his Polyjuice was wearing off.

The man who stood in chains minutes later was Barty Crouch Jr.

The crowd watched in horror.

The confession was wrung out quickly under Veritaserum: he had impersonated Moody all year. He had placed Neville’s name in the Goblet. He had intended to send the winner of the Third Task directly to a graveyard — but never had the chance.

Because there was no ritual to perform. There was no Horcrux tether. There was no resurrection waiting.

Because Thomas Gaunt had never died.

And Barty, it turned out, was working on old orders meant for a different world — one that no longer existed.

⸻

Draco flopped into the nearest chair. Blaise poured pumpkin juice like it was firewhisky.

Hydras sat in a high-backed chair, watching the fire, silent.

“I still don’t understand,” Theo said. “Why try to bring someone back who never left?”

“Because,” Hydras murmured, “some people serve shadows, even after the sun rises again.”

Draco blinked at him. “That’s poetic.”

Hydras gave a faint, sly smile. “It’s also true.”

Chapter Text

The drawing room at the Gaunt Estate was lit by the late afternoon sun, filtering through ancient windows and softening the edge of the dark furniture. Hydras sat on the velvet chaise, a thick book on his lap, though his eyes hadn’t moved from the same page in fifteen minutes.

Severus entered first, setting down a silver tray of tea. Thomas followed, not in full regalia, but in a dark green shirt and black slacks — domestic, for him.

Hydras raised a brow. “Both of you with tea and tight expressions. Something’s about to be unpleasant.”

Thomas gave a wry smile. “You’re getting better at reading us.”

“Unfortunately,” Severus added, pouring the tea. “You’ll want to be sharp next term. Dumbledore is, as ever, attempting to wrangle influence.”

“He can’t even wrangle his robes,” Hydras said dryly. “What’s he done now?”

“It’s what the Ministry has done,” Thomas answered, his tone far more serious. “Your new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Dolores Jane Umbridge.”

Hydras blinked. “You’re joking. That pink toad from the disciplinary branch?”

“She’s been promoted,” Severus said flatly. “Senior Undersecretary to Fudge. And she’s been placed at Hogwarts to—”

“—spy,” Thomas finished. “Control the narrative. Rein in Dumbledore. And anyone associated with him… or not.”

Hydras’s fingers tapped once against his teacup. “Will she be a problem?”

“She will try to be,” Thomas said. “She despises half-breeds, non-conformists, and purebloods who step outside Ministry expectations. You fall into several of her disapproved categories.”

“And she’s disturbingly fond of blood quills,” Severus added, voice low.

Hydras scowled. “Then I’ll stay out of detention.”

“You’ll do more than that,” Thomas said, standing now, his presence coiling like smoke across the room. “You will not give her cause to isolate you, mark you, or interfere with your influence. You will speak with poise. You will not show your fangs unless you mean to bite.”

Hydras nodded once.

“She’s not just a Ministry pawn,” Severus said. “She’s the type who believes she is the Ministry. Power-drunk, cruel in small ways. That’s the most dangerous kind.”

Hydras set down his teacup.

“I understand,” he said coolly. “Shall I charm her or destroy her?”

Thomas gave him a measured look. “Charm her. Then destroy her… if necessary.”

A pause.

Hydras smirked. “Noted.”

Chapter Text

The War Room – Slytherin Common Room, Night Before First DADA Lesson

The firelight flickered across the carved stone walls of the Slytherin common room. Deep in a corner nook, behind a privacy charm, Hydras sat with Draco, Theo, Blaise, and Pansy — the inner circle of the Squires of Walpurgis.

He didn’t pace — Hydras never paced — but there was tension behind the measured calm of his voice.

“Dolores Umbridge arrives tomorrow,” he began. “She is not a professor. She is a Ministry informant. Her goal is control. Of Dumbledore. Of us. And of the narrative.”

Theo frowned. “So what do we do?”

“We let her talk,” Hydras said. “We listen. And we record—mentally. She will overreach. She always does. And when she does, we will have her words ready. As evidence.”

“She won’t like us,” Draco muttered. “You especially.”

Hydras gave a slow smile. “She’ll like my manners. That will confuse her more than rebellion.”

Pansy crossed her legs, thoughtful. “You want us to play along?”

“I want us to be clever,” Hydras said. “She sees rebellion as chaos. But she won’t know what to do with control. We give her nothing. Until it’s time.”

⸻

The Next Day – Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom

Hydras entered precisely on time, Squires flanking him like a well-oiled procession. He wore black and silver — nothing garish, but nothing modest either. Just enough to draw the eye.

Professor Umbridge stood before the desk, a stack of Ministry-sanctioned textbooks beside her, her cardigan saccharine pink, her smile tight as corset laces.

“Wands away,” she chirped. “Today is a theory day.”

There were scattered groans. Umbridge’s smile didn’t budge.

“Now then,” she continued, eyes scanning the room, “before we begin, I’d like to know you. Let’s start… with names. You, dear.”

She pointed her stubby wand at Hydras.

He stood smoothly. “Hydras Gaunt.”

Umbridge tilted her head, her smile frosting over. “Gaunt?” she repeated. “And who are your parents, Mr. Gaunt?”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “Thomas Gaunt and Severus Snape.”

The room went still. Several students shifted, glancing from Hydras to Umbridge.

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s impossible,” she said. “No child can be born of two wizards. You must have had a mother.”

Hydras inclined his head politely. “I did. She died giving birth to me.”

“Well,” Umbridge said tightly, “then she would be your mother. Not Professor Snape.”

He smiled faintly. “Professor Snape is the only parent I have known aside from my father. I never claimed I didn’t have a mother. Only that she is not a presence in my life.”

Umbridge’s eye twitched. “What was her name?”

Hydras’s tone was clipped, polite, and cold. “Elladora Crane. A squib. She passed before I drew breath. I would thank you not to use her to question the legitimacy of the man who raised me.”

There was a long silence.

Draco shifted next to him — barely suppressing a grin.

Umbridge smoothed her cardigan. “Yes… well. Let’s move on, shall we?”

Hydras sat again. The Squires looked smug. He didn’t.

He simply looked prepared.

Chapter Text

“Mr. Malfoy,” Umbridge said, too-sweet voice laced with syrup and arsenic, “since you’re so fond of whispering while I’m speaking, perhaps you’d like to recite the definition of a werewolf’s classification under Ministry law?”

Draco froze. He hadn’t been whispering — he’d barely moved. Pansy shot a glare at Umbridge. Hydras, seated two desks back, narrowed his eyes.

Draco stood stiffly. “A werewolf is classified as a Being, though—”

“Incorrect,” Umbridge snapped. “That was amended, Mr. Malfoy. Werewolves are now listed under Dark Creatures pending full monthly control documentation. But that’s not entirely your fault. You’ve clearly been miseducated.”

Hydras could feel Draco’s pride bristle like a threatened cat.

“Sit down,” Umbridge said, voice shrill. “You’ll stay after class. We’ll be discussing attitude.”

Hydras didn’t react outwardly. But his gaze remained sharp, calculating.

Later That Evening – Severus’ Office

The flames in the hearth cast flickering shadows over the stone walls. Hydras stood before the fire, arms crossed.

“She’s targeting him. No cause. She accused him of talking, which he wasn’t. Then publicly humiliated him and assigned detention.”

Severus, behind his desk, looked up from the parchment he’d been grading.

“Draco?”

Hydras nodded.

Severus set his quill down. “What exactly did she say?”

Hydras repeated it verbatim — tone, inflection, even the way her lip curled when she said miseducated.

Severus’s expression sharpened like a blade being unsheathed.

“I will handle it.”

A pause.

“I’ll inform Father,” Hydras added. “He’ll want to know as well.”

“You’ll do nothing more,” Severus said gently, but firmly. “Let the adults… tighten the leash.”

⸻

The Next Day – Umbridge’s Office

Severus Snape did not knock.

He simply opened the door, stepped in, and closed it with a soft click.

Umbridge jumped in her seat. “Oh—Professor Snape. How unexpected.”

“I’m here to discuss Draco Malfoy.”

Her smile faltered. “I assure you, his behavior in class warranted correction.”

Severus took a slow step closer. “Draco Malfoy is an exceptional student. Well-behaved. Consistently top marks. House Prefect. He is not prone to disruption.”

Umbridge cleared her throat. “Even the best students—”

“Let me be very clear,” Severus said, voice dropping into silk-laced steel. “If you believe targeting a pureblood heir with deep Ministry ties will earn you favor, you are more deluded than even I suspected.”

Her mouth opened. Closed.

“I suggest you focus on teaching, Dolores. And leave intimidation to those who do it with finesse.”

He turned to leave.

“And should I hear of any further misconduct,” he added over his shoulder, “you’ll be explaining yourself. To me. And to Hydras’s father.”

Click. The door shut behind him.

Dolores Umbridge sat very, very still.

Chapter Text

The Slytherin common room was mostly empty. A gentle rain tapped against the black lake’s enchanted glass, soft and rhythmic.

Hydras stood near the fire, reading a Ministry report on intercontinental wand wood regulation. Or rather, pretending to read it. His mind had been elsewhere all day.

Footsteps approached from behind — careful, slow.

“Hydras?” Draco’s voice was quiet. Not hesitant exactly, but softer than usual.

Hydras turned slightly, one brow raised. “Draco.”

Draco glanced around, then stepped closer. “I heard what you did. With Severus.”

Hydras shrugged lightly. “She shouldn’t have targeted you. It was baseless. I made sure it ended there.”

Draco looked down, hands clenched, then abruptly stepped forward and hugged him.

Not a shoulder bump. Not a Slytherin formality.

A real hug.

Hydras froze. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. Then, slowly, he brought a hand up and returned the embrace — light but solid. Draco exhaled against his shoulder, like he’d been holding tension for days.

“I didn’t think she’d stop,” Draco mumbled.

“She wouldn’t have,” Hydras said. “But she didn’t count on Severus taking it personally.”

Draco pulled back a little, still close. Their eyes met.

Hydras meant to say something dry. Something cutting, clever.

But he didn’t.

Because Draco was beautiful in the firelight. Pale and flushed from embarrassment, but warm and open in a way Hydras rarely saw.

Hydras blinked.

Oh.

The realization hit like a slow, quiet wave.

He liked Draco.

More than liked.

It wasn’t just admiration or loyalty. It was the way Draco made him feel calm without needing to be in control. It was how fiercely Draco followed him — and never demanded to lead.

Draco smiled slightly. “Are you alright?”

Hydras swallowed. “Yes.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He almost said, Worse. I’ve seen the beginning of a crush. Instead, he just gave a half-smirk.

“I’ll let you know if I need ghost-hunting assistance.”

Draco chuckled, backing away — but not far. “Well… thanks. For everything.”

Hydras just nodded, sitting back down and opening his book again — eyes unfocused.

His heart had not settled.

And he knew, without question, that this changed everything.

Chapter Text

The corridors near the dungeons were unusually quiet after dinner. Most students were in their common rooms, finishing essays or gossiping about Umbridge’s latest act of tyranny.

But Hydras wasn’t with them.

He stood outside Severus’s quarters, arms folded, knuckles tight against his sleeves. He didn’t usually hesitate to knock, but tonight felt… different.

He finally raised a hand.

Knock knock.

A pause. Then: “Come in.”

Severus sat in his armchair by the fire, still in his teaching robes but with his usual stiffness softened by the hour. A mug of tea rested on a small table. He looked up as Hydras stepped inside.

“You’re not usually this quiet,” Severus noted. “Did something happen?”

Hydras hesitated, then crossed the room and sat on the couch. His eyes were on the flames, not on his father.

“I think… I have a crush,” he said flatly.

Severus blinked. He took a sip of tea. “On?”

“Draco.”

There was no dramatic pause. No narrowing of eyes. Severus simply hummed. “I see.”

Hydras finally looked at him. “Is that… strange?”

“No,” Severus said easily. “It’s expected, really. You spend more time with him than anyone. You trust him. He’s a good match — if a bit dramatic.”

Hydras laughed — just once, surprised.

Severus continued. “But Hydras… you’re fourteen. You don’t need to decide what that means right now. Crushes happen. They fade, or grow, or shift into something else.”

“I know. It just… it feels important.”

“I’m sure it does,” Severus said kindly. “And maybe it is. But feelings that are important now don’t have to come with pressure. You have plenty of time to figure out what this is — and who you want him to be to you.”

Hydras leaned back, closing his eyes. “I hate not knowing what to do.”

Severus reached over and set a warm hand gently on Hydras’s head, fingers threading into his dark hair. “You don’t need a plan for this. Just let it be what it is. You’ve already got enough scheming in your life.”

Hydras smiled faintly. “You sound like Father.”

Severus snorted. “I’ll take that as an insult.”

That drew a real laugh.

“I mean it, Hydras,” Severus added. “You’re allowed to feel without strategy. It’s part of growing up.”

Hydras nodded slowly. “Thanks, Severus.”

“Any time. Now—” Severus gestured toward the tea pot with his wand. “Do you want peppermint or chamomile while you emotionally unravel in my sitting room?”

Hydras smirked. “Chamomile. And I’m not unraveling.”

“Of course not. You’re merely contemplating the collapse of your emotional neutrality. Very different.”

Hydras rolled his eyes but stayed seated, breathing easier than he had all day.

Chapter Text

It was late — too late for students to be out, technically. But curfews were often suggestions to Slytherins with the right passwords and well-practiced excuses.

Hydras wandered into the common room expecting silence.

Instead, Draco was there. Sitting sideways in an armchair by the fireplace, legs draped over one arm, a book resting on his chest, eyes closed.

Hydras stopped.

Just for a moment.

The flickering firelight painted Draco in soft gold. His hair glowed at the edges. He looked peaceful — younger, somehow.

Hydras took a breath. Then moved quietly closer.

Draco stirred as he stepped nearer and blinked up at him.

“Oh. Thought I’d dreamt that door opening,” Draco said groggily. “Where’ve you been?”

“Severus’s quarters,” Hydras said, easing down into the chair across from him. “I… needed to talk.”

Draco sat up, blinking the sleep away. “Everything alright?”

Hydras hesitated. “I think so.”

He didn’t know what made him say the next part. Maybe it was the firelight. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the way Draco looked at him — like Hydras was the most interesting person in the room even when he said nothing.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Hydras said plainly.

Draco blinked again. “Me?”

Hydras nodded. “You’re… important to me.”

A beat passed. The air between them went taut.

Draco’s ears flushed faintly pink. “I… Well. You’re important to me too. Obviously. I’ve been following you around since first year, haven’t I?”

“Not just as a follower,” Hydras murmured.

Draco didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the book in his lap. Then, slowly, closed it.

“Well,” he said softly. “Good. Because I don’t think I’d want to follow someone who didn’t care about me back.”

Their eyes met again — and this time, it held.

Not romance. Not yet.

But something warm. Something that could become.

Hydras stood. “Get some sleep. Big week ahead.”

Draco nodded, looking almost dazed. “Right. Night, Hydras.”

Hydras hesitated at the stairs. “Night, Draco.”

As he disappeared up to bed, Draco smiled to himself — just barely.

And for the first time in weeks, Hydras dreamed of something other than war, prophecy, or power.

He dreamed of laughter. And sunlight. And a quiet, persistent affection that didn’t need to be named yet to feel real.

Chapter Text

The notice was hung with a sickening pink ribbon on every bulletin board in the castle by dawn:

MINISTRY-MANDATED PARENTS’ VISITATION DAY
Per Educational Decree No. 27, students must receive their listed guardians for an in-person Ministry wellness evaluation.

Date: February 14th
Attendance is mandatory.

~ Professor Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor

“She really picked Valentine’s Day?” Draco muttered, staring at the notice over Hydras’ shoulder. “Is she trying to ruin everyone’s life?”

Hydras gave a short, humorless laugh. “She wants power. She thinks bringing the Ministry through our doors will help her sniff it out.”

“She’s going to try to use this to corner you,” Blaise warned quietly.

Hydras didn’t look concerned. “She’ll try. But we’re prepared.”

⸻

The Interview

Inside the small chamber off the staffroom, Umbridge sat behind an over-polished desk, face stretched into a smile so sweet it might as well have been sugar-glazed.

Hydras entered flanked by Thomas and Severus, both impeccably dressed. Thomas’ ring gleamed on his left hand — the Gaunt signet, old and sharp-edged.

“Mr. Gaunt,” Umbridge said, standing a little too quickly. “And Professors Snape… and Gaunt.”

“Let’s not waste time,” Severus said flatly.

“Of course,” Umbridge simpered. “Hydras, could you confirm for the record: your mother’s name was…?”

“Elladora Crane,” Hydras said smoothly. “She was a squib. She died giving birth to me.”

Thomas added, voice velvet and precise, “She chose to carry the child to term despite complications. I raised him with Severus. He’s never wanted for anything.”

“And there are… no records of her in St. Mungo’s?”

“No magical records,” Severus replied, tone edged with ice. “As we said. She was a squib.”

Hydras’ voice was calm, unflinching. “I never claimed not to have a mother. But I’ve only ever had two parents.”

Umbridge scribbled something down, but her smile had gone thin. “Yes… well. Moving on.”

⸻

Elsewhere: The Malfoy Meeting

In another room, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy sat in cool dignity as Umbridge leafed through her parchment. Draco sat between them, visibly tense.

“You’ve been very close to Hydras Gaunt, haven’t you?” Umbridge asked Draco.

“Yes,” he said at once. “He’s my friend. My best friend.”

“I see. And you’re aware of who his parents claim to be?”

“They are his parents,” Draco replied, defensive. “He’s told me everything.”

“Indeed,” Umbridge said, eyes narrowing. “And you believe it?”

Narcissa leaned forward, voice calm but sharp. “Our son is not in the habit of forming opinions without reason.”

Lucius added coldly, “If you’re implying we’re unaware of who Thomas Gaunt truly is, I assure you, Madam Umbridge, we are not as uninformed as your office believes.”

That caught her off guard.

“I see,” she said, drawing back slightly. “Well, we appreciate your cooperation.”

As they stood to leave, Narcissa whispered to Draco, “Well done.”

Lucius, slower to rise, gave Umbridge a faint, deliberate sneer. “You may question our loyalties, Madam, but never our discretion.”

⸻

Later That Evening

Hydras leaned against the wall outside Severus’ office, waiting for his father and Severus to finish their brief post-visit discussion with Minerva.

When they emerged, Hydras straightened.

“She tried,” he said.

Thomas smirked. “She did. But no one ever told her how well we lie when it counts.”

Severus nodded once, placing a firm hand on Hydras’ shoulder. “You did well.”

Hydras looked away for a moment, jaw tight. “I hate pretending I was someone else’s son.”

Thomas’s expression softened. “You’re not pretending anything. You are ours. She just doesn’t deserve to know that.”

Chapter Text

The House banners fluttered. The golden plates gleamed. Slytherin had once again claimed the House Cup, and the students were buzzing with post-victory glee.

But none of that compared to the moment Dolores Umbridge — wearing a hot pink monstrosity of a dress — stood trembling at the head of the Great Hall.

“I have had enough!” she shrieked, voice cracking. “I resign! You can all rot in your disrespectful little beds for all I care!”

She spun on her heel, turned to descend the marble steps—

And promptly tripped over her own feet.

The fall was almost elegant in its absurdity: one foot tangled in her robes, arms flailing, and then — thud-thud-THUMP — she bounced down the stairs like a squealing pink toad in freefall.

Her skirt flew up. Her knickers were unmistakable: bright pink and bloated, covered in cartoon cats with squashed faces.

For a heartbeat, the entire hall went silent.

Then it was pandemonium.

Shrieks of laughter rang through the rafters. Peeves the Poltergeist appeared midair just to shout, “KITTY KNICKERS!” before vanishing again in a shower of confetti.

Even the staff table was stunned. McGonagall’s hand flew to her mouth. Pomona Sprout dropped her napkin. Filius Flitwick squeaked.

Severus Snape, arms crossed, sat stiff as a board, lips pressed into a thin white line. Hydras, who had been watching from the Slytherin table, looked up in interest.

And then—

Snort.

It was soft. Barely a breath. But unmistakable.

Heads turned.

Severus froze.

And then it happened.

He tried to hold it in — truly, he did. But the next snort came louder. And the moment Dolores screeched and scampered out of the hall with her skirt still tangled and a cartoon kitten winking from her backside—

Severus. Lost. It.

It started with a sputter, then a short huff, and then he broke. Full-bodied, uncontrollable, wracking laughter burst from the Potions Master like a dam had given way.

He leaned back in his chair, hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking violently. His normally impassive face turned crimson, eyes watering, breath hiccuping from the effort.

Minerva blinked, stunned. “Oh… my…”

“Severus is laughing,” Pomona said, astonished.

“No,” Filius breathed. “He’s howling!”

Hydras stood, made his way to the staff table, and leaned next to his father’s chair. “Is this… real?”

Severus gasped in between laughter. “I… can’t… the cats…who wears cats on knickers— Merlin’s bloody nightgown—”

“Oh, Hydras,” Minerva said, wiping her eyes. “Mark this day. He’s mortal after all.”

Hydras gave a crooked grin. “I’m going to have this memory Pensieved.”

“KITTEN KNICKERS!” Peeves shrieked once more from the chandeliers, setting off another wave of laughter.

Even the enchanted ceiling flickered as though amused.

When Severus finally managed to sit upright, still wiping a tear from one eye, he muttered hoarsely, “She’s never coming back.”

“Not with that sendoff,” Pomona agreed, snorting herself.

Hydras leaned against the back of Severus’ chair, a soft smile playing on his lips as he looked down at the man who had raised him. “You should laugh more,” he said.

“I’ll consider it,” Severus replied, breath still uneven but eyes alight.

Chapter Text

The first day of term dawned crisp and gold-tinged, with the scent of polished wood and parchment settling over the Great Hall. The Sorting had concluded, the tables were brimming with feast, and Hogwarts buzzed with its usual return-from-summer excitement.

At the staff table, several familiar faces were joined by new (and in one case, returning) ones. Most notably, Severus Snape now occupied the seat of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, his dark robes as sharp as ever, his expression one of coiled composure. To his right sat Horace Slughorn, freshly reinstated as Potions Master after a long absence — and already a little too jolly for some.

“To another wonderful year at Hogwarts!” Slughorn bellowed, rising from his seat to lift his goblet. He beamed and turned slightly to include more of the students in his line of sight. “May your potions bubble and your wands—”

Rrrrrriiiip.

The sound split the room like a misfired hex.

All eyes turned as Slughorn froze mid-toast.

A jagged tear had opened in the back seam of his slightly-too-tight emerald robes — revealing a pair of magical boxer shorts, striped in cream and gold, with a large, glittering pink heart enchanted onto the backside. The heart blinked once. Then sparkled.

There was a long, stunned silence.

Hydras Gaunt, seated with the Slytherins, blinked once and slowly put down his goblet.

Draco clapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking.

Theo let out a single laugh and then pretended to be coughing.

Professor McGonagall turned sharply away, her lips pressed into a bloodless line.

Severus Snape, meanwhile, exhaled a soft snort, eyes flicking sideways as Slughorn attempted to reach behind and cover himself.

Then — quietly, beneath his breath — a low, unmistakable chuckle escaped him. Short. Dry. But real.

Across the staff table, Pomona Sprout blinked at him. “Merlin’s beard,” she whispered. “I think that was a laugh.”

Minerva, eyes still on Slughorn, murmured, “No… it was a snort.”

“Sounded like both,” Flitwick piped up.

Severus calmly lifted his goblet, composed once more — but the corners of his mouth twitched.

Up front, Slughorn had clearly realized what was now on full display and turned an alarming shade of crimson.

“W-Wardrobe malfunction!” he stammered. Then, without another word, he turned and hurried out of the Great Hall, one hand holding his robes shut behind him, the enchanted heart bouncing with every step.

From the Gryffindor table, someone snorted. Then the Hufflepuffs burst into laughter. Even a few Ravenclaws gave in.

Hydras leaned toward Draco, eyes bright with amusement. “Fifth year’s off to a fantastic start.”

Draco nodded solemnly. “We didn’t even need Peeves for that.”

Up at the staff table, Severus took a long sip of his wine and muttered, mostly to himself, “I’m setting a curse ward on that chair.”

Chapter Text

Later that night, Severus swept into their quarters with his usual fluid grace, though his expression was tight. The fire was low, the windows steamed slightly from the late summer air outside. Thomas looked up from his seat by the fire, a glass of wine in hand.

“You’re unusually tense,” he remarked, setting the glass down. “Let me guess. Peeves unleashed a swarm of dung beetles in the Prefects’ bathroom?”

Severus closed the door with a pointed click and turned around slowly.

“Slughorn,” he said flatly, “ripped a hole in the seat of his robes at the Welcoming Feast.”

Thomas blinked. “And?”

“The hole,” Severus said with mounting disdain, “revealed his undergarments.”

Thomas leaned forward, already amused. “Please tell me they were polka-dotted.”

“No. Worse.” Severus looked like he might disintegrate from secondhand embarrassment. “They were pale lilac. Silk. And bore an enchanted, blinking heart right on the arse.”

Thomas doubled over with laughter. “Oh—Merlin. That’s better.”

Severus gave him a long, pained look.

“I snorted,” he admitted quietly, like a confession. “In front of the entire staff. Minerva nearly choked on her water. Even Flitwick turned a shade of purple.”

“You snorted?”

“And then laughed,” Severus muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Uncontrollably. For nearly a full minute.”

Thomas looked like his birthday had come early.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said solemnly. “But I can tell this is leading somewhere darker.”

Severus paced toward the fireplace, then turned on his heel and faced him again. “I own a pair of—underwear—that could, if accidentally exposed, result in a fate far worse than mockery.”

Thomas’s eyes gleamed. “Let me guess. The black lace ones with the—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“—‘Property of T.G.’ embroidery on the back?”

Severus scowled. “Yes.”

Thomas looked thoroughly delighted. “You said you’d never wear them outside the bedroom.”

“I didn’t plan to. But laundry rotation, potion spills—things happen. And now—now that image of Slughorn and his enchanted arse is burned into my soul. I cannot risk it.”

Thomas tried not to laugh. “You want me to… what? Burn them? Lock them away?”

“No,” Severus sighed. “Just… remind me not to wear them. Ever. Or hide them in the bottom of the drawer when I’m half-asleep.”

Thomas crossed to him, placing a hand gently on his waist. “You’re not going to end up flashing Hogwarts with lace and embroidery.”

“I better not,” Severus muttered.

“But if you did…” Thomas leaned in, amused. “I’d Apparate directly into the Great Hall and claim full responsibility.”

Severus gave him a flat look. “You’d enjoy it.”

Thomas grinned. “Immensely.”

Severus groaned, shaking his head as Thomas leaned in for a kiss. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re secretly fashionable. You should see what I had embroidered for Christmas…”

Chapter Text

Slughorn, finally recovered from the morning’s humiliation, leaned back in his staff room chair and declared with a theatrical sigh, “Honestly, am I truly the only one who owns a pair of memorable undergarments?”

A ripple of suppressed chuckles moved through the professors.

“I might have a pair with musical notes,” Flitwick offered, raising his tiny hand. “But nothing that flashes pink hearts.”

“I have socks that scream when they get wet,” Pomona added, deadpan.

Minerva gave a sly smirk and turned her gaze toward Severus, who had been sitting silently with his arms crossed, expression blank. “What about you, Severus? Anything to share with the class?”

“I am not in the habit of discussing my laundry with colleagues,” he said coolly.

Slughorn puffed up indignantly. “Surely even you must have had one pair—something fun or… scandalous?”

The door creaked open.

In walked Hydras Gaunt, dressed in his usual immaculate black uniform, a dark eyebrow arched high.

“Scandalous?” he echoed, pausing just inside the door.

“Oh, Hydras,” Minerva greeted with a smile. “Come to interrupt your father’s silence?”

“I suppose that depends,” Hydras said with a perfectly polite tone. “Are you all talking about the underwear that says ‘Property of T.G.’ on the back?”

Dead silence.

Severus stared at his son in pure horror.

Hydras continued, seemingly unaware—or perhaps delighting in it. “You mean the enchanted pair? They only reveal the writing when worn. Very clever enchantment work. I’m told it was a gift.”

Minerva choked on her tea.

Flitwick fell off his chair.

Pomona nearly slid under the table, howling with laughter.

Even Dumbledore’s beard twitched with the effort of holding back amusement.

Severus closed his eyes. “Hydras.”

“Yes, Father?”

“Leave. Now.”

Hydras gave an innocent blink. “I was just delivering a book you forgot in your office, but… sure. Have fun, everyone.”

As he swept out, he added over his shoulder, “Just be grateful I didn’t mention the matching—”

“OUT!” Severus barked.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Minerva looked around, face flushed with laughter. “Merlin’s beard… do you think he meant matching socks? Or robes? Or—?”

“Do not speculate,” Severus growled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Slughorn, however, was grinning ear to ear. “Well. At least I’m not alone.”

“I assure you,” Severus muttered darkly, “you very much are.”

Chapter Text

The staff room had not recovered from Hydras’ earlier announcement about Severus’ infamous “Property of T.G.” underwear. Laughter echoed off the walls as tea was spilled, chairs toppled, and even the portraits seemed on the verge of snickering.

Severus sat stiffly in his armchair, jaw clenched and eyes pointedly avoiding every single person in the room.

But of course, they weren’t going to let it go.

“So,” said Slughorn, his belly still shaking with laughter, “is there anything else, dear boy? Perhaps something matching?”

“I am not answering that.”

“Matching socks?” offered Flitwick, gleeful. “Matching rings? Cloaks?”

Minerva leaned in conspiratorially. “Matching… tattoos?”

That got a reaction.

Severus twitched.

The silence was instant and deadly.

“Oh,” Pomona breathed. “Oh no. You do have matching tattoos.”

“I said nothing of the sort.”

“You didn’t have to,” Minerva smirked. “You twitched.”

Slughorn nearly bounced in his seat. “Where are they, then? On your wrists? Ankles? Shoulder blades?”

“I am not entertaining this conversation—”

Flitwick beamed. “I bet his says ‘Property of T.G.’ too!”

“No,” Severus muttered, resigned. “It doesn’t.”

Now all eyes were very locked onto him.

Slughorn leaned forward, practically glowing. “Go on…”

With the expression of a man about to walk the gallows, Severus rubbed the bridge of his nose and mumbled, “It’s a small tattoo. Discreet. My… mark… says ‘T.G.’ in Thomas’ handwriting. And his says ‘S.S.’ in mine.”

Minerva let out a high-pitched gasp and clutched her chest. “You sentimental bastard.”

Slughorn thumped a hand on the table, roaring with laughter. “Matching initials in each other’s script? Severus! That’s practically a romance novel!”

Even Filius was wheezing, dabbing his eyes. “Where are they located?”

Severus gave him a flat look. “None of your business.”

“I knew it was romantic!” Pomona beamed. “He’s a secretly sweet little bat.”

Severus stood abruptly. “I will be in my quarters. Alone. Where the only people who know about my underwear and tattoos are not giggling like adolescents.”

As he swept toward the door, Minerva called after him, “We’ll try not to ask if the initials glow when you’re—”

The door slammed behind him.

And still, the cackling resumed.

Chapter Text

Later that evening, in the cozy study of their quarters at Hogwarts, Hydras sat cross-legged on the rug, flipping through a Potions journal. His fathers, Severus and Thomas, sat on the loveseat, quietly sipping tea. The air was warm, the fire crackled gently—and Hydras, ever the tactician, struck when their guard was down.

“So…” he said without looking up, “I heard from Professor Sprout. And Professor Flitwick. And Professor McGonagall.”

Thomas raised a brow. “Oh?”

“They told me they know about the matching tattoos.”

Severus visibly flinched.

Hydras looked up, gaze mischievous. “Where are they?”

Thomas coughed into his tea. “That is not a question for a child to ask.”

“I’m fifteen.”

“You’ll still always be our child,” Severus muttered, ears pink.

“I’m just asking where they are, not what you do with them,” Hydras pointed out logically. “Which, frankly, I’d like to never know.”

Thomas sighed and exchanged a long-suffering glance with Severus.

Hydras tilted his head. “Dad?”

Thomas exhaled. “Mine’s on my shoulder. Right here.” He tugged down the collar of his shirt just enough to reveal a small, elegant S.S., inked in a graceful script over his right shoulder blade.

Hydras nodded appreciatively. “Okay, not bad. Stylish. Subtle. Nice choice.”

Then he turned to Severus. “And yours?”

Severus scowled. “No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Is it on your butt?”

Severus choked on his tea. Thomas looked away, laughing silently into his hand.

“It is, isn’t it?” Hydras grinned, delighted. “That’s why you won’t show it!”

“It’s not,” Severus said through gritted teeth. “It’s on my lower back.”

Hydras blinked. Then slowly grinned wider.

“Oh, a tramp stamp, Dad? Really?”

“It is not a tramp stamp. It is a discreetly placed tattoo, designed to be unseen by most and appreciated by one.”

Hydras cackled. “You got Thomas Gaunt’s initials on your lower back.”

Severus buried his face in one hand. “This is why we don’t talk to you.”

Thomas patted Severus on the knee, smug. “I told you we should’ve gone with the rings.”

Hydras was still laughing when he rolled off the rug. “I’m going to bed. Thanks for the mental image I will never recover from.”

As he walked out, Thomas called, “Don’t worry, son. At least we didn’t get the glow-in-the-dark ink.”

Hydras shrieked.

Severus groaned and shoved his face into a pillow.

Chapter Text

It was unseasonably warm for late winter in Scotland, and Hogwarts Castle was sweltering.

Hydras, breezing through breakfast in his short-sleeved uniform shirt with his tie hanging loose, barely registered the clinking of cutlery and gentle chatter at the staff table—until he noticed the rather peculiar state of his father.

Severus Snape, the newly reinstated Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, was sitting bolt upright with the posture of a man under siege. He wore his usual black robes—plus an over-robe that hadn’t seen daylight since 1989, plus a heavy scarf (tucked neatly inside), plus gloves. In June.

“Are you okay?” Hydras asked quietly, sliding onto the bench beside him with concern. “You look like you’re about to overheat and die.”

Severus gave him a razor-sharp look. “I am perfectly fine.”

Hydras raised an eyebrow. “Is it the underwear?”

A pause.

Severus took a long, slow sip of tea and did not answer.

Hydras grinned. “It’s the underwear, isn’t it.”

Severus muttered something unintelligible into his cup.

“Is it the pair that says Property of T.G.?”

“Do not say that out loud.”

Across the table, Minerva gave them both a curious glance. “Is everything alright, Severus? You look… flushed.”

“It’s the heat,” Severus snapped. “Nothing more.”

Pomona Sprout leaned over with a knowing smirk. “Or is it the weight of all those layers? Are you hiding a love bite or something else today?”

Flitwick, ever eager to contribute, peered up from his teacup. “It wouldn’t be the famous knickers, would it?”

Minerva narrowed her eyes. “The ones Hydras mentioned last week?”

Severus choked on his tea.

Hydras was shaking with silent laughter. “He only has one pair clean. He’s terrified they’ll show through.”

Now all the professors were laughing.

“I think we should cast an enchantment to make his robes invisible,” Flitwick said brightly.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Severus snapped, voice dangerously low.

Thomas suddenly appeared in the entrance of the Great Hall, freshly arrived from the estate, and took one look at Severus’s over-layered ensemble. He tilted his head.

“You wore them, didn’t you?”

Severus closed his eyes. “You said you’d take them back to the estate.”

“I thought you were joking.”

“I never joke about undergarments.”

Hydras smirked. “There’s a sentence I wish I never had to hear.”

Thomas just smirked and walked over to Severus, leaned down, and whispered, “Well, if they do peek out, at least everyone will know you’re taken.”

Severus went crimson.

Hydras, cheerfully chewing toast, declared, “So, five layers and still doomed.”

“Eat your breakfast,” Severus growled.

Thomas leaned over and stole a grape from Severus’s plate. “He’s mine. Says so right on the back.”

Severus dropped his forehead to the table and groaned.

Chapter Text

Dinner in the Great Hall was winding down. The enchanted ceiling glowed with the last light of the setting sun, casting a warm haze across the long tables. Students laughed, murmured, and passed the last of the pumpkin juice around.

At the staff table, Severus sat upright, arms folded, eyes scanning for rule violations. His black outer coat had been abandoned earlier in his office. Now, with the heat still lingering, he reached down and vanished the second protective layer with a lazy flick of his wand.

Finally.

He had survived the whole day in the only clean pair of underwear he’d never intended to wear in public—the pair embroidered in silver thread across the back with “Property of T.G.”

But no wardrobe malfunctions. No questions. No humiliating snorts from students.

Severus allowed himself a sip of tea. He did not smile—he was still Severus Snape, after all—but a sliver of smug satisfaction nestled beneath his ribs.

And then he stood.

He turned.

And the charm holding the back of his robe together—weak from heat and stress—gave out with a gentle snip.

The flap of his robes caught on the edge of his chair.

And lifted.

Revealing to the entirety of the staff table (and several unfortunate students nearby) a perfect view of his perfectly tailored black briefs.

With “PROPERTY OF T.G.” stitched elegantly across the seat.

Silence.

Then Minerva let out a strangled noise.

Then Filius squeaked.

Then Pomona wheezed.

And then—to everyone’s shock—Severus Snape snorted.

Loudly.

The Great Hall fell into chaos.

Minerva, red-faced and laughing into her napkin, turned to him. “Severus… are you actually about to laugh?”

And then, against all logic and laws of reality—

He did.

Snape, the stern, snide, terrifying Potions Master-turned-Defense Professor—bent forward, clutching his stomach, shoulders shaking as full, gasping laughter erupted from his chest.

Even some students stared in open awe. Hydras, halfway to the Slytherin table, froze with a forkful of potato halfway to his mouth.

“…Dad?”
—
The dungeons were quiet that night. A low fire crackled in the hearth of the private quarters Severus shared with Thomas when he wasn’t away at the Gaunt estate. The heavy oak door creaked open and in walked Hydras, still smirking like the cat that had eaten not just the canary, but the entire flock.

Severus stood at the fireplace in a fresh set of dark, entirely unembroidered sleep trousers and a matching robe, sipping wine with the dignity of a man trying desperately to salvage what was left of his day.

Hydras flopped dramatically onto the velvet chaise.

“So…” he drawled. “Nice pants.”

Severus didn’t look at him. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying,” Hydras continued with mock innocence, “if you wanted the school to know you belonged to Father, there were easier ways. A press release. A tasteful ring. Maybe a portrait.”

Severus sighed, deeply. “Do you have a purpose here?”

“Absolutely,” Hydras grinned, propping his chin in his hand. “My purpose is to commemorate the day my unflappable, brooding, terror-inducing father became Hogwarts’ unexpected underwear model.”

“Hydras—”

“‘PROPERTY OF T.G.,’” Hydras recited with theatrical reverence. “Elegant embroidery. Bold declaration. Subtle placement. A masterpiece, really.”

Severus turned to glare at him. “I will Vanish your eyebrows.”

Hydras burst out laughing.

“And your Father,” Severus added, “is never hearing about this.”

“Oh, he already knows,” Hydras chirped. “He sent me a letter. Said, and I quote, ‘Glad to know the labeling system works. I’ll order you a second pair for holidays.’”

Severus groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate you both.”

Hydras grinned and leaned back against the cushions. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you.”

“And yet,” Hydras smirked, “you still wear the panties.”

“They are not—”

“Technically briefs, yes, but emotionally? Deeply panties.”

Severus threw a pillow at his son. Hydras dodged and kept laughing.

From the fire, a quiet pop sounded—Thomas’s voice on the Floo: “Did I miss something?”

“YES!” Severus barked.

“NO,” Hydras yelled at the same time.

And then the teasing started all over again.

Chapter Text

It was breakfast in the Great Hall, and the usual Slytherin calm had settled in like a well-fitted cloak. Hydras was sipping tea, watching the staff table like a hawk. Severus, as usual, looked dour and composed… until a soft flutter of parchment landed in front of his plate.

Several staff members looked up as a sleek, midnight-black owl disappeared out the high windows.

Hydras perked up immediately. “A letter? For you?” he said with forced innocence.

Severus slowly picked up the folded parchment, recognizing the elegant, sharp lettering across the front: “To My Favorite Undergarment Model.”

His eye twitched.

Minerva narrowed her gaze. “A love letter at breakfast, Severus?”

“I’m sure it’s just… documents,” he muttered.

Hydras leaned forward, grinning like a gremlin. “Open it.”

He did, reluctantly. The note was brief, written in Thomas’s immaculate, deliberate hand:

Sev,

I would say I’m sorry for forgetting to take the infamous pair home—but I must admit I’m rather glad you were forced to wear them. A declaration of love should be bold.

In all sincerity, I do apologize for your… exposure yesterday. I’ll hide the rest of your ‘special’ wardrobe next time. But until then, remember: even in humiliation, you wear me beautifully.

Yours, in initials and in everything else,
T.G.

Severus stared at it. Then slowly folded it shut. “I’m going to strangle him.”

Hydras was now fully laughing into his toast.

“Oh, come now,” Pomona said cheerfully, “that’s rather romantic!”

Flitwick nodded, eyes twinkling. “And just vague enough to scandalize every curious student who overheard.”

“Did it say special wardrobe?” Minerva asked, voice suspiciously calm.

Severus stood. “I will be grading essays in my office.”

Hydras called sweetly after him, “Do you want me to bring your embroidery kit, Professor Property of T.G.?”

Severus did not respond.

But he did walk faster.

Chapter Text

The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall shimmered with a dusky summer glow, the twilight sky overhead streaked in soft orange and purple. Students buzzed with excitement—some for the food, most for the freedom of summer—while the staff table sat elevated and watchful, expressions mixed with amusement and exhaustion.

At the center of it all, Professor Horace Slughorn adjusted his garish pineapple-patterned robes and rose to his feet, clearing his throat with theatrical drama.

“Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards,” he began, “it has been my absolute delight to return to Hogwarts this year. Truly! A year full of talent, curiosity, and… far too many staircases.”

Several students chuckled.

“But alas,” he continued with a dramatic wobble, “the time has come again for me to bow out gracefully. My knees and my patience insist upon retirement—and this time, I assure you, I mean it!”

More laughter echoed through the hall, some affectionate, others relieved.

From the Gryffindor table, Hydras leaned toward Draco and whispered with a smirk, “How long do we give it? Two years before he’s back?”

Draco snorted. “He’ll be haunting the staff room in six months.”

Dumbledore rose next, beaming with all the misplaced enthusiasm of a headmaster pretending this wasn’t déjà vu. “Thank you, Horace. Your service has—as always—been appreciated. And with Professor Slughorn’s departure, it is my pleasure to announce that Professor Severus Snape will be returning to his former position as Potions Master beginning next term.”

A mix of polite applause and groans followed.

Minerva’s lips twitched. “Merlin help the fifth years,” she murmured under her breath.

“I heard that,” Severus said dryly, lifting his teacup.

From down the table, Flitwick chirped, “Welcome back to the dungeons, Severus!”

“Where he belongs,” Pomona said with a chuckle.

Hydras raised his goblet with exaggerated formality. “To the rebirth of Hogwarts’ most feared Potions Professor.”

The Squires of Walpurgis echoed his toast with quiet, mischievous clinks.

Severus, trying to hide the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, gave his son a side glance. “Don’t think this means leniency, Hydras.”

“I would never dream of it, Father.”

As the feast continued, Severus sat back in his chair, finally relaxing into the end-of-year rhythm. A rare, thoughtful silence lingered behind his sharp gaze.

He did not say it aloud—but part of him was glad. Potions was precise. Predictable. Quiet.

And frankly, after teaching Defense for a year… he missed the calm.

Well. As calm as Hogwarts ever allowed.

Chapter Text

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering amber light over the velvet furnishings of the Gaunt Estate’s master bedroom. Thomas leaned over Severus, one hand braced on the mattress, the other trailing lightly down his husband’s bare side. Severus lay back, unusually relaxed, robes half undone and his expression soft in a way only Thomas ever saw.

“You’re in a mood tonight,” Severus murmured, raising a brow as Thomas smirked above him.

“A new mood requires… new methods,” Thomas replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he produced a small, sleek enchanted object from the drawer beside the bed.

Severus’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and interest all at once. “Is that what you were hiding in your cloak?”

“Of course. I think you’ll approve of the craftsmanship.”

Whatever biting comment Severus had planned dissolved into a startled breath as Thomas tested it with a flick of magic—when suddenly, the door creaked open.

“Father, I—oh Merlin’s flaming cauldron!”

Hydras stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, hand still on the knob. Thomas flinched just slightly. Severus yanked a blanket up in the most dignified panic possible.

There was a beat of horrified silence.

“I WAS COMING TO ASK IF WE HAD ANY MORE MOONCALF MILK!” Hydras shouted, now facing the ceiling in sheer self-preservation. “CLEARLY THIS WAS A BAD TIME.”

“Hydras,” Severus said through gritted teeth, voice strained and muffled under the blanket.

“I’M LEAVING. I’M SO SORRY. I’M BLIND NOW. THIS IS HOW I DIE.”

The door slammed shut behind him, his footsteps pounding down the hallway like a fleeing Hippogriff.

A long pause. Then:

Thomas snorted.

Severus groaned into his hands.

“Well,” Thomas said, still chuckling, “on the bright side, he’ll never forget to knock again.”

Severus sighed. “He’s going to tell Draco.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

They both groaned in unison—then, in the same breath, burst into laughter.

Chapter Text

Hydras was pacing again, arms flailing with every dramatic retelling.

“I always knock. I swear to you, I always knock. But this one time—and now I’ve seen things I can’t unsee, Draco. Things that scar the soul.”

Draco leaned against the garden arch, arms folded, his eyes following Hydras with quiet amusement.

“They had a drawer, Draco. A drawer. And Severus had this look of… doom. And Thomas winked. He winked at me! Like this was funny! Like this was—”

“Hydras.”

“—and there was this awful, awful pause where no one said anything—”

“Hydras, stop pacing.”

“—and I can’t stop seeing it, Draco. It’s like seared into my retinas—”

“Hydras.”

He turned—and Draco stepped forward, gently taking his face in both hands.

Hydras blinked. “Wh—?”

Draco kissed him.

It was soft and brief, lips brushing like a question and an answer all at once. When he pulled back, they were both pink-cheeked and wide-eyed.

Hydras stared. “Wait. That was…”

Draco nodded slowly, his thumb brushing just under Hydras’s jaw. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

“Oh.” Hydras blinked again. “So. It… wasn’t just me.”

Draco gave a nervous little laugh. “Definitely not just you.”

A slow smile broke across Hydras’s face. “I kissed Draco Malfoy in a garden.”

“You were spiraling. It was tactical.”

Hydras smirked. “Still counts.”

They stood there for a beat, unsure of what to say next—both of them flushed, nervous, and ridiculously giddy.

Then Draco added, voice soft and almost shy, “So. Do you want to… do that again sometime?”

Hydras bumped their foreheads together. “Very much.”

Chapter Text

Hydras and Draco sat suspiciously far apart on the emerald-green loveseat. Their knees almost touched. Almost. But not quite.

Blaise and Theo, lounging nearby, shared a long look.

“You two are being weird,” Blaise said, flipping a page in his book without looking up.

“We’re always weird,” Hydras replied too quickly.

“No,” Theo drawled, “you’re being relationship weird. You keep doing this…” He mimicked looking at someone, then darting his eyes away, then smiling like a fool.

“We are not—” Draco began, indignant.

Theo leaned forward. “When did it start?”

“Two days ago,” Blaise answered calmly. “In the garden. Malfoy kissed him.”

Hydras and Draco whipped their heads around, gaping.

“How—how do you know that?” Draco spluttered.

“You came back with grass in your hair and your collars rumpled,” Blaise said. “And Hydras kept smiling at nothing.”

Theo added, “Also, I saw you holding hands under the table at breakfast this morning. Subtle.”

Hydras groaned and flopped over the back of the loveseat. “We are so bad at this.”

Draco sighed. “Fine. Fine. Yes. We’re dating. Happy?”

Blaise grinned. “Delighted.”

⸻

Hydras paced in his room later that week, Draco sitting on the edge of the bed nervously.

“You really think we should tell them? What if they interrogate us?”

“Draco,” Hydras said flatly, “your parents were literal Death Eaters. My father is the Dark Lord in retirement. What could possibly go wrong?”

They stared at each other for a beat.

Then:

“…A lot,” they said in unison.

⸻

Lucius sipped his tea. Narcissa raised one elegant brow. Draco, sitting on the couch with Hydras, clenched his fists.

“I… have something to tell you,” Draco said, stiffly formal. “Hydras and I are dating.”

There was a pause.

Lucius set down his teacup. “As in, romantically?”

Hydras blinked. “As opposed to… recreational swordplay?”

Lucius gave him a withering look, but Narcissa chuckled behind her hand.

“Well,” she said smoothly, “as long as you’re both happy and not causing diplomatic incidents, I suppose we can manage.”

“Though,” Lucius added sternly, “no closed doors.”

⸻

Hydras found his fathers reading together in the study. He cleared his throat.

“I… wanted to tell you something. I’m dating Draco.”

Thomas looked up slowly, expression unreadable. Severus arched a brow.

Then Severus said, “About time.”

Hydras blinked.

Thomas smirked. “You blushed every time he so much as breathed in your direction. And you’ve been braiding his hair. You only do that to people you’re emotionally compromised over.”

Hydras groaned. “This is so humiliating.”

Thomas got up, pulled Hydras into a quick hug, and murmured, “We’re proud of you.”

“Even if it is a Malfoy,” Severus added dryly.

Hydras grinned. “Thanks, Dad. Both of you.”

Chapter Text

The Squires of Walpurgis swept through Diagon Alley like a quiet storm—Hydras leading, Draco close beside him, Theo and Blaise trailing with practiced ease. They paused in front of Flourish and Blotts, eyeing the window display of new textbooks.

“I just hope this year’s Defense professor is actually competent,” Draco muttered, eyeing Curses Most Foul: Theory and Defense with suspicion. “It’s honestly starting to feel like a cursed position.”

“Starting?” Theo drawled. “We’ve had a werewolf, a fake Auror, a Ministry hag with a cat fetish, and a paranoid ex-spy who taught for a year before vanishing.”

“Technically,” Blaise corrected, “the spy went back to Potions. And he’s Hydras’ dad.”

“Which says a lot, really,” Theo quipped.

Before Hydras could retort, a booming voice echoed from the front of the bookstore.

“LADIES AND GENTLEWIZARDS! IT IS MY PLEASURE—MY HONOR—TO ANNOUNCE…”

Hydras turned just in time to see a small crowd forming.

“Oh no,” he said flatly. “That tone is never good.”

“…THE NEW DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS PROFESSOR AT HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY…”

A figure leapt—yes, leapt—onto a small platform with his arms raised and a grin that could blind a Niffler.

“ME! GILDEROY LOCKHART!”

The four boys stood in stunned silence.

Lockhart beamed, dressed in shimmering turquoise robes, embroidered with little golden suns and his initials (G.L.) across the cuffs. His hair was unnaturally glossy. His teeth could have signaled ships.

Blaise blinked. “Who?”

“Author,” Theo muttered. “Wrote Magical Me. Claims he fought banshees in a bathing robe.”

“Ah.” Blaise’s face remained unimpressed.

Lockhart continued, his arms thrown wide. “After years of travel, adventure, and award-winning autobiographies, I am finally taking my rightful place—at the head of the Defense classroom!”

“Merlin help us all,” Draco whispered.

Lockhart’s eyes scanned the crowd—and landed on Hydras.

“Young man! Yes—you there, with the magnificent cheekbones and impeccable posture!”

Hydras blinked, mildly alarmed. “Me?”

“You simply must be Hydras Gaunt. The resemblance to your father, Thomas, is uncanny! I have read every interview. Truly a noble lineage.”

Draco muttered to Hydras, “I will pay you five Galleons to hiss at him.”

Lockhart grinned. “With talents like yours, Mr. Gaunt, I daresay you might be too advanced for even my curriculum. Perhaps… an assistantship?”

Hydras blinked once. “I’ll pass.”

Lockhart didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, modesty! A rare quality these days. You and your handsome friend there”—he gestured to Draco—“must stop by after class for a signed photograph.”

Draco looked vaguely like he wanted to be hit by a Bludger.

⸻

Later – Outside the Shop

“That,” Blaise said, “was the worst thing I’ve ever witnessed. And I’ve witnessed Hydras after a skipped breakfast.”

Theo added, “I’d rather be hexed by Umbridge again than listen to him monologue for ten months.”

Draco rubbed his temple. “We’re going to die surrounded by glitter and fake heroics.”

Hydras just shook his head, slipping his hand into Draco’s.

“Don’t worry. If he gets too dramatic, we’ll feed him to the Basilisk skeleton.”

Theo smirked. “Let’s just hope he can teach Defense without narrating his own textbook aloud.”

Chapter Text

It was only five minutes into the first class and Hydras already had a headache.

Professor Gilderoy Lockhart—now in swirling navy robes embroidered with his own face—stood dramatically at the front of the classroom, basking in the attention no one was actually giving him.

“And as your new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” Lockhart beamed, “I believe strongly in not only practical preparedness—though naturally I’ve vanquished a Lethifold in Zanzibar without a wand—but also in personal image management.”

Blaise leaned toward Theo. “Did he just say ‘image management’ in a defense class?”

Theo muttered back, “I think he’s about to give us dating advice.”

Hydras stared ahead, hands folded neatly on his desk. If he made eye contact, he knew it would get worse.

Lockhart smiled broadly. “Which brings me to a very important example! Mr. Hydras Gaunt!”

Hydras sighed. “Yes, Professor?”

“Ah, wonderful, wonderful. You see, class, Hydras here is not only a bright, talented young man, he is also fabulously photogenic. Dashing features! Glorious hair! And”—he wagged a finger—“he’s the heir of a most intriguing legacy. Pure gold for public interest!”

The class stared.

Draco leaned sideways, already tensing.

Lockhart continued, undeterred. “Now, I’ve seen you around with young Mr. Malfoy here—oh, don’t be shy, children! Love is natural, noble, and marketable! Why, if I were your publicist—”

Hydras’ eyes narrowed. “You’re not.”

“Oh, of course not!” Lockhart laughed. “But just think! A cover story! ‘Legacy of Love: The Gaunt and Malfoy Romance.’ We could do a tasteful photoshoot—subtle lighting, windswept cloaks—nothing tawdry. Wizarding Weekly would eat it up!”

Draco turned red enough to match a Gryffindor tie. “We are not doing a photoshoot.”

Lockhart wagged a finger again. “My dear boys, publicity is power. You must seize the moment!”

Hydras said flatly, “You’re the Defense professor. Not a romance columnist.”

Lockhart laughed as if he’d made a delightful joke. “Ah, but isn’t that what defense is? Presenting your best self to the world, disarming danger with charisma and flair?”

Theo whispered, “I’m pretty sure it’s about not dying.”

“Now, if you’ll both just consider a signed testimonial about your budding love,” Lockhart said, producing a glittering quill, “I’ll handle the distribution!”

Hydras raised a brow. “If you ask again, I will file a formal complaint. And I bite.”

Lockhart paled, briefly, then recovered with a forced chuckle. “Ah, fiery! Just like your father.”

Hydras gave him a slow, eerie smile. “You don’t want to talk about my father, Professor.”

The temperature dropped slightly. Lockhart stepped back, color draining again.

“Well! Moving on, moving on—today’s topic: recognizing love potions in cursed perfume!”

Theo muttered, “This year is going to be unbearable.”

Chapter Text

The common room had gone quiet. The emerald fire cast low, flickering light on the stone walls, and the lake shadows danced across the ceiling.

Draco sat curled on the couch near the fire, a book open in his lap, untouched. Hydras came in silently, his robes slung carelessly over his shoulder. He didn’t sit right away—just looked at Draco until the other boy looked up and gave a faint smile.

“Still thinking about today?” Draco asked softly.

Hydras gave a slow nod and finally sat beside him. “I knew Lockhart was a narcissist. I didn’t realize he was also a pest.”

Draco shut his book and leaned slightly toward him. “You handled it better than I would have. You didn’t even hex him.”

“Barely,” Hydras said, smirking faintly. “I might later.”

Draco chuckled, then paused. “I didn’t mind the part where he said we looked good together, though. Just… maybe not the magazine spread.”

Hydras turned his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Draco looked down for a moment. “I wasn’t sure if it was obvious. How I… felt. But I wasn’t trying to hide it either.”

Hydras was quiet. Then, “It wasn’t obvious to everyone. Just me. And Blaise.”

“Blaise knows everything.”

Hydras smiled. “I like you too. I thought you should know. Before Lockhart writes a fanfiction.”

Draco grinned. “Too late. I’m sure he’s halfway through chapter one.”

They leaned into each other quietly, and for a moment, everything about bloodlines and legacies faded. It was just them—two boys who liked each other, shoulders touching, hearts soft.

⸻

Thomas poured a measure of firewhisky into two glasses, handing one to Severus with a long, amused sigh. “Lockhart. Really, Albus must be losing what little judgment he had left.”

Severus accepted the glass and took a drink. “He cornered our son during class and suggested a publicized romance for marketing.”

Thomas raised a brow. “Did he survive the encounter?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Severus muttered, swirling the glass. “Hydras kept his temper. He was… elegant about it, honestly. But he was furious.”

Thomas sat beside him on the settee, resting a hand lightly on Severus’ knee. “I can speak to Albus if you’d like.”

Severus shook his head. “Not yet. I want to see how far Lockhart pushes. But if he touches him again—if he puts a single hand on Hydras’ shoulder with that smile—you’ll need to help me hide the body.”

Thomas smiled into his glass. “It would be my pleasure.”

Severus leaned his head on Thomas’ shoulder. “Our son was trying not to scare anyone. He’s so much like you.”

“Then he’ll be impossible to manipulate and loyal to those he loves.”

“And very good at cursing someone discreetly,” Severus added.

Thomas kissed his hair gently. “Let Lockhart keep talking. Hydras has survived far worse. But if he goes too far…”

Severus nodded. “We’ll remind him who raised that boy.”

Chapter Text

The end-of-day lull had settled in the staff room. Teacups clinked, fire crackled, and a few professors were trying—unsuccessfully—not to laugh too loudly.

Professor Flitwick’s cheeks were pink from laughter. “I swear, I’ve never heard such a sound come out of Horace in my life.”

“Neither had I,” added Sprout, dabbing her eyes. “That shriek! Like a banshee in a bubble bath!”

Lockhart entered dramatically, robes extra shimmery today, and struck a pose. “Ah, my dear colleagues, clearly I’ve missed something delightful.”

Minerva McGonagall glanced up. “We were just discussing the… let’s say history of the third chair from the right at the High Table. The one you’ve recently claimed.”

Lockhart looked intrigued. “History? Do tell.”

“Let’s see,” Minerva began, her tone laced with subtle mischief. “Two years ago, Dolores Umbridge dramatically quit at breakfast. Marched right out of the Great Hall—well, she tried to. She tripped, somersaulted halfway down the dais stairs, and landed… legs in the air.”

Flitwick added, “Revealing very pink, very feline-themed underpants. The entire Hall saw. Took her weeks to live it down.”

Lockhart blinked. “Oh my.”

“That same chair,” Sprout cut in with a grin, “struck again last year—our dear Horace Slughorn.”

Lockhart gasped. “Horace? But he’s so careful with appearances!”

“Oh, he was,” Flitwick said with a twinkle. “Until he bent to pick up his quill at breakfast, and his robes split right down the back.”

“Exposing holographic pink heart-covered underwear,” Minerva added. “With a glittering charm that pulsed with every step.”

Sprout leaned in confidentially. “He fled the Great Hall. I don’t think we saw him for three meals.”

Lockhart looked increasingly pale. “So you’re telling me this chair is cursed? Genuinely?”

Minerva sipped her tea. “Let’s call it… unpredictable.”

“And I’ve been sitting in it all term?!”

“You have,” Flitwick said cheerfully. “We thought it fair to warn you, just in case.”

Hydras Gaunt, who had quietly entered to speak to his father, deadpanned from the doorway, “There’s still time for your glittery heart boxers to make their Hogwarts debut.”

Lockhart sputtered. “I—what—I don’t—!”

The staff burst into laughter again. Even Snape, seated in the corner with his arms crossed, let out a soft snort.

“Maybe pick a different chair tomorrow,” Minerva said, lips twitching.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was bustling with early-morning energy: owls swooped in with post, toast crunched, and students exchanged groggy greetings over porridge and pumpkin juice.

At the High Table, Gilderoy Lockhart was beaming more than usual. His robes today were a shimmering lilac trimmed in pearl-white embroidery, and he had—despite the warnings—chosen the cursed chair.

Hydras sat at the Slytherin table, watching with thinly veiled amusement. “He didn’t listen,” he murmured to Draco beside him.

Draco smirked. “This is going to be glorious.”

Lockhart stood mid-toast, clinked his goblet, and launched into a booming speech. “And so, as we begin this beautiful spring morning, let it be known that inspiration begins with presentation! As I always say—”

Riiiiiip.

Time froze. Lockhart froze.

Then, the back seam of his pristine lilac robes gave a second, louder tear—and flared open like stage curtains. Gasps and choking laughter spread across all four tables.

Exposed for all of Hogwarts to see:

Lockhart’s undergarments were baby pink, lacy boyshorts with satin ruffles and embroidered daisies. Across the backside, in silver script, sparkled the words:
“Fairy Princess.”

Silence reigned for one suspended heartbeat.

Then—

Screaming laughter.
Flitwick actually fell off his chair. Pomona had to clutch Minerva’s sleeve for support. Even Snape buried his face in his hand, shoulders shaking silently.

Hydras nearly fell out of his seat laughing, Draco thumping the table and gasping, “Oh Merlin—‘Fairy Princess’?!”

Lockhart whirled around and, realizing what was revealed, let out a high-pitched squeak. He snatched his robes around himself and bolted for the staff doors.

As they swung shut behind him, McGonagall wiped her eyes, gasping, “Well… the chair strikes again.”

Flitwick wheezed, “Four for Four!”

Sprout, still breathless, managed, “I never thought I’d see Severus laugh harder than when Umbridge rolled—but that… that topped it.”

Snape, now sipping his tea with remarkable calm, muttered dryly, “At least my underwear didn’t have floral embroidery.”

Minerva turned to him, arching a brow. “So you admit it does say ‘Property of T.G.’?”

Snape choked on his tea.

Chapter Text

Lockhart, still pink-cheeked and slightly twitchy, had called an unexpected “Public Relations Seminar” for all fifth and sixth years in his Defense class. Hydras, Draco, Blaise, and Theo were already slouched at the back with expressions of dread.

“Now, now,” Lockhart said, sweeping dramatically into the room with fresh robes, “I know there’s been a minor wardrobe incident this morning. But never fear! True stars rise above embarrassment!”

Hydras whispered to Draco, “Does he mean the stars on his lace underwear?”

Draco snorted.

Lockhart continued, smiling so hard his face practically creaked, “And let me assure you—one must own their setbacks. Why, I’ve already drafted a memoir: ‘The Breezy Battle: Triumph Over Tearing Threads.’”

A few students groaned.

“And—” he held up one finger dramatically, “—I would like to point out that I am not the only staff member to suffer such a fate!”

Hydras stiffened. Oh no.

“Indeed!” Lockhart’s grin grew shark-like. “Our very own Professor Snape has also been a victim of that dastardly High Table chair curse!”

Now everyone sat up.

Draco turned to Hydras, eyes wide. “He knows?”

Hydras nodded grimly. “This is going to end in blood or paperwork.”

Lockhart forged ahead, unaware of the danger he was in. “Yes, yes! I’ve heard from a very reliable source that dear Severus once strutted through the Great Hall sporting—how shall I put it—custom underthings!”

He paused dramatically, then stage-whispered:

“Property of T.G. right across the—”

The door burst open.

Severus Snape.

Robes billowing. Eyes like a thunderstorm. Silence crashed down on the room like a dropped cauldron.

“Gilderoy,” Severus said softly, dangerously, “a word.”

Lockhart went pale. “Ah—Severus! Wonderful timing! I was just—”

“I know exactly what you were just,” Snape said coldly, then turned to the students. “Class dismissed. Anyone not out in five seconds will be scrubbing cauldrons with a toothbrush.”

The room emptied faster than a Quidditch stadium in a thunderstorm. Hydras stayed close to Draco, grinning all the way to the corridor.

⸻

Staff Room, Later

Flitwick was wheezing again. Minerva was practically sobbing with laughter into her tartan handkerchief.

“Property of T.G., Gilderoy?” she gasped. “You announced that?”

Pomona was bent double. “You brought that on yourself!”

“I only wanted to normalize it!” Lockhart defended. “I thought if the students knew Severus had—a similar experience—they’d stop teasing me!”

From the armchair, Severus rubbed his temples.

“I will hex that man,” he muttered. “And then I’ll brew him a babbling beverage and send him on a press tour where he’s only allowed to speak about his underwear choices.”

Thomas, lounging beside him with an amused smirk, leaned over kissed his forehead and whispered, “You do look good in those, for what it’s worth.”

Severus leaned into him and muttered, “Shut up.”

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered into the Great Hall with the soft gold glow of early summer. Most students were eagerly packing trunks and finishing breakfast chatter, the tension of exams now replaced with relief and anticipation for home.

Hydras was midway through a quiet conversation with Draco and Blaise when a sharp, magically enhanced voice rang through the castle.

“All staff to the Defense Against the Dark Arts office immediately.”

The Hall went silent.

Severus was already standing. His expression hardened. Hydras felt it in his gut — something was wrong. He locked eyes with his father as Thomas quietly entered through a side door, having Apparated to the grounds only moments before.

⸻

The door creaked open to reveal a scene no one had expected.

Gilderoy Lockhart, slumped over his desk, perfectly still. Eyes wide. Mouth frozen in an almost comical “O.” But there was nothing humorous in the stiff arch of his body or the faint grey sheen to his skin.

Dead.

Poppy examined him in grim silence before whispering, “He was petrified… and then his heart stopped. The shock must have been too great.”

Minerva placed a hand to her mouth. “What in Merlin’s name…”

Severus looked to Thomas, who stood near the window with his hands behind his back, calm and collected. Their eyes met for the briefest moment.

No one said it out loud — but Hydras would later hear the truth whispered in a quiet moment in the Gaunt estate’s library.

⸻
Night before-
“Are you sure?” Severus had asked, voice low as he stood with Thomas in their private quarters.

Thomas’ answer was quiet and final. “He humiliated you. Pressured our son. Disrespected this school. And now… he knows too much. A liability.”

A pause. Then: “The basilisk doesn’t petrify when commanded directly. I ensured it would finish the job.”

Severus didn’t smile. But neither did he object.

⸻

By evening, the announcement had been made.

“Professor Lockhart passed peacefully in his sleep,” the Headmistress said — Minerva McGonagall now, since Dumbledore had stepped down earlier that year for “health reasons.”

No one questioned it. No one wanted to. The Lockhart embarrassment was over.

As students loaded the train, Hydras leaned against the window beside Draco, who whispered, “You think he just dropped dead? Or was there more to it?”

Hydras didn’t look at him. “Does it matter?”

Draco considered this. Then gave a quiet, satisfied nod. “Not at all.”

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express rumbled steadily through the countryside, its rhythmic chugging a familiar comfort. Hydras leaned against the window of the Slytherin compartment, Draco’s hand loosely laced with his own. Across from them, Theo and Blaise quietly played a game of wizarding chess, only half-watching the board.

Hydras’ mind, however, was elsewhere — already at the castle.

This year would be different.

His father was finally going to teach.

Not as a visiting parent. Not as a rumored ghost from the past. But as Professor Gaunt.

“Still thinking about it?” Draco asked, squeezing his hand.

Hydras nodded. “Seventh year. The end of everything. Or the start of something else.”

Draco smirked. “Dramatic. I like it.”

⸻

The Great Hall glittered with candles and magic. The ceiling displayed a deep navy sky dusted with starlight. Students settled into their tables, murmuring excitedly about the news — that the infamous Thomas Gaunt had been named the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

No one quite knew what to make of it. Some were skeptical. Others intrigued. Many whispered with fear or reverence.

Then, McGonagall stood.

“Before the Sorting begins,” she said, “it is my honor to introduce your new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. A man who has proven himself to be a brilliant magical scholar and an advocate for peace and magical reform. Please welcome… Professor Thomas Gaunt.”

The doors opened.

And Thomas entered — not as a shadow of the past or a rumor in the dark, but as a man of power, presence, and certainty.

He took his seat beside Severus — who was now once again Potions Master — with a subtle smirk. The Slytherin table exploded in applause, led by the Squires of Walpurgis. Hydras sat tall, pride flickering in his eyes.

⸻

“I could feel it,” Thomas said as he poured Severus a glass of wine. “The moment I stepped across the threshold as a professor — the curse tried to push against me.”

Severus raised a brow. “And?”

Thomas smirked, dark and cool. “I shattered it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. It was mine. I cast it decades ago to keep that post empty until I deemed someone worthy. I’ve decided I am.”

Severus snorted into his glass. “Humble, as always.”

Thomas merely leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Only when I’m not on school grounds.”

⸻

The seventh years gathered with hushed tension. No one knew what to expect.

Thomas stood before them, dressed simply — dark robes, silver serpent pin on his collar. No theatrics, no flair. Just piercing eyes that missed nothing.

“I won’t be handing out textbooks,” he began smoothly. “You’ve all read enough theory. This year, you’ll be taught how to survive. How to fight. How to think.”

He paused.

“More importantly… you’ll learn the kind of power that doesn’t require a wand.”

His gaze landed on Hydras — calm, sharp, proud.

Then Thomas smiled.

“Class dismissed. See you at dawn.”

Chapter Text

It was a pleasantly average Thursday evening. Dinner in the Great Hall had just concluded, and the staff table was engaged in quiet conversation. Thomas, for once, had chosen to sit in the exact seat Umbridge and Slughorn had infamously occupied during their own… incidents.

Severus had warned him.

Hydras had snorted at him.

Even Flitwick had whispered, “Some seats hold grudges.”

But Thomas Gaunt, eternal skeptic of superstition, had waved them all off with a dismissive smirk. “I don’t believe in furniture-based curses.”

He believed now.

Because as he stood to follow Minerva out of the hall, a sharp tear echoed like a shot in the enchanted silence — and suddenly, every student and professor in the room had a clear view of his very fitted, black silk underwear.

Embroidered across the seat, in elegant emerald thread, were the words:

Potions Master’s Favorite

The entire hall went dead silent.

Then Draco Malfoy actually fell off the Slytherin bench.

Theo was gasping.

Flitwick dropped his teacup.

Pomona covered her mouth.

Minerva looked skyward and muttered, “Not again…”

Hydras buried his face in his arms, vibrating with silent laughter.

Thomas… blinked.

Then, with the most collected expression he could muster, he adjusted his coat, looked squarely at Severus, and said dryly, “I suppose it’s only fair. You had your turn.”

Severus, for once, was speechless. Crimson with embarrassment and fury — mostly at the enchanted chair and partially at the fact that his husband wore those particular underpants in public — he glared at the offending furniture like he could hex it into another dimension.

Flitwick piped up, eyes sparkling with mischief, “Do we now refer to this as the Underwear Throne?”

Pomona choked on her pumpkin juice.

Minerva put her head down on the table, muttering, “We need to burn that chair.”

Hydras, barely able to speak, looked up at Thomas and whispered, “You absolute menace.”

Thomas only smirked. “Severus bought them.”

Severus groaned into his hands.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was already bustling with breakfast chatter when the doors swung open with dramatic flair.

Professor Thomas Gaunt strode in, hair slightly damp and tousled from a recent shower, a faint sheen on his skin suggesting he’d not only had a hot shower… but perhaps not alone. His robes, as usual, were perfectly tailored, but his confident gait and the smug satisfaction on his face made a few professors glance between him and the empty seat next to Severus Snape.

Severus, who had arrived mere minutes before and was suspiciously flushed himself, didn’t look up as Thomas took his seat — but the slight tremor in his hand as he poured tea did not go unnoticed.

Minerva arched an eyebrow.

Pomona grinned into her goblet.

Flitwick chuckled softly and muttered, “Looks like someone’s had a very good morning.”

Hydras, who had just reached for a scone, paused. “Dear Merlin, you two don’t even try to hide it anymore.”

Severus gave a dangerously calm look. “Hydras, drink your juice.”

Thomas, ever unbothered, leaned back in his chair and added innocently, “It was an invigorating start to the day. Very stimulating.”

Minerva finally set down her tea. “I assume that’s why you were both ten minutes late to breakfast?”

Severus cleared his throat. “We were… detained.”

“By steam,” Flitwick said, eyes twinkling. “And possibly silk.”

Hydras smacked a hand to his face. “Why do I eat with you people?”

Thomas nudged his son with a grin. “It builds character.”

Just then, the enchanted plates refilled, saving Severus from further commentary. He muttered under his breath, “I knew the chair curse was the least of my worries.”

Chapter Text

The Gaunt estate was quiet, lit only by the soft flicker of candlelight. Severus sat in the sitting room, one hand curled around a glass of wine, the other resting loosely on the armrest. Across from him, Thomas was watching him — not hungrily or teasingly, as he often did — but with a quiet, contemplative expression.

Severus noticed. “You’re staring.”

Thomas didn’t smile. Not this time.

“I was thinking,” he said slowly. “About the future.”

Severus raised an eyebrow, setting his glass down. “Dangerous for men like us.”

“And yet,” Thomas murmured, moving closer, “we’ve built something out of ashes and blood and secrets. We have Hydras. We have each other. And lately, I’ve found myself wondering…”

Severus watched him carefully. “Go on.”

Thomas sat beside him now, their knees brushing. His tone was soft. “Have you ever thought about having another child? One that’s ours. Fully.”

Silence stretched.

Severus blinked slowly, not in shock — but because the thought had occurred to him before. Buried, dismissed, shelved away as impractical and too much like hope.

“I’m not… opposed,” he said quietly, “but this isn’t something we do lightly.”

“I know,” Thomas said. “I wouldn’t bring it up if I hadn’t thought through every risk, every implication. I just…” He touched Severus’ hand. “I love what we’ve made with Hydras. I love who we’ve become. And I want that future with you. A child born into peace. Into choice. Not into war or legacies or curses.”

Severus studied him. “You want to build something… clean.”

Thomas nodded. “For once.”

Severus exhaled slowly. “Then let’s talk to a healer. See what’s possible. No promises, but… yes. I want that too.”

Thomas smiled — a rare, quiet, utterly hopeful smile.

Then he pulled Severus into a kiss. No heat. Just warmth. Intimacy. A promise neither of them dared say aloud just yet.

But it had been planted.

And it would grow.
—
Severus adjusted the collar of his high-buttoned robes for the third time. Thomas sat beside him, legs crossed, appearing relaxed — but Severus knew better. His fingers tapped once against the arm of the chair. Nervous energy cloaked them both, though neither would admit it aloud.

The door opened, and in swept Healer Lysandra Thorne, a witch of about fifty with streaks of silver in her dark braid and steady, intelligent eyes. She wore robes trimmed in gold — a mark of a specialist in advanced magical fertility.

“Mr. Gaunt. Professor Snape,” she said warmly. “I’ve reviewed the information you sent ahead. You’re both excellent magical candidates. What brings you in specifically? You mentioned interest in biological offspring.”

Thomas looked to Severus, who gave a slight nod, allowing him to speak.

“We’re interested in the possibility of having a child — biologically ours,” Thomas said. “Not through surrogacy. Something… more intimate. Between us.”

Healer Thorne nodded thoughtfully and conjured a parchment grid in the air — ancient and pulsing with old runes.

“There are two primary options for same-sex couples wishing to have a biological child,” she began. “The first is a gestational surrogate with magically split genetics from both of you. The second — more experimental — is Arcane Conception: a ritual-based spell that temporarily transfigures one partner’s body to allow internal gestation.”

Severus arched a brow. “You’re suggesting one of us could carry the child?”

Thorne smiled slightly. “Yes. Only temporarily, for a magically shortened gestational period. The spell would last no more than four to five months, accelerated for magical stability. It’s an intense process, emotionally and physically. But you two… well. You’re rare candidates for a reason.”

Thomas looked at Severus, eyes softening. “I’d do it. I’d carry the child.”

Severus blinked slowly. “You hate being interrupted in your daily routines.”

“I love you more than I love routine,” Thomas said, without a trace of irony.

Healer Thorne interjected gently. “The decision doesn’t have to be made today. But magically, it is viable. You would need to come in for further compatibility tests and psychological screenings — for both of you. But your bond… it already shows magical resonance. That’s rare. It suggests the child would be highly stable.”

Severus exhaled. “This… is possible.”

“More than possible,” Thorne said, smiling. “It’s promising.”

⸻

Afterward

That night, Thomas and Severus lay in bed, fingers intertwined.

“You’d really carry them?” Severus murmured, voice nearly inaudible.

Thomas kissed his temple. “For you, and for the child we could have? I’d carry the world.”

Severus turned toward him fully, pressing their foreheads together.

“No rituals. No dark magic. Just you. Me. And something entirely new.”

Thomas smiled. “A beginning.”

Chapter Text

Hydras sat in one of the velvet reading chairs, an open book on magical theory in his lap. He wasn’t reading, though — just staring absently at the same page for the last ten minutes.

He looked up when he heard the familiar, synchronized steps of his parents — Severus and Thomas. Both wore neutral expressions, though something softer lingered at the edges of Thomas’ mouth, and Severus’ normally unreadable eyes looked… tentative.

Hydras closed the book and raised a brow. “You’re both standing like you’ve blown something up or adopted a dragon. Which is it?”

Thomas chuckled under his breath. “Neither.”

Severus cleared his throat. “We… had a consultation. With a healer. At St. Mungo’s.”

Hydras’ brow creased, concern blooming. “Is one of you ill?”

“No,” Thomas said quickly. “Quite the opposite. We’re… looking into having a baby.”

Hydras blinked. “A baby? Like—a baby baby? As in, I’d be—?”

“A big brother,” Thomas supplied, and Severus rolled his eyes but allowed the term.

Hydras stared at them for a long moment before he slowly smiled, a flush coloring his cheeks.

“I mean—I’m a little grossed out thinking about how, but… actually? That’s amazing.”

Severus’s lip twitched. “Yes, well, you may wish to delay your congratulations until you’ve heard the full update.”

Hydras narrowed his eyes. “There’s more?”

⸻

“Recommendation” — Healer Thorne’s Letter

Later that evening, Thomas handed Severus a letter from Healer Thorne, which he had received via personal delivery owl. Hydras sat across from them at the kitchen table.

Severus read the parchment in silence. His brow furrowed deeper with each line. When he reached the end, he set it down and exhaled slowly.

“What?” Hydras asked.

Severus folded his hands. “The healer says we are magically compatible enough to conceive using arcane conception. However… the gestation period would be significantly shorter — and safer — if I were the one to carry the child.”

Hydras made a choking sound. “Wait—you’re gonna—? Dad. You?”

Thomas didn’t laugh. He looked at Severus with a kind of quiet reverence. “You don’t have to. I’ll still do it.”

“No,” Severus said softly. “She’s right. I’m a Potions Master. I’ve monitored enough magical pregnancies to know how to compensate for the alchemical strains.”

Hydras blinked. “So. This means I’ll… actually have a little sibling.”

Thomas gave a small smile. “Hopefully one just as stubborn as you.”

“Or maybe one a bit quieter,” Severus added dryly.

Hydras stood and walked around the table, hugging them both in a rare and unguarded gesture. He buried his face in Thomas’ shoulder, then Severus’, voice quiet.

“I think they’re going to be the luckiest baby in the world.”

Chapter Text

The banners of every House hung high, gleaming in the enchanted sunlight cast over the Great Hall. The front tables had been cleared for the graduates, each in custom-trimmed robes stitched with green and silver threads — Hydras’ influence proudly worn.

Headmistress McGonagall gave a stirring speech. But for once, Hydras only half-listened. His eyes drifted to where Severus and Thomas sat among the staff and families, side by side, close but calm. Severus looked regal in his tailored black robes with his Order of Merlin clasp; Thomas wore elegant gray with serpentine embroidery on his cuffs.

As names were called, the applause for Hydras Gaunt-Snape was thunderous. Even Professors Flitwick and Sprout clapped wildly — though Minerva just gave him a quietly proud nod.

Draco, seated beside him, bumped his shoulder and whispered, “If you ever get too famous for me, I’ll hex you.”

Hydras smiled. “That’s fair.”

The rest of the Squires followed — Theo, Blaise, Pansy, and even Daphne — each of them walking tall, more like a chosen order than just students. They had been shadows behind Hydras once. Now, they stood beside him.

Afterward, when Hydras approached his parents, Severus pulled him in with a rare and open-armed hug.

Thomas smiled, hand on Hydras’ back. “You were brilliant.”

Hydras leaned into the embrace just a little longer than necessary. “I had the best teachers.”

⸻
St. Mungo’s, Magical Fertility & Legacy Ward

Healer Thorne had a serene expression as she asked Severus to recline on the enchanted diagnostic table. Her wand glowed a soft pink as she cast the silent spells.

Thomas stood close, fingers laced tightly with Severus’, his usual calm now frayed with anticipation.

Finally, Healer Thorne gave a soft, delighted sound and turned the projection toward them — a soft blue-gold shimmer pulsing faintly in midair, like a floating constellation.

“Well,” she said. “Congratulations. The ritual took. You’re approximately six weeks along.”

Thomas stared. His breath hitched — not fear, not shock. Just awe. He looked down at Severus, whose face had gone still and pale.

Severus blinked once, then slowly — slowly — smiled.

Thomas kissed his knuckles. “You’re really… we’re really—?”

“We’re having a baby,” Severus confirmed. “You absolute menace of a man.”

Healer Thorne stepped back politely. “You’ll have monthly magical core scans and potion adjustments. But everything looks strong.”

Thomas leaned forward and kissed Severus — gently, reverently.

“I love you,” he whispered. “And I love them already.”

Severus exhaled and let his head fall against Thomas’ chest. “I swear, if this child inherits your inability to shut up in the mornings…”

Thomas only laughed and held him tighter.

Chapter Text

The drawing room was filled with warm, amber candlelight. Dinner had ended, and the three of them sat together at their favorite little table near the hearth. The doors to the veranda were open, letting in a soft breeze that ruffled the parchments and tea leaves on the table.

Hydras had his boots up on the spare chair, sipping his tea lazily, while Severus was trying to look stern about it but not truly succeeding. Thomas was pacing, which meant he was either plotting someone’s political downfall… or nervous.

Hydras raised an eyebrow. “You’re pacing like you’re going to tell me you’ve adopted a Crup and it’s already eaten one of the house-elves.”

Severus glanced at Thomas, then set down his teacup. “No Crups. But we… do have news.”

Hydras tilted his head, curious now. “What kind of news?”

Thomas came to stand behind Severus’s chair and rested a hand on his husband’s shoulder, grounding himself.

“You’re going to be a big brother,” he said simply.

Hydras blinked. “…what?”

Severus, soft and calm, added, “The ritual worked. I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed was brief but electric. Hydras stared between them — Severus’ composed but faintly glowing face, Thomas’ bright eyes, full of nerves and pride — and then he grinned.

“You’re—?! Are you serious?!”

Thomas smirked. “Very. We had the healer confirm it this morning.”

Hydras stood and walked to them, standing between the chairs, and for a moment, he looked seventeen again — boyish and open.

“I…” He looked at Severus. “You’re going to be a mum.”

“I’ll kill you,” Severus said dryly.

Hydras laughed — actually laughed — and leaned down to hug him, arms tight and grateful. Then he pulled Thomas in too.

“I’m happy for you. Both of you. This is… weird. But good. You’ll be terrifying parents again.”

“You turned out alright,” Thomas said, voice suspiciously fond.

Hydras sat back down, still smiling — but with a flicker of something more serious.

“I was going to wait till later to say anything,” he said, “but… it feels right now.”

Severus looked up. “What is it?”

Hydras inhaled, steadying himself. “I’ve decided. I’m going to apply for the Auror Academy.”

Both his parents blinked. Thomas leaned forward slowly. “Really?”

Hydras nodded. “Fudge is gone. Dumbledore’s power is fractured. And for once, I want to help build what comes next. Protecting people. Helping us fix what they broke. Even if it means sitting through lectures from Moody about stealth movement and proper wand posture.”

Severus stared at him for a moment, something unreadable crossing his face — then he stood and wrapped Hydras in a rare, silent embrace.

“I’m proud of you,” he said softly, and that was all that needed to be said.

Thomas joined them, resting a hand on each of their backs. “Then it’s official,” he said, voice warm. “We’re expanding — the family, the legacy, and the future.”

“And we still have time to charm the crib black,” Hydras added.

Severus sighed into his son’s shoulder. “Not a word of that to Pomona.”

Chapter Text

The scent of baby powder and soft fabrics lingered in the air as Hydras trailed behind a shopping cart, filled with pale yellow onesies and a mobile shaped like constellations. Thomas walked beside him, dressed immaculately in a sleek charcoal trench coat — Muggle enough to pass, but still carrying an undeniable presence that turned heads.

Hydras smirked, nudging a plush dragon toy. “You sure you want to be seen buying rattles with stars on them?”

Thomas, cool as ever, replied, “I’ve survived two assassination attempts, three failed coups, and seventeen years of Severus Snape’s love language. I think I can handle a rattling moon.”

A cheerful Muggle store clerk approached with a professional smile and a name tag that read Jess. “Hi there! Do you two need any help? Shopping for your little one?”

Hydras opened his mouth to answer, but saw Jess glancing between them with a flicker of uncertainty — clearly trying to do the math.

Thomas caught the look instantly and, with the composed grace of someone used to navigating delicate political misunderstandings, gave a small smile and said smoothly, “Oh — no, no. This is my son. He’s just helping me shop.”

Jess’s entire posture relaxed with a soft gasp of relief. “Oh, thank God — I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with… just… y’know, it’s good to clarify!”

Hydras bit the inside of his cheek to hide a grin as Jess flushed and tried to redirect the conversation.

“So, uh, do you know what you’re having?”

Thomas answered with impeccable calm, “Hopefully something with my hair and my husband’s glare.”

Jess blinked. “Oh… okay!”

They followed her down the aisle, where she pointed out cribs and bassinets while still throwing discreet glances their way.

Once she moved on, Hydras murmured under his breath, “That might be the first time someone’s been relieved to find out I’m your kid.”

Thomas arched a brow. “Then we’re already making history today.”

They shared a quiet, knowing look — father and son, building a future neither of them ever expected to have, one pastel sleeper at a time.

They followed Jess through the aisles, pointing out the sturdier cribs and a glider chair that Thomas insisted on test-sitting for Severus’s comfort. Hydras occasionally paused to touch a soft blanket or test the stretch of a onesie between his fingers.

Eventually, Jess left them to “browse at your own pace,” and Thomas tapped the edge of a shelf with a pensive frown.

“You’re really doing it,” he said, almost to himself. “You’ll be an Auror.”

Hydras gave a little smile and looked up at him. “Yeah. You proud?”

Thomas looked at him, eyes warm. “Beyond.”

Hydras smiled more softly now. “Are you ready for diapers and midnight feedings again?”

“I’m not the one carrying the child,” Thomas reminded him, voice tinged with teasing but fond concern. “But I’ll enchant the nappies myself if it keeps Severus from hexing the walls in hormonal fury.”

Hydras laughed. “I should’ve brought a camera for this trip. You, buying pacifiers. We’ve peaked.”

Thomas placed a tiny dragon-print sleeper into the trolley. “You haven’t seen Severus cry over baby booties yet. That’s the real show.”

They continued down the aisle, surrounded by soft things, a future being slowly built — one diaper pail and enchanted mobile at a time.

Chapter Text

The streetlights of Soho glowed soft gold as the sun dipped below the skyline, casting long shadows over the cobbled streets and bustling cafés. Hydras adjusted the cuff of his dark button-down, eyes scanning the nearby storefronts while Draco stood beside him, looking strangely at ease in a leather jacket over a gray sweater.

“You’re wearing jeans,” Hydras teased, bumping Draco lightly with his shoulder. “I wasn’t sure you even owned a pair.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m full of surprises. And I didn’t want to look like a cursed aristocrat on our first date in the Muggle world.”

Hydras grinned. “So this is a date?”

Draco flushed faintly but smirked. “Don’t play coy. You asked me to celebrate your Auror training acceptance. I don’t do friendly ice cream trips.”

They wandered into a little gelato shop, walls lined with neon signs and chalkboard menus boasting flavors like “Bubblegum Stardust” and “London Fog.” Hydras chose pistachio and sea salt caramel; Draco ordered raspberry rose and tried to act like he didn’t like it more than he expected.

They took their cones and walked through Leicester Square, passing street performers and tourists. Muggle lights glittered above them like a second sky.

“I still can’t believe it,” Hydras said softly, licking his gelato. “All those years under Father’s protection and your dad’s sneers and Dumbledore’s suspicions… and now I’m going to be an Auror.”

Draco looked at him, eyes shining with something warm and private. “You always had it in you.”

Hydras blinked. “That was almost romantic, Draco Malfoy.”

Draco laughed and leaned in. “Good. Because I’m about to kiss you again, and I’d hate to catch you off guard.”

Under flickering theater marquees and the hum of Muggle traffic, their lips met — soft, certain, the way first love blooms when no one’s watching and the weight of old names slips quietly away.

When they pulled apart, Hydras whispered, “So, how do you feel about being the boyfriend of a future Auror?”

Draco grinned. “I feel very safe.”

Chapter Text

The fireplace flared green in the Gaunt drawing room, casting warm shadows over the bookshelves and velvet furniture. Severus was seated in an armchair with a cup of tea, feet propped up, while Thomas read a Muggle parenting book titled So You’re Expecting a Magical Menace with no small amount of skepticism.

The flames whooshed, and Hydras stepped out of the Floo looking flushed and dazed, his cloak slightly askew, curls messier than usual, and a contented, dreamy look softening his sharp features. Draco followed a few moments later, smoothing his jacket and giving a polite nod before disappearing down the hall with a quiet, “Goodnight, sirs.”

Hydras didn’t even notice. He was floating.

Severus arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t know the Muggle world served intoxicants that could leave one in this state.”

Hydras plopped onto the sofa across from them and stared at the ceiling with a goofy smile. “We had gelato. Mine was pistachio and caramel. And we kissed under lights made of neon and starlight.”

Thomas snorted. “You’re speaking like a poetry student who’s just discovered metaphors.”

Severus sipped his tea with exaggerated slowness, then said flatly, “You’re smiling like a love-sick fool.”

Hydras rolled onto his side to look at them, his cheeks flushed pink. “I like him. I’ve liked him. And tonight he kissed me and I finally understand that he likes me back.”

“You kissed under starlight,” Thomas echoed, setting his book aside, voice teasing but warm.

Severus smirked. “And I assume that dreamy look is not indigestion from Bubblegum Stardust?”

Hydras threw a pillow at him. “It was raspberry rose. He ordered raspberry rose.”

Thomas shared a knowing look with Severus before saying, “Well, it’s about time. We were beginning to wonder if the two of you would ever stop dancing around it.”

Hydras blushed deeper. “We’re officially official now. He called himself my boyfriend.”

Severus’s smile softened, and he reached out to brush Hydras’s hair off his forehead. “Just remember, if he breaks your heart, I am not above turning a Malfoy into a ferret again.”

Hydras laughed, drowsy and giddy. “You and me both.”

Thomas stood, tugged Severus gently to his feet, and said, “Come on. Let the boy have his love-struck moment alone before we smother it with parental smugness.”

As they left the room, Hydras curled into the cushions with his arms folded beneath his head, that soft smile still on his face. Safe. Warm. And completely, hopelessly gone for Draco Malfoy.

Chapter Text

The Gaunt estate was unusually quiet. Hydras was at Auror Academy for the day, Draco was reading in the study, and Thomas was in the greenhouse charming a rather aggressive creeping vine back into its pot.

Inside, Severus sat curled on the velvet settee, one hand absentmindedly rubbing the swell of his stomach while reading Magical Midwifery Through the Ages. The baby — their baby — had been unusually still all day. That alone didn’t worry him. But the sudden, sharp magical twist that coursed through his core like a flexing wand…

He gasped, the book slipping from his hands.

Then it happened again.

Severus bolted upright, clutched his abdomen, and exhaled through gritted teeth.

“Oh. Bloody. Hell.”

A third pulse hit — not just physical pain, but a magical ripple that triggered wards around the estate to flare with protective awareness. Lights blinked. The enchanted portraits whispered. A vase exploded in the hallway.

That’s when Thomas burst in, wand out, eyes wide. “What happened?! What was that—”

Severus glared up at him, pale but composed. “I am either about to give birth, or being possessed by a magical volcano. Take your pick.”

Thomas stared, frozen. “What?”

Another contraction hit. Severus doubled over with a curse. “I am in labor, Thomas.”

Thomas dropped his wand. “Oh gods. Okay. Okay. I’ll Floo the healer. I’ll summon Hydras. I’ll—do we have towels? Should I boil water? WHY do people always boil water?!”

“Thomas.”

He snapped back. “Yes, love?”

“Catch me. I’m about to pass out.”

Thomas lunged just in time to catch Severus as his knees gave out, supporting him with one arm and summoning a dozen medical supplies, pillows, and their obstetric healer with the other. Within seconds, the fireplace roared and Healer Merrow stepped through, wand at the ready.

“I see someone’s on schedule,” she said cheerfully, completely unfazed by the storm of magic building in the room. “Alright, parents — let’s bring this little miracle into the world.”

Severus gave Thomas a withering look as he was floated onto the specially prepared birthing settee. “If you ever come near me with those underwear again,” he hissed between contractions, “I will hex them into ashes.”

Thomas, utterly besotted and panicked, kissed his forehead and whispered, “You’re doing amazing, and I love you, even when you’re threatening my delicates.”

Chapter Text

The sun had dipped low by the time Hydras arrived home from the Academy, still in uniform and slightly dusted in soot from a misfired hex demo. He adjusted the strap of his satchel and opened the front door to the sound of—

Screaming.

Loud, agonizing, echoing-through-the-manor screaming.

Hydras froze in the doorway.

“What in Merlin’s wrinkled knickers—?” He dropped his bag and bolted up the hall. “I heard screaming! Who’s dying?!”

He skidded to a halt outside the sitting room-turned-temporary-birthing-chamber and flung the door open dramatically, wand out.

And immediately regretted everything.

Because there, on a bed of spell-fluffed cushions, legs spread and half-covered by a modesty charm that wasn’t doing nearly enough, was Severus Snape, flushed, growling in pain, and very clearly in active labor.

Thomas was kneeling beside him, clutching his hand, his hair wild and damp with sweat — or possibly blood? Hydras couldn’t tell and didn’t want to. A healer hovered nearby, speaking calmly despite the chaos. Magical energy sparked and fizzled in the air like ozone.

Hydras stared.

Then his eyes locked on his father’s very bare lower half.

Then he screamed.

“OH GODS I’LL NEVER RECOVER—” he turned so fast he hit the doorframe with his shoulder, “WHY WASN’T THERE A WARNING WARD?!”

Severus, panting, somehow found the strength to hiss, “*You—were raised—by two of the most dramatic—Slytherins in Britain—*and this is what breaks you?!”

Thomas was laughing and crying at the same time. “Hydras, it’s birth! You’ve dissected corpses in Potions!”

“Not while they were actively screaming in my father’s voice!” Hydras yelled from the hallway, pacing wildly. “What—what part of my brain is meant to process that?! You could have told me!”

The healer poked her head out, grinning. “Hydras, darling, either go to your room or stay and help. No middle ground.”

“I’m going to the kitchen and drinking half a bottle of firewhisky and pretending I didn’t just see my father crowning!”

“You say that now,” Severus muttered through another contraction, “but when this child is born, you’re on nappy duty.”

Hydras didn’t reply.

He was already halfway down the hall, yelling over his shoulder:
“Just name the baby something dignified! And if anyone ever tells Draco about this, I will take it to my grave!”

Chapter Text

The sun had begun to rise by the time the screaming subsided.

Severus was resting, eyes half-closed but unmistakably watching every movement from his spot on the bed. Thomas sat beside him, still in his rumpled shirt from the night before, one arm wrapped tightly around his husband, the other gently cradling a tiny, swaddled bundle.

Hydras stood stiffly near the doorway, arms crossed, like he didn’t quite know how to exist in this new, post-trauma world. His hair was a mess. He smelled faintly of firewhisky. He looked like he’d aged ten years in the last four hours.

“Hydras,” Thomas said softly, “would you like to meet her?”

Hydras blinked. “Her?”

Severus lifted a brow. “Yes. Your sister. She’s not a howler monkey. I promise.”

Hydras hesitated. Then — cautiously, carefully — he walked forward. Thomas stood and placed the bundle in his arms with practiced gentleness.

She was tiny. Soft wisps of black hair, a nose like Severus’, lips like Thomas’. Her tiny fingers peeked out from the blanket and curled around one of Hydras’ gloved ones.

He stared.

She yawned.

And Hydras’ entire face softened into something unreadable — awe, maybe. Confusion. Protectiveness. And something fragile and beautiful just beneath the surface.

“What’s her name?” he whispered.

Thomas and Severus exchanged a glance.

Then Severus said softly, “We were thinking… Elaria Celeste Gaunt.”

Hydras looked down at her again. “Elaria,” he echoed, like the name was a spell. “It fits her.”

“She has your spirit,” Thomas added with a smile.

Hydras didn’t reply right away. He shifted her carefully in his arms, the way he’d seen Severus do with glass vials. Then, after a long pause, he leaned down and whispered to the baby:

“I’m gonna teach you how to hex anyone who breaks your heart.”

Severus groaned faintly. “She’s not even two hours old.”

Hydras smirked, just a little. “Gotta start them early.”

Thomas grinned. “That’s my boy.”

Chapter Text

The golden light of dusk filtered in through the tall windows of the Malfoy drawing room, casting delicate shadows against the gleaming floor. Everything was still, as if the entire Manor was holding its breath.

Lucius Malfoy looked up from the tome he had been quietly reading. Across from him, Narcissa sipped her tea with the grace of someone who already suspected something was about to happen.

Hydras stood tall, hands at his sides, dressed sharply in his Auror uniform — freshly pressed and marked with the insignia of his new position. His wand holster was visible, as was the slightly nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Lord and Lady Malfoy,” he said, his voice calm but earnest.

Lucius tilted his head. “Hydras.”

“I’ve come to speak to you about something important.” He paused. “I’m in love with your son. And I would like to ask your permission to propose to Draco.”

There was a moment of silence. Not tense — just deliberate.

Narcissa’s eyes immediately misted over. “Oh, Hydras…”

Lucius sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. “You understand,” he said slowly, “that Draco is everything to us.”

“I do,” Hydras said firmly. “And he’s everything to me, too. I would never do anything to bring him pain. I only want to build a life with him. I love him. Deeply.”

Lucius studied him. The man standing before him wasn’t just the heir to the Gaunt name, or the boy who had once been shrouded in shadow and secrets. He was a man now. A protector. A partner. Steady. Honorable.

After a long pause, Lucius gave the smallest of nods. “Then you have my blessing.”

Narcissa rose and crossed the room, placing a gentle hand on Hydras’ arm. “Thank you for asking us,” she said warmly. “And… welcome to the family, officially.”

Hydras let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank you. Both of you.”

As he turned to leave, Lucius added, “If you make it a garden proposal, Draco has always liked white roses. And Narcissa will insist on helping with the invitations.”

Narcissa grinned. “Lucius!”

Lucius just smirked faintly. “What? It’s not as if I wasn’t paying attention.”

Hydras laughed, lighter now. “Noted.”

Chapter Text

The gardens at Malfoy Manor had been enchanted for the evening. Fireflies drifted lazily above the hedges, casting a soft golden light, and the moon hung full and low in the sky. A gentle, enchanted breeze carried the scent of white roses — hundreds of them, blooming in neat rows around the circular clearing at the heart of the grounds.

Draco had followed Hydras out under the pretense of “getting some fresh air,” mildly suspicious when he saw Hydras wearing dress robes and clearly fighting off a nervous flush.

“You’re acting odd,” Draco said as they came to a stop at the center of the rose garden.

“I know,” Hydras replied, turning to face him, eyes shining. “I’ve been acting odd for days. Weeks, really. Because I’ve been waiting for this moment, and hoping I’d get it right.”

Draco blinked, his usual wry retort catching in his throat. Hydras stepped back, pulled a small velvet box from inside his robes — then, in one smooth motion, dropped to one knee.

Draco stared, his breath catching.

“Draco Malfoy,” Hydras said, his voice low and sure, “you have been my friend, my fiercest ally, my sharpest mirror, and the person I can’t stop thinking about — when I’m in battle, when I’m at home, when I’m half-asleep in class pretending I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

Draco’s eyes shimmered, mouth parted slightly in shock.

“I want to build a life with you. With all your biting remarks and soft silences, with your loyalty and your pride, with everything that makes you you.” Hydras opened the box — inside was a ring of platinum and starlight, with a subtle emerald glimmer at its heart. “Will you marry me?”

Draco didn’t move for a second. Then he dropped to his knees, right in front of Hydras, cupped his cheeks in both hands, and whispered, “You absolute idiot.”

Hydras blinked. “Is that a—?”

“Yes,” Draco said, eyes glistening with emotion. “Of course it’s a yes, you idiot. Merlin, yes.”

Hydras barely had time to laugh before Draco kissed him — deep, slow, certain.

From inside the Manor, a few heads peeked through curtains: Narcissa clasping her hands together and Lucius quietly muttering that he was never getting those white roses replanted properly again.

And somewhere beyond the hedges, a faint pop of apparition marked the arrival of Severus and Thomas, who were absolutely not spying.

Hydras pulled back just enough to press his forehead against Draco’s. “You sure?”

“I said yes. Now put that ring on me before your parents and mine combust.”

Chapter Text

Hydras was seated at the large table in the drawing room, surrounded by an explosion of parchment, enchanted invitation samples, fabric swatches, and a particularly opinionated talking quill that Thomas had threatened to vanish twice already.

Severus, holding baby Elaria on his shoulder, gave his son a long-suffering look.
“I thought you wanted something simple.”

Hydras ran a hand through his hair. “I did. And then Draco said something about matching waistcoat embroidery and theme cohesion and now we’re possibly hiring a harpist.”

“Two harpists,” Draco corrected breezily as he walked in from the terrace, eyes bright. “One for the ceremony and one for the champagne hour.”

Severus turned to Thomas, who sat sipping tea smugly. “This is your fault.”

“I’m proud of both of them,” Thomas said. “It’s deeply Slytherin to turn a sacred rite into a logistical power move.”

Draco leaned down and kissed Hydras’ cheek. “You’re doing amazing, darling. But please don’t let that horrid quill bully you.”

“It told me my taste was ‘gravel chic.’”

“That’s fair,” Thomas muttered.

Hydras threw a crumpled napkin at his father, then flopped against Draco’s side. “I love you. Even if we elope, I love you.”

Draco smirked. “Good. But we’re still having signature cocktails.”

—

The manor was quiet. Dinner was done, plans were shelved for the night, and the stars were out.

Draco sat in the rocking chair in Elaria’s nursery, the warm-glow fairy lights casting soft gold across the room. Elaria, not quite a year old, was curled in his lap, gumming softly at a stuffed phoenix plush. Her hair was Severus’ shade of dark, but her eyes were undeniably Thomas’ — piercing and clever and still filled with wonder.

Draco rocked slowly, murmuring to her.

“You are going to be so spoiled, you know that?” he whispered, brushing a hand over her curls. “I’m marrying your big brother, which means I get to be yours too. You’re going to have everything. Birthday parties with real dragons. Magic storybooks that change endings. I’m going to teach you to duel the minute you’re steady on your feet. Don’t tell your parents.”

Elaria cooed softly.

“And Hydras — he’s going to hover. Always. You’ll roll your eyes, but you’ll love it. He already memorized a dozen lullabies just to get you to sleep last week.”

He smiled as her little hand curled around his finger.

“I promise I’ll protect you like you were mine from the start. Because you are. You’re Elaria Snape-Gaunt. And you are very loved.”

Just outside the door, Hydras leaned against the frame, silent and smiling, heart full as he watched the two people he loved most in the world, bathed in golden starlight.

Chapter Text

The ceremony was small by pureblood standards — no more than forty guests, all carefully chosen. What it lacked in scale, it more than made up for in beauty.

The garden shimmered under the enchantments Thomas had personally woven: soft floating lights nestled in the flowering trees, their glow like captured starlight. A gentle breeze carried the scent of blooming silver-leaf roses, and the grass beneath everyone’s feet was lush and springy, charmed to never soil a single shoe.

At the front, a simple white stone arch entwined with green vines and golden thread glowed faintly — magic older than any one guest present.

Elaria sat on Severus’ lap in the front row, dressed in a tiny cream gown with a flower crown made of enchanted violets that blinked sleepily. She clutched her phoenix plush like a talisman.

As the harp began — just one, per compromise — Draco appeared on the path, led by Narcissa. He wore silver robes trimmed with green thread that echoed his House, but with modern clean cuts. His hair was swept back, a single enchanted lily clipped behind one ear.

Hydras met him under the archway, having walked there escorted by Thomas and Severus, both proud and shining in their own quiet ways.

Hydras wore midnight-black robes with an emerald lining, the fabric iridescent in the light. A silver serpent curled delicately around the hem — a subtle nod to heritage, chosen with intent.

They stood together, silent for a long moment, hands finding each other like they’d always belonged there.

The officiant — Andromeda Tonks, as requested by both grooms — smiled softly. “We are gathered in this place of peace, surrounded by love, to witness the union of Hydras Gaunt and Draco Malfoy.”

The vows were handwritten, whispered low enough that only those closest could hear.

“I didn’t know what forever meant until I met you,” Hydras said, voice thick. “You are the first place I’ve ever felt safe. I choose you. I always will.”

Draco’s hands trembled slightly as he replied, “You took the boy they said was meant for war and gave him a life of peace. I will protect you, love you, and follow you — even when you’re being dramatic about bookshelves.”

Hydras grinned through tears.

Rings were exchanged — slender, magical, enchanted with protection and constancy. A delicate binding charm shimmered between them for a second, like a silver wisp of ribbon tying their fingers together.

“You may kiss—” Andromeda began.

But they were already kissing, softly, sweetly, like it had been a long time coming.

Applause erupted — even Severus clapped, Elaria bouncing gleefully in his lap, crowing “Aaa!” at the top of her lungs.

⸻

Later that Evening

The reception was a moonlit dinner under floating lanterns. No loud music. Just warmth and laughter and the soft sounds of glasses clinking and silverware tapping on plates.

Hydras danced with Severus and Thomas. Draco danced with Narcissa. At one point, Draco twirled Elaria around in his arms as Hydras watched, completely undone.

There was no spectacle. Just love — quiet, steady, undeniable.

And somewhere deep inside, they both knew they were no longer just heirs, survivors, or sons.

They were each other’s home.

Chapter Text

The villa was hidden by a Disillusionment Ward, built into the rocky edge of a cliff where the lake shimmered like polished silver beneath them. The Italian Ministry had granted them access to a private magical enclave — the type only old money or old names could secure. Hydras had insisted on something peaceful. Draco had insisted on something with a view.

They’d both gotten their way.

On the first morning of their honeymoon, Hydras woke with Draco’s fingers lightly tangled in his curls. They were both still warm with sleep, and Draco’s voice was barely a murmur.

“I can’t believe you’re mine.”

Hydras smiled and replied without opening his eyes, “You were mine first.”

They didn’t get out of bed for hours. The silk sheets were charmed to stay cool, and the windows were thrown open, letting in the lake breeze and the faint sound of birdsong. When they finally did rise, they padded barefoot to the kitchen, where a breakfast spell laid out fruit and warm honeyed bread beside a pot of strong Italian coffee.

They ate in the sun-drenched sitting room, Hydras with his legs thrown across Draco’s lap, and a book open between them. Draco didn’t bother reading it — he was too busy watching Hydras’ mouth move, too content in the soft silence between them.

Later that day, they took a boat out onto the lake — just the two of them, no enchantments or servants. Draco brought wine. Hydras brought a camera and took far too many photos of Draco pretending not to be flattered.

“You know, people are going to think I married you for your looks,” Hydras teased.

“You did,” Draco answered, smirking. “I just came with other perks.”

They docked for lunch on a tiny floating terrace only accessible by water and spent the afternoon swimming, sunbathing, and kissing lazily in the shade.

When the sun set, Hydras conjured a blanket and laid it out beside the water, and they stargazed for what felt like hours. Draco’s head rested on Hydras’ chest, fingers lightly tracing circles.

“Can you believe this is our life now?” Draco whispered.

Hydras turned his head slightly to kiss the crown of Draco’s hair.

“I fought a war for this. So did you.”

Draco snuggled closer. “Worth it.”

A shooting star streaked across the sky, and neither of them made a wish. They didn’t need to.

They already had everything.

Chapter Text

Hydras and Draco had decided to dress to the nines — Hydras in a black-on-black tailored suit with subtle emerald threading at the lapels, Draco in dove grey with a silk tie the exact color of Hydras’ eyes. They’d walked in hand-in-hand, heads turning as they were escorted to a private table near the window, overlooking the softly lit garden courtyard.

Neither of them had said it aloud, but both had needed a night that wasn’t magic, wasn’t duty, wasn’t war — just them.

As they sipped champagne and murmured over the menu, a quartet of older muggle women at the next table noticed them. The ladies were somewhere in their sixties, dressed in elegant shawls and pearls, and clearly on their own weekly night out.

One of them leaned over with a warm smile and said, “Excuse me, dears. I just wanted to say — you make an exceptionally handsome young couple.”

Draco, caught mid-sip, choked slightly but recovered with a graceful smile. Hydras grinned.

“Thank you,” Hydras said, cheeks faintly pink. “We just got married, actually.”

The women gasped in delight. “Oh, how wonderful! Newlyweds — it shows. That glow never lies,” one of them said, fluttering her hand toward them.

“You’re both absolutely glowing,” another added. “We were saying earlier how nice it is to see two people so clearly in love.”

Draco cleared his throat but softened under the praise. “That’s very kind. It’s been a long time coming.”

“Well, we won’t interrupt your romantic dinner,” the first woman said with a wink. “But congratulations again. And remember — always kiss goodnight, even after a row.”

Hydras nodded solemnly. “Noted.”

The women returned to their conversation, but not without a few more smiles cast their way. Draco leaned toward Hydras, amused.

“We’re officially charming the muggle populace now.”

Hydras laughed. “Let’s start with the grandmothers. Conquer the rest later.”

By the time dessert arrived — a shared molten chocolate cake with vanilla bean gelato — Hydras was leaning into Draco’s side, their shoulders touching. Draco fed him a spoonful, and Hydras kissed the corner of his mouth in return.

The restaurant lights dimmed just a little more. Outside, fairy lights twinkled over the courtyard.

And in a room full of strangers, Hydras and Draco felt utterly, safely at home.

Chapter Text

The mood had shifted the moment they stepped through the door. Something small, something unspoken, had started it — a quiet comment from Draco about how sweet Elaria was, followed by Hydras casually replying, “One day, maybe we’ll have one of our own.”

The silence had been sharp after that.

Now, they were moving through the motions of getting ready for bed, not speaking. Draco was brushing his teeth too aggressively. Hydras had changed into his sleep shirt with a little too much force. The bathroom door was closed too loudly.

Draco finally broke the silence. “You dropped that like it was nothing. Like we already agreed.”

Hydras looked up from where he was folding his trousers. “I didn’t drop it. I was just saying — I think about it. That’s not a crime.”

“You always do this,” Draco snapped. “You let it sit in your head for months, and then suddenly it’s my decision, too.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Hydras said, frowning. “You’re twisting my words.”

“Well, maybe you should try choosing them more carefully,” Draco muttered, slamming the drawer shut.

Hydras sat on the bed and ran both hands through his hair, breathing hard. “I don’t want to fight with you,” he said, quieter now. “We just had one of the best nights of our lives. I don’t want it to end like this.”

Draco didn’t answer immediately. He finished undressing, slipped into bed stiffly, back turned.

Hydras moved slowly, turning off the light, climbing in beside him. He hesitated, then leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to Draco’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to wake up angry at my husband,” he whispered. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

There was silence for a beat, then another.

Draco rolled toward him. “I’m not ready,” he said honestly, eyes a little glassy in the dark. “The idea of a child — it terrifies me.”

Hydras nodded. “I know. It scares me too. But I wasn’t asking for now. I just… want us to talk about it, when you’re ready.”

A long breath. Then Draco reached out, threading his fingers through Hydras’s.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I love you. Even when you’re a Gryffindor about things.”

Hydras gave a sleepy laugh. “That’s slander.”

They shifted together, arms winding around each other, tension dissolving under soft touches and shared warmth. Hydras kissed Draco’s brow and whispered again, “Goodnight, husband.”

Draco mumbled back, “Goodnight, idiot.”

And this time, they fell asleep with peace between them.

Chapter Text

The aroma of coffee drifted softly through the flat before either of them stirred.

Hydras blinked awake to find Draco already sitting up in bed, hair messily elegant, flipping through the Prophet. The morning light cast a glow around him, and Hydras couldn’t help smiling.

Draco glanced down. “Morning, husband.”

“Still not over how that sounds,” Hydras replied with a grin, stretching. “Morning.”

There was a pause, then Draco closed the paper and turned to face him fully. “I’m sorry again. About last night.”

Hydras scooted closer, resting his chin on Draco’s shoulder. “Me too. We’re learning. It’s allowed.”

Draco leaned his head against Hydras’s. “I want to be better at… talking about things. I just panic sometimes.”

Hydras kissed the curve of his jaw. “You’re already better. You let me in. That’s all I ever want.”

The apology drifted into content silence. Then came a knock at the door.

Hydras furrowed his brow. “We’re not expecting anyone, are we?”

Draco groaned. “Please tell me it’s not your dad with another knitted onesie for Elaria.”

Hydras padded to the door in pajama pants and a t-shirt, opening it—

To find Severus, Thomas, and Elaria bundled in a blanket between them.

Thomas lifted a tiny box. “Breakfast from a café. We thought we’d surprise you.”

Severus added, “And your father insisted Elaria needed a walk.”

Hydras lit up instantly, taking Elaria into his arms. “Hi, little star,” he murmured as she squealed. “You’re up far too early.”

“We were going to floo, but Severus had an opinion about soot and baby blankets,” Thomas said dryly.

Draco appeared behind Hydras and softened at the sight of their family. “Come in. Hydras made up for last night with cuddling, so we’re in a good mood.”

Thomas smirked. “You two fought?”

Severus arched a brow. “Was it about children?”

Hydras blinked. “…How did you know?”

Thomas and Severus exchanged a long-suffering look.

“You’re our son,” Severus said dryly. “And Draco is Lucius’s.”

Hydras rolled his eyes, letting Elaria cling to his shirt. “We’re okay now.”

Draco took a pastry from the breakfast box and handed one to Thomas. “We’ll get there. Eventually. In our own way.”

As they all settled around the small table, Elaria on Draco’s lap tugging at his sleeve, the tension of the night before seemed like a distant dream. Laughter bubbled up between bites of scones and shared smirks, and Hydras reached out to thread his fingers through Draco’s.

He whispered, just for him, “I’ll make us pancakes tomorrow. Your favorite. Blueberry with chocolate drizzle.”

Draco’s eyes softened. “Marrying you was the best decision I’ve ever made.”

Severus coughed behind his teacup. “Please keep it down, I’m trying to digest.”

Thomas added with a chuckle, “Oh, let them be disgustingly in love. It’s good for the baby’s development.”

Everyone groaned — even Elaria made a squeaky noise — and the flat filled with warmth and family chaos, exactly as it should.

Chapter Text

The flat was unusually quiet—too quiet, considering they were babysitting a ten-month-old with a known affinity for dramatic shrieks and gleeful chaos.

Hydras peeked around the corner into the living room. “She’s… asleep?”

Draco stood behind him, arms crossed. “Impossible. We’ve been parents for two hours.”

“She’s not even our baby,” Hydras said, whispering now. “She’s my baby sister. Totally different rules.”

They tiptoed back into the room, where Elaria was curled up on Draco’s chest, her tiny hands fisted in his shirt and her head tucked under his chin. Her little breaths were soft and even, and Draco hadn’t moved in ten minutes for fear of waking her.

Hydras knelt beside the sofa, resting his head on the armrest and smiling at them both.

“You’re really good with her,” he said quietly.

Draco looked down at the baby girl snuggled into him. “She’s… shockingly heavy.”

“She’s built like my dad. Solid. Like a tiny cannonball.” Hydras smiled at the way Draco’s fingers gently ran along her back. “But you haven’t flinched once.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “It’s strange. When I’m holding her, I don’t feel like I’m going to drop her. Or mess it up.”

“You aren’t going to mess it up.”

“I know.” Draco met his gaze. “But I’ve been terrified that I would. That if we had a child, I’d be too much like my father. Too cold. Or worse… not enough like him when it counts.”

Hydras shifted closer. “Draco… Lucius is proud of you. He tells me when you’re not around.”

Draco scoffed, but a flicker of emotion crossed his face. “This baby—this beautiful, squishy creature—is your sister. But tonight, it felt like she was ours.”

Hydras reached over and brushed a lock of blonde hair from Draco’s eyes. “Do you want that? For real?”

Draco didn’t answer at first. He looked down at Elaria again, his voice quiet and raw. “I do. I really do. I just… needed to know I wouldn’t be terrible at it.”

Hydras swallowed thickly, heart swelling. “You wouldn’t be. You’d be amazing.”

Draco finally looked at him. “Okay then. Maybe not now, not tomorrow. But… someday soon?”

Hydras leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Someday soon.”

Just then, Elaria stirred and let out a confused little grunt, then nestled in closer to Draco’s chest.

Draco smiled. “She’s not going to want to leave.”

Hydras laughed softly. “Neither will I.”

From the table across the room, a magical photo of Severus and Thomas shimmered gently in its frame—Elaria as a newborn in their arms. Hydras glanced at it and whispered, “She’s lucky to have them.”

Draco pressed a kiss to the top of Elaria’s head and whispered back, “And one day… our baby will be lucky to have us.”

Chapter Text

The summer breeze drifted lazily through the garden as Hydras poured tea into four porcelain cups. Thomas sat with one arm around Severus’ waist on the garden bench, looking completely smug about something as usual, while Severus pretended he wasn’t enjoying it. The garden roses behind them bloomed in perfect, magically tended rows.

Draco nudged Hydras under the table with his foot.

Hydras shot him a look.

“Well?” Draco mouthed.

Hydras cleared his throat.

Severus raised an eyebrow immediately. “That’s never a good sign.”

“We, uh…” Hydras started, then glanced at Draco, who gave him a tiny nod. “We wanted to talk to you about something.”

Thomas, ever perceptive, tilted his head. “Go on, son.”

Hydras took a breath. “Draco and I have been talking about the future. And… we’re thinking about having a baby.”

Severus blinked once, his expression unreadable.

Thomas, on the other hand, grinned slowly. “You’re serious?”

“Yes,” Draco said, sitting up a little straighter. “Not right this second, but we’re starting to plan. We babysat Elaria, and… it just sort of clicked.”

“You should have seen them,” Hydras added. “Draco was a natural. She fell asleep right on him.”

Severus set down his teacup with careful precision. “You’re both still young.”

“We know,” Hydras said quickly. “But we’re not rushing anything. We just… wanted you to know. And we want your support.”

There was a pause.

Then Thomas said, “Severus cried when the healer told us Elaria was real.”

“I did not cry,” Severus said crisply.

“I watched the tear,” Thomas said smugly.

Severus sighed through his nose and looked at the boys. “If this is what you want—if you’re ready to build a family—then you have our full support.”

Draco relaxed visibly. “Thank you.”

Severus continued, voice softer, “But I expect you to think through the logistics. Parenting isn’t all cuddles and cute outfits.”

Hydras grinned. “But it is some cuddles and cute outfits.”

Severus gave him the patented Snape Glare™.

Thomas leaned over and kissed Severus’ temple. “Darling, you once made a spreadsheet comparing seventeen different pacifier charms. Don’t scare them off with your control freak tendencies.”

“I was being thorough,” Severus said, but the edge in his voice was gone.

Hydras beamed at them. “Elaria’s going to have a niece or nephew.”

Thomas raised his teacup. “To future mischief-makers and magical chaos.”

Severus muttered, “Merlin help us.”

Chapter Text

The office was warm, with golden lamplight flickering against walls lined with baby name books, glowing diagrams of magical genetics, and enchanted mobiles floating lazily above a low bookshelf.

Draco sat beside Hydras, holding his hand, their fingers laced tightly.

Across from them sat Healer Meliora Vance, a kind-eyed witch in soft lavender robes and a clipboard that floated beside her.

“So,” she said with a smile, “you’re both here today to explore biological conception options. I see from your file that you’re a same-sex magical couple, both wizards, and that adoption isn’t a route you’re interested in. That’s completely fine—we have several magical alternatives. May I ask how soon you’re hoping to begin this journey?”

Draco looked at Hydras, then said, “Not immediately. We’re still planning. But we wanted to know what’s possible for us. What’s… realistic.”

Healer Vance nodded. “Absolutely. There are three primary options for male magical couples wishing to have a biological child. I’ll walk you through each, and you can tell me your thoughts.”

Hydras nodded. “Please.”

“Option one,” she began, “is gestational surrogacy using a magical carrier. One of you would provide the sperm, and we would use either a magically generated egg from one of you—yes, that’s possible—or a donor. A magical surrogate would carry the child. The process is medically supervised, and we have incredibly high success rates.”

Draco tilted his head. “But the baby wouldn’t be growing in either of us.”

“Correct. It would be genetically related to you, but carried by someone else.”

Hydras bit his lip and shook his head. “That’s not what we want.”

“Noted.” She smiled gently. “Option two is magical transmutation gestation. A ritual is used to temporarily give one partner the physical capacity to carry and birth a child. It’s complex, heavily warded, and requires a specific compatibility test—”

“We’ve had that done,” Hydras cut in. “For my dad and father. They said we’d be compatible, too.”

Healer Vance lit up. “That’s wonderful news! That opens up option two fully. It would require preparation—physical and magical—and a ritual overseen by a certified Arithmomancer and midwitch.”

Draco leaned forward. “Which of us…?”

“Either of you could potentially carry,” she said. “But the decision often comes down to physical readiness and magical temperament. And that brings me to option three, a variant of the second.”

Hydras blinked. “There’s more?”

She nodded. “Yes. Shared essence ritual conception. This allows us to magically merge genetic material from both partners and transplant the embryo into one of your bodies. It’s the most personal option—but also the most intensive. It requires full magical compatibility, a strong emotional bond, and complete consent.”

Draco squeezed Hydras’ hand. “That sounds… beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful.”

Hydras asked softly, “If we go that route… would you be able to tell us who should carry?”

Healer Vance smiled. “Yes. We would do an advanced compatibility scan and counsel you both through the process.”

She leaned in, kindly. “And just so you know—you two already have a rare bond. Magical readings show immense stability between you. Whatever path you choose, you’re going to be wonderful parents.”

Hydras turned to Draco, eyes a little glassy. “So. Do we want to make a tiny us?”

Draco gave him a crooked smile. “Yeah. We do.”

Chapter Text

The room looked like it belonged in a stargazer’s observatory. The circular ceiling was enchanted to show shifting constellations, and the floor beneath their feet shimmered with runes in silvery ink. In the center stood a raised marble platform surrounded by softly glowing crystal instruments.

Healer Vance motioned for Hydras and Draco to step onto the platform. “The scan is painless,” she said kindly, “though you may feel a little tingling. It reads magical energy flow, physical harmony, and gestational alignment.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Gestational alignment?”

“Essentially,” she explained, “how compatible your body and magical field are with carrying and nurturing new life. It’s part physiological, part magical temperament.”

Hydras gave Draco a grin and stepped onto the platform first. Draco joined him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

Healer Vance tapped her wand to the runes. “Ready?”

They both nodded.

The crystals pulsed to life. A cool breeze swept through the chamber as silver threads of light rose from their chests, weaving together in complex patterns above their heads. Slowly, the magic shifted, coalescing into two distinct orbs—one above each of them.

Hydras’ orb glowed a steady, warm green.

Draco’s orb flickered between silver and red, unstable.

The crystals gave a gentle ding as the reading completed.

Healer Vance stepped forward and examined the light pattern, her expression thoughtful but calm.

“Well,” she said, “you’re both technically compatible, which is rare and lovely to see. However…”

She tapped Draco’s orb, which pulsed and dimmed slightly.

“Draco’s magical core isn’t fully stabilized for gestational magic. That’s not a bad thing—it just means he’s not naturally aligned to carry. He’d need more extensive magical reinforcement, and there would be higher risk involved.”

Draco frowned slightly, disappointed, but nodded.

Hydras’ orb glowed more brightly now, humming softly.

“Hydras, on the other hand,” she continued gently, “you have exceptional magical and physical alignment. Your body is already exhibiting natural protective energy signatures often seen in magical carriers.”

Hydras blinked. “So… I’m the better option.”

“You’re not just the better option,” Healer Vance said warmly. “You’re the optimal one. Minimal risk. Beautiful magical balance. With the proper preparation, you’d carry a child very well.”

Draco reached for Hydras’ hand, squeezing it with care. “I know this wasn’t what we expected. Are you okay with this?”

Hydras looked up at him, eyes steady. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Then, he smirked. “At least I’ll finally have something over my dad.”

Draco laughed softly and kissed his cheek. “You’ll be brilliant.”

Healer Vance beamed. “Shall I schedule the preparatory ritual?”

Hydras nodded. “Let’s make a baby.”

Chapter Text

It was early evening at the Gaunt Estate. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, and little Elaria babbled happily from her padded play mat. Severus and Thomas sat side by side on the sofa, watching her with warm amusement—until Hydras cleared his throat and Draco stepped beside him, slightly nervous but excited.

Hydras spoke first. “We’ve decided something. We… want to have a baby.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, then exchanged a look with Severus, who blinked and sat up straighter.

Draco added quickly, “We weren’t sure at first. But we went for a scan—”

“–And it turns out I’m magically aligned to carry,” Hydras finished, straightening his shoulders.

Severus’s lips parted slightly in surprise, but his reaction wasn’t sharp or doubtful—just stunned. “You… carrying a child?”

“I know. Wild,” Hydras said with a grin. “But I want this. And Draco does too.”

Thomas’s expression softened. “You’ll make a very unusual pair of parents,” he said wryly, but then added, “but you’ll be brilliant at it. Both of you.”

Severus stood and crossed to his son, resting a hand on Hydras’ shoulder. “As long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

Severus nodded. Then, he smirked. “Well… I suppose I can stop calling you a reckless teenage menace and start calling you a reckless young father.”

Hydras rolled his eyes and hugged him anyway.

⸻

A week later, Draco and Hydras returned to the magical clinic tucked between Knockturn Alley and Charing Cross Road—hidden behind a bookshop that sold enchanted baby books and teething wands.

The ritual chamber was circular, its stone walls etched with ancient fertility glyphs. Warm, amber light glowed from floating orbs, and a silver basin of potion sat waiting in the center of a star-shaped rune circle.

Healer Vance handed Hydras a glass phial. “You’ll drink this first—dragonflower tonic, to strengthen the womb-space and initiate the carrier’s cycle. Then we’ll start the rune enchantment and cast the bond.”

Hydras took Draco’s hand, squeezing it tight. “Still want this?”

Draco smiled and leaned in to kiss his temple. “I want you. I want us. And yeah—I want our baby.”

With a deep breath, Hydras drank.

The warmth of the potion spread instantly through his chest and down to his core, like sunlight pouring through his veins. Gold light shimmered under his skin, and he felt a pull—not painful, but electric, powerful.

The runes lit. The enchantment began to hum.

Healer Vance stepped forward with her wand. “When you’re ready, I’ll begin the bonding spell.”

Hydras nodded. “Let’s make a baby.”

Draco smiled at him like he was made of starlight.

Chapter Text

It had been three weeks since the ritual. Hydras hadn’t felt that different—just a little tired, a little queasy some mornings, and constantly hungry for weird things like cinnamon pickles and licorice.

Draco insisted they go back to the clinic, just to be sure. Hydras had pretended it was unnecessary, but he was secretly anxious, clutching Draco’s hand in the waiting room so hard he left nail dents in his palm.

Healer Vance entered with a small smile, a parchment in hand glowing faintly with golden ink.

“Well,” she said, smoothing the edges. “Congratulations, gentlemen. The ritual was successful. Hydras, you are with child.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Draco whispered, “It worked?”

Hydras blinked rapidly, his mouth slightly open. “We’re really going to be parents?”

Vance chuckled. “I’d say yes. Just about six weeks along. Everything looks stable and healthy.”

Draco stood, leaned down, and kissed Hydras softly, cupping his jaw. “You’re incredible,” he whispered.

Hydras just stared up at him in shock, then finally smiled—a watery, astonished thing. “There’s a baby. Our baby.”

Draco kissed his forehead and whispered again, this time for just them, “Our family’s growing.”

Chapter Text

Thomas Gaunt was reclined in his armchair, a book open in one hand and a teacup in the other. Severus sat nearby, meticulously annotating a potions journal, his quill scratching rhythmically. The fire crackled.

Hydras and Draco stood just inside the room, hand in hand.

Severus looked up first, brows raised. “You’re early. I thought you two were shopping today.”

Hydras grinned nervously. “We were. But we had… other things to do.”

Thomas eyed them over the rim of his teacup. “You’re both being cryptic. What is it?”

Draco cleared his throat. “We went to the healer.”

Severus immediately set his journal down. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Hydras said, voice barely above a whisper. “We’re pregnant.”

There was a full beat of silence.

Thomas blinked, then his mouth broke into a rare, wide smile. “You did the ritual.”

“You said to wait until we were ready,” Hydras said, a little breathlessly. “We were.”

Severus stood slowly, eyes wide and unguarded. “You—are you feeling all right? Do you need anything? Have you been eating enough?”

Hydras laughed through tears. “I’m fine. Really.”

Thomas walked over and clapped a hand on Draco’s shoulder, nodding in approval. “You’ll both make strong parents. I’m proud of you.”

Severus pulled Hydras into a hug and whispered in his ear, “You were always meant for more. You’ve made your own path—and now your own family.”

⸻

Lucius and Narcissa were hosting a quiet dinner when Hydras and Draco arrived, dressed sharply and looking especially solemn.

Lucius raised an eyebrow. “Something tells me this is not simply a visit.”

Draco nodded and squeezed Hydras’ hand. “We wanted to tell you something important—before it gets out in the papers.”

Narcissa looked up sharply. “Are you in danger?”

“No,” Hydras said quickly. “Quite the opposite.”

“We’re going to have a baby,” Draco said, a little breathless. “We did a magical conception ritual. Hydras is carrying.”

Narcissa gasped and covered her mouth, eyes already welling with tears. “Oh, Draco…”

Lucius stood still for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he let out a small, awed chuckle. “The first Malfoy-Gaunt child. Merlin help the world.”

Narcissa moved around the table to pull them both into a hug. “You two… You’ve grown so much. And now—”

“A grandchild,” Lucius murmured, then looked Hydras in the eye. “Thank you—for giving us this.”

Hydras smiled, soft and sincere. “You’ve given me family. I’m just continuing it.”

Chapter Text

The rain tapped gently against the windows of their shared bedroom. Draco was propped up with a book on magical infant development, glasses sliding down his nose, while Hydras lay next to him, his head resting on Draco’s chest and one hand lightly curled over the small but noticeable swell of his belly.

“We still haven’t picked a full name,” Hydras murmured. “We can’t just keep calling him little bean forever.”

“I like little bean,” Draco said, smirking and running his fingers through Hydras’ hair. “It’s charming.”

Hydras huffed a laugh. “He’ll sue us the moment he learns how to write.”

Draco closed the book and set it on the nightstand, stretching out a bit. “All right. So. We’re down to two for the first name—Scorpius or Adonis.”

Hydras raised a brow. “Still leaning toward Scorpius?”

Draco nodded. “It’s traditional, but rare. A star name, and it ties to the Black family constellation tradition—without sounding old-fashioned.”

Hydras rubbed his bump thoughtfully. “But Adonis is strong. Regal. Mythic. It sounds like someone who walks into a room and people look.”

Draco laughed. “You mean like you?”

Hydras gave him a smug grin. “Exactly.”

They lay in silence for a few minutes, weighing the options. Then Draco asked, “What about a middle name? We haven’t even touched that.”

Hydras’s brow furrowed. “What about something meaningful? Someone we love. Or a name with legacy?”

“Thomas?” Draco offered gently.

Hydras tilted his head. “Too obvious. And too… much. It’s his name. Our child needs something that belongs to him.”

Draco tapped a finger against his chin. “What about something from your side? Or—what if we used something from Severus?”

Hydras blinked, surprised. “Severus? I mean… It would honor him. He’s everything to me.”

Draco nodded. “It doesn’t have to be Severus. Just a reference. Something close. A name that reflects his strength, his devotion.”

Hydras was quiet for a long moment. Then:
“Okay. So maybe… Elias. It’s soft, a little old-world. But there’s a strength to it. And it flows.”

“Scorpius Elias Malfoy-Gaunt?” Draco tested it.
“Adonis Elias Malfoy-Gaunt?”

Hydras smiled, eyes closed. “I think I like it.”

“Then it’s between those two,” Draco murmured, pressing a kiss to Hydras’s temple. “We’ll see him, and we’ll know. Just like we knew with each other.”

Chapter Text

The room was quiet now, save for the tiny, soft sounds of the newborn swaddled in white and cradled against Hydras’ chest. Draco sat beside them on the hospital bed, his hand covering Hydras’ and his eyes wide with awe. Both were flushed, sweaty, and emotionally exhausted—but elated.

The baby yawned, his features scrunching briefly before settling into a peaceful expression. Dark lashes, soft blond curls, a dainty nose that looked far too familiar.

Draco stared down at the baby for a long moment, then suddenly blurted:
“Dammit, he looks like he could be either!”

Hydras gaped at him. “Exactly! That’s what I’ve been saying in my head for the last five minutes!”

“He’s got your cheekbones!” Draco insisted.

“And your mouth,” Hydras said.

“His nose is neither of ours,” Draco muttered. “Which was not in the plan.”

Hydras groaned and tilted his head toward the ceiling. “The whole point of waiting to name him was that we’d see him and just know!”

The baby made a hiccupping noise, as if mildly judging them both.

Draco rubbed his face with his hands. “We can’t just keep calling him ‘Bean’ forever.”

“Well, we could,” Hydras said, exasperated. “He wouldn’t know for at least a year.”

Draco looked at him sideways. “Hydras Malfoy-Gaunt, are you suggesting we have a child named Bean Malfoy-Gaunt?”

Hydras snorted and leaned over to kiss his husband’s shoulder. “I’m saying I’m tired and sore and this tiny dictator is too beautiful and ambiguous-looking for us to make a decision right now.”

They looked down at the baby again. He blinked sleepily, stretched his little arms, and yawned.

Draco reached out and brushed a curl from his forehead.
“We’ll sleep on it,” he said softly.

Hydras nodded. “Tomorrow, we’ll know. Scorpius or Adonis.”

The baby grunted.

“Or Bean,” Hydras added under his breath.

Draco groaned into his hands.

Chapter Text

The Malfoy sun parlor had never seen so much baby energy. The freshly born Malfoy-Gaunt heir was bundled in a fine cream blanket, resting in a magical bassinet that hovered gently beside Hydras. Thomas and Severus sat side-by-side, both trying and failing to look as aloof as they usually did—Thomas was leaning forward, completely fixated on the baby’s every breath, while Severus kept brushing invisible lint off the baby’s blanket.

Across from them, Lucius and Narcissa watched with warm pride, Narcissa already halfway into knitting what looked like a sky-blue cardigan.

Hydras cleared his throat. “So…we have a problem.”

“We can’t decide his name,” Draco supplied. “We narrowed it down to Scorpius or Adonis—but when we saw him, we realized he could be either.”

“We waited on naming him until he was born because we thought seeing his face would make the choice obvious,” Hydras said, flopping dramatically against the cushions. “It did not.”

Lucius arched an eyebrow. “He does have the Malfoy eyes.”

“But that mouth is pure Gaunt,” Severus murmured.

Draco crossed his arms. “So we were right! Completely even split.”

Thomas leaned over to peer more closely. “Scorpius sounds elegant. Aristocratic. Fitting.”

“But Adonis,” Narcissa chimed in, “is softer. Mythic. Romantic.”

“I like both,” Hydras said with a frustrated whimper. “He’s got the curls to be an Adonis but the stare of a Scorpius.”

“Has he glared at anyone yet?” Severus asked without humor.

“He glared at a nurse,” Draco muttered.

Thomas smirked. “Then perhaps Scorpius.”

Narcissa gave a gentle laugh. “But if you’re worried about personality—you’ll know nothing for months. Name him based on love, not fear.”

Lucius finally spoke, voice low and thoughtful. “Why not…use both?”

Hydras blinked. “Scorpius Adonis?”

“Or Adonis Scorpius, we had decided on Elias as a middle name but I’m willing to let that go.” Draco said slowly, testing the cadence.

Severus tilted his head. “Scorpius Adonis Malfoy-Gaunt. That has a ring to it.”

Thomas nodded in agreement. “Powerful. And handsome.”

Draco looked to Hydras, brow raised.

Hydras looked down at the baby, who gave a very indignant sneeze.

He grinned. “Scorpius Adonis it is.”

Chapter Text

The Name Registry Office at the Ministry was a quiet place, tucked between the Department of Magical Records and a windowless corridor no one used unless absolutely necessary. Hydras and Draco stood at the enchanted counter, where a glowing quill hovered above parchment, ready to inscribe the full name of the new child.

A squat, pleasant-faced witch peered at them over her spectacles. “Name of the child?”

Hydras and Draco looked at each other, both grinning now that the decision was firm.

“Scorpius Adonis Malfoy-Gaunt,” Hydras said proudly.

“Hyphenated?” the witch confirmed, already scribbling.

“Yes,” Draco replied, squeezing Hydras’ hand beneath the desk.

“Date of birth, parents’ names, and magical guardians,” the witch droned as they answered each prompt.

When the quill finished, the parchment glowed and rolled itself into a scroll before vanishing into the Ministry archives with a soft pop.

The witch smiled kindly. “Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy-Gaunt. Your son is now officially recognized.”

“Thanks,” Hydras murmured. “It’s real now, isn’t it?”

Draco leaned in. “It always was.”

⸻

The nursery shimmered with soft candlelight. A rocking charm kept the cradle in gentle motion, while enchanted starlight glowed across the ceiling in swirling constellations.

Hydras sat in the rocking chair, wearing an oversized jumper and pajama pants. He had Scorpius tucked in one arm, the baby’s tiny fingers curled around Hydras’ thumb like he never intended to let go.

“You’re officially Scorpius Adonis Malfoy-Gaunt now,” Hydras whispered. “Sounds big for someone so small, huh?”

Scorpius blinked slowly, the color of his eyes shifting between soft silver and a stormy grey.

“I hope you grow into it. Into all the things your name carries. Malfoy pride. Gaunt legacy. And everything Draco and I want for you that has nothing to do with bloodlines and everything to do with love.”

A small, hiccuping sigh came from Scorpius. Hydras chuckled.

“You’ve already got me wrapped around your little fingers,” he whispered, kissing the baby’s forehead. “And your dad’s too. Both of them.”

The rocking slowed. Scorpius had already drifted off again, content.

Hydras smiled, rested his head against the chair, and whispered into the soft dark:

“Welcome to the world, Scorpius.”

Chapter Text

The drawing room was sunlit and unusually cozy for the grand estate. Pillows had been scattered around low tables, enchanted tea and pastries floated gently above the trays, and soft music played from a magical gramophone tucked into the corner. The Squires of Walpurgis—now grown, confident, and deeply bonded—had been invited for a private afternoon visit.

Hydras stood near the arched window, cradling a swaddled bundle in his arms, bouncing gently. Draco hovered protectively nearby, offering the baby a finger to grasp.

“So,” Blaise Zabini said with a raised brow as he leaned against the velvet arm of the couch, “this is the little heir?”

Hydras gave a mock-glare. “He’s not a political figure. He’s a baby. A very loud, wrinkly baby.”

“He’s perfect,” Pansy said with a fond smirk. She stepped forward, peering down at Scorpius with genuine warmth. “Look at his little scowl. He already has Draco’s judgmental face.”

Draco huffed. “He does not.”

“Hydras, tell him,” Theo Nott chuckled.

Hydras grinned. “He absolutely does.”

Scorpius gave a soft coo and furrowed his brow, squirming a little.

“See?” Blaise muttered. “That’s the face of someone who will someday inherit all your hair products and snobbery, Draco.”

Millicent leaned in and gently tickled Scorpius’ chin with one finger. “He’s going to be spoiled rotten.”

“Already is,” Draco admitted, unable to hide the smile tugging at his lips. “I bought him a silver-rimmed rattle enchanted to mimic dragon purrs.”

“And Hydras transfigured one of my old dueling gloves into a teether,” Pansy laughed. “This child is surrounded by magical chaos and ancient legacies. I love it.”

Hydras stepped back a little, letting each of his old friends get a good look.

“He’s lucky to have you lot,” he said. “You’re his weird aunts and uncles now, like it or not.”

“Weird?” Theo sniffed. “I’ll have you know I intend to be the cool one.”

“You live in a library tower and argue with your portrait ancestors,” Blaise said dryly.

“Exactly. Cool.”

They laughed, loud and genuine, and Scorpius blinked up at the noise, blinking in slow, sleepy confusion.

Hydras pressed a kiss to his son’s soft hair. “Welcome to the world, Scorpius. You’ve got an odd, wonderful family waiting for you.”

Chapter Text

Platform 9¾ was humming with excitement and nostalgia. Steam curled around the scarlet engine as families bustled along the platform. Owls hooted, trunks rolled, and the whistle of the Hogwarts Express promised another year of magic.

Hydras stood beside Draco, their fingers laced together. Both were watching the crowds with a mix of pride and anxiety. Behind them, Thomas adjusted his robes, already scanning for trouble with his usual quiet menace, while Severus stood beside him with a faint, knowing smirk.

“You’d think we were sending him into a war zone, not a school,” Severus said dryly.

Thomas grunted. “It is Hogwarts.”

“Point taken,” Severus murmured.

Nearby, Elaria Gaunt-Snape—twelve years old and full of confident sass—was fussing with her prefect pin, despite not needing to wear it until next year. Her dark curls were pinned half up, her wand tucked neatly into her boot.

“Scorpius, you have to sit near me,” she declared, bossy and beaming. “I’ll introduce you to the best snacks and show you which staircase skips Charms when you’re tired.”

Scorpius, standing straight in his crisp new robes, clutched his wand a little nervously. He had Draco’s eyes, Hydras’ expressive face, and an air of quiet determination far beyond his eleven years.

“Thanks, Elaria,” he said. “I just want to make it to the Sorting without tripping.”

Hydras knelt down to fix his son’s collar. “You’ll be brilliant. You’ve got a little of everyone in you—use it wisely.”

Draco bent to kiss Scorpius’ forehead. “And remember, don’t hex anyone on the first day. Second, maybe. But not the first.”

Scorpius grinned. “Yes, Papa.”

Elaria snorted. “He’s going to end up in Slytherin and rule the place by Halloween.”

“And you’ll be there making sure he doesn’t get detention every other week,” Severus said archly.

Elaria flashed him a grin. “I learned from the best.”

The train gave a shrill whistle.

Scorpius turned to Hydras and Draco one last time. “I’ll write every week. I promise.”

“You’d better,” Hydras said, his voice thick with emotion.

Elaria took his hand and tugged. “Come on. We’re sitting near the middle! It’s best for snack access and first dibs on the lunch trolley.”

The adults watched as the two kids boarded the train. Scorpius paused at the door, gave one last look at his parents—and then he was gone, swallowed by the Hogwarts Express.

As the train began to pull away, Hydras slipped his arm around Draco’s waist, resting his head on his husband’s shoulder. Thomas reached out to clasp Severus’ hand silently.

“They’re really gone,” Draco whispered.

“Just for a little while,” Hydras murmured. “This is where we began, remember?”

Draco smiled faintly. “I remember.”

Thomas exhaled. “Feels like the end of something.”

“No,” Severus said, watching the train disappear into the distance. “This is the beginning of their story.”

The train chugged forward, picking up speed, smoke curling into the blue sky. The figures in the windows blurred—faces framed in fleeting snapshots of childhood and promise.

Then, in one clear window, Scorpius and Elaria appeared—pressed shoulder to shoulder, both grinning brightly, their palms pressed to the glass.

They waved.

Hydras and Draco waved back instantly, hands tight together. Thomas lifted his fingers in a rare salute. Severus’ eyes softened, and for just a breath, time seemed to still.

The train curved out of sight.

Gone for now.

But never far.

And the platform hummed with the quiet, enduring magic of family, of love—and of beginnings yet to come.