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Chapter Text

The night sky, teeming with stars, looked beautiful to anyone who could appreciate the silent majesty of the dark.
The air was damp, cold, and smelled of ancient earth.

Harry moved barefoot, his feet brushing against the wet undergrowth. He ignored the shiver running up his spine. Everything felt so real… but he clearly remembered that just minutes ago, he had been under his cotton sheets in the tallest Gryffindor tower.

He reached a clearing. The cold grew sharper. Wet soil pressed under his nails. He sat on a moss-covered rock and looked up at the moon.

And then he saw it.

A shadow crossing the clearing, heading toward the center of some ancient ruins. Among stones and brittle plants, it flipped through a book with ash-stained fingers. In the moonlight, Harry made out a triangular rune painted on the wall. It was drawn in red paint… or perhaps dried blood. Nearby, the bodies of several rabbits lay scattered—suggesting the latter.

Harry rose slowly. He wanted to get closer without making a sound, as if the figure were a wild animal that might flee.

He couldn’t see the man’s face. Only a rigid silhouette hunched over an old book. The leather binding was stitched with black thread; the pages looked like dry skin. When the man touched them, the book murmured.

He was searching. His fingers trembled. He stopped.

Pulled out a black dagger—so dark it seemed to drink the light. Without hesitation, he plunged it into his own hand.

A groan—more wind through ruins than human pain—escaped his lips. Blood dripped and traced the rune’s edges. The ground trembled faintly. The sky above tinged red, as if the moon had cracked.

Harry stepped forward. His instincts screamed to run. But something deeper pulled him closer. He felt it—he was being called.

—

Spilled blood, the circle sealed,
let the veil between worlds be peeled.

Let my flesh be the temple,
let my soul be the flame,
let my will be the law.

From shadow and from longing,
let the unborn rise—

a perfect being, forged in ruin and redemption.

—

The man raised his arms to the moon. He pleaded. Begged.

Harry moved closer still, his body drawn by the power of the chant.

A voice—not human, not external—screamed in his mind:

Touch the rune.

He did.

The stone seared his skin. The triangle glowed blood-red. It pulsed like a living heart.

Within the light, a human form began to take shape.

What the hell is this? he thought, strangely calm despite the burning in his hand.

—

Harry woke up screaming.

The echo of his voice faded among the stone walls of the Gryffindor tower. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. His lungs burned like he’d been running, and his hands—still trembling—clutched at his sheets like a drowning man grasping land.

The dream had been so vivid, his body still ached. He could smell the blood. Feel the wet earth underfoot. Hear the words of the ritual carved into his bones, like they had been branded into his flesh.

"It wasn’t a dream," he muttered, still breathless.

Ron and Neville hadn’t stirred. The dormitory was silent. Only the tapping of wind against the window answered. Harry sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his face with both hands, trying to gather his thoughts. But all he could see was the dagger. The red triangle. And those eyes. He hadn’t seen them clearly, but he had felt them…

Charms class passed like a blur. Flitwick called his name at least three times, and Harry didn’t respond. He only saw the black branches swaying beyond the glass. Only heard the faint whisper of something old calling him from the heart of the Forbidden Forest.

At lunch, Hermione watched him with growing concern as he barely touched his food.

"Did you have another dream?"

Harry nodded without looking up. He felt that if he spoke it aloud, if he shared it, he would lose something. As if naming it made it real.

"Harry, you have bags under your eyes, you’re pale… do you want to go to the hospital wing?"

"I’m not sick," he said, voice rough. "It’s just… the forest. I feel like it’s calling me."

Hermione squinted.

"The forest? Harry, you know Dumbledore’s forbidden anyone from—after what happened with the creatures last year—"

But Harry had stopped listening. The last thing he needed was Hermione listing school rules again. His gaze was fixed on the dark line of trees rising beyond the Quidditch pitch.

—

Night had fallen, and with it, silence thickened in the Gryffindor tower. But Harry couldn’t sleep.

Again.

He lay in bed, eyes open, staring at the velvet canopy, feeling a hum beneath his skin. As if something brushed him from within. As if a forgotten name longed to be remembered—or spoken for the first time.

He had tried everything: Hermione’s calming tea, Ron’s reassurances, even a deep-sleep potion stolen from Madame Pomfrey’s cabinet. Nothing worked.

The forest was calling him.

Not with words. Not voices. But with an ancient pull, a silent music vibrating deep in his chest. Each night it grew stronger. Closer. Something inside was breathing, waiting for him to find it.

The nightmare hadn’t returned. But the symbols, the blood, the dagger… they were still sharp in his mind, as if they had really happened.

At last, he rose.

He didn’t dress fully—just a cloak over his pajamas and his wand hidden up his sleeve. He left the common room without a sound. Descended staircases that shifted like they too feared what lay ahead. Crossed empty corridors, sealed doors, shadows that whispered. No one stopped him.

When he passed the castle threshold, the cold night air hit his face like a frozen breath. But he didn’t hesitate.

He crossed the field and stopped at the tree line of the Forbidden Forest. The shadows writhed like a living body. And then he felt it again.

A tug. A heartbeat. A magic that wasn’t his—but knew him, as if it had always known him.

He stepped past the roots.

And the forest welcomed him.

The branches closed behind. The world dimmed. Every sound faded… except the rustling of leaves and something deeper. Denser. Like a low chant rising from the ground.

Harry walked without knowing where. But certain it was the right way.

He walked for what felt like hours, filled with dread and need. His wand was out—not entirely for defense. He was searching. For what, he couldn’t say.

Then—he stopped.

A sound broke the silence. Faint. Pained. Human.

Crying.

At first, he thought his mind was tricking him. The forest played with sound, warped wind into whispers. But there it was again—a sharp, uneven cry, broken by shallow breaths and soft whimpers.

Harry turned toward it and ran, ducking branches, chasing the echo that slithered through the trees like a thread. The closer he came, the clearer it was. At last, he reached a hidden clearing—twisted roots and old stones. And there, at its center, amidst darkened soil and faded runes, lay the source.

A baby.

Wrapped in rags, fists clenched, face red from crying. His skin slick with dried blood—his own? Someone else’s?—and his barely open eyes glowed with unnatural intensity. Hypnotic. This was no ordinary newborn. Something in him pulsed. Something in him… recognized Harry.

Harry dropped to his knees without thinking. The crying stopped instantly. The baby looked at him. And Harry felt a heartbeat in his chest that wasn’t his. A connection. A voice—not human, but not hostile—whispered in his mind with the same clarity as the ritual’s chant.

"You are part of this."

His hand trembled as he reached out. The baby didn’t cry. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t fear. A strange calm covered his tiny face, as if he… recognized his father.

Harry held him.

And the world stopped.

The baby breathed with difficulty but rested quietly in Harry’s arms, as if he’d finally reached the right place. The heat from his small body was unnatural. Not warm like an ordinary child. It was… magical. Pure in a way that made Harry unsure if he should fear it or protect it with his life.

The forest fell silent again. A thick, loaded silence, like breath held tight.

And then—behind the crumbled ruins—something moved.

Harry turned sharply, wand raised. The baby didn’t make a sound, but clutched his cloak tightly, sensing it too.

Among roots and debris, dragging himself like a body returned from the abyss… a figure emerged.

Pale, bloodied, burned, with clothes in tatters and a face twisted in pain…

Tom Riddle.

Harry stepped back. His heart thundered in his ribs. For a second, he thought it was another vision. Another damn hallucination.

But then the man gasped.

"You…?" Tom rasped, lungs still echoing with the ritual’s scream. "Why are you here?"

Harry didn’t answer. He only held the baby tighter and took another step away.

Tom’s eyes dropped—slowly—to the child.

And then he felt it too.

That same pull. That same heartbeat.

A strange expression passed over his face—something between horror and awe. His legs gave out. He collapsed to his knees.

"It can’t be…" he whispered. "Not yet…"

Harry clenched his jaw. He couldn’t pretend anymore. The rune still pulsed faintly beneath them. The magic hadn’t faded. The air smelled of old blood—of fate.

"What did you do?" he asked softly, fury simmering under fear. "What kind of magic—?"

Tom looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. As if he didn’t understand either.

"It wasn’t supposed to be this… not with him… not with you…"

Silence.

The baby stretched a hand—and touched the marked earth between them.

The rune flashed once more. Red. Alive. Sealed.

Harry knew the truth before anyone spoke. Felt it like a current between the three of them. Unbreakable. Ancient. Absolute.

This child… was theirs.

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle stood before him, as if they hadn't just torn reality itself apart with their own hands. His dark eyes gleamed with a mix of satisfaction and calculation, like an alchemist observing his most ambitious experiment... and doubting the result.

"What... what the hell have you done? This... thing?" Harry's voice was a rough whisper, laden with fear and contained fury.

Tom lifted his chin, elegant even in the shadows.

"I tried to create perfection," he admitted, without hesitation. "A tailor-made heir. Beyond good and evil. Beyond the limitations of blood, lineage, and prophecies."

His gaze slid towards the child.

"But... the ritual didn't respond as I expected."

Harry felt it like a low blow.

"So this was a mistake?" Harry said, trembling, his voice breaking. "An experiment?"

"A deviation," Tom corrected, emotionless. His pain still lingered in his eyes. "I didn't plan it this way. But what came out of that altar... still has potential. Not as a tool. As a legacy."

Harry looked down at the baby. At that living thing that shouldn't exist, but now breathed in his arms, with inscrutable, ancient eyes.

"So that's the plan. To live a second time. With another face. With his life."

Tom barely smiled. He denied nothing.

"It wouldn't be the first time the future is born from another's failure," Tom murmured, with that dangerous calm that boiled under control. "And if you can't destroy something... you mold it. You make it yours."

"He's not yours," Harry growled. "Not completely."

"And is he yours, then?" Tom's voice became a poisonous, almost soft whisper. "Did you sire him? Did you expect him? Do you even know what he is?"

Harry clutched the child tighter to his chest, as if the contact could protect him from those words. The child whimpered softly, sensing the cold, heavy, breathless tension between the two.

"I know he's alive. That he feels. That he needs. That's enough for me."

Tom watched him in silence, and for a moment, the weight of his gaze seemed to drag centuries of history with it.

"He is something new. A magical singularity. Born from me... but not only from me. The ritual failed because something else intervened. Something that crossed paths... you, perhaps. Or the bond we share. He is not just creation. He is confluence."

"I don't care what you call him," Harry snapped. "You won't use him."

The silence became thick, almost physical.

Then, Tom said:

"Let's raise him together. Not as an enemy or as a legacy, but as something distinct. A shared force. Unique."

Harry shook his head.

"No. Not with you."

Tom narrowed his eyes.

"And what will you do then? Hide him? Deny him? Raise him alone when you don't even understand what he carries within?" A cold pause. And then, a smile. "You're a child..."

"I'll protect him," Harry said, his voice low but firm. "From you, from the world, even from himself if necessary. I'll take him far away from you, and you won't see him again... unless he decides to."

Tom didn't reply. But the tension in the air became almost unbearable. His eyes didn't leave the child, and for the first time, they revealed a crack of something very much like yearning.

"You can't run from what he is," he said, almost sadly.

"I'm not running," Harry retorted. "I'm choosing. Something you never did."

With a final, warning glance, Harry stepped back, enveloped in silence. He disappeared into the shadows with the child in his arms.

Tom didn't follow him.

But he wouldn't forget either.

Because what they had created could no longer be undone.

The first night, the baby was surprisingly quiet. He didn't cry once. He just observed the Room of Requirement with his large emerald eyes, serene but inquisitive. His small expression of bewilderment filled Harry with tenderness: he seemed to want to ask him something he wasn't prepared to answer.

That same night, he asked one of the house-elves for warm milk and—after several failed attempts—managed to transfigure a decent baby bottle. Hadrian drank in silence, with an almost solemn intensity, and fell asleep instantly. His breathing was so peaceful that, for the first time in days, Harry also felt sleepy. He tried to stay awake from his bed to watch over him, but exhaustion won him over.

The next day, no one noticed his absence. Hopefully, his friends wouldn't ask him yet about his sudden disappearance.

The following days passed in a strange and exhausting routine. Harry hurried up and down stairs between classes, panting with stiff legs, just to check that he was alright. He fed him secretly, changed him, bathed him with trembling hands. Sometimes he left him in the Room of Requirement with soft music and some enchanted toys so he wouldn't feel alone. But the child's patience wore thin faster and faster.

He didn't want to be alone.

He wanted his progenitor close. He wanted arms, contact, voice. He demanded it with his eyes, with his contained cries, with a silence that burned.

Harry felt like he was slowly losing his mind.

...

The baby slept. But the world didn't rest with him.

His stress during the day left the air thick and pungent. His magic vibrated in the walls, exhausting Harry. Shadows lengthened in impossible directions every time he exhaled. And nearby objects—books, quills, even the mirror above the dresser—vibrated, barely perceptible, whenever the child moved in his crib.

Harry had noticed it from the beginning, but only now could he admit it: the environment didn't respond to his actions, but to his mere existence.

It was as if reality didn't know how to hold him.

The blanket that covered him, woven with protective runes, had unraveled twice for no apparent reason. The plants by the window grew or withered at the pace of his mood. Sometimes, when he cried, the walls whispered in languages Harry didn't know... or perhaps, didn't remember yet.

Starting at 4 AM, something new happened.

A drop of ink began to slide by itself over the empty parchment on the desk. As if drawn by a silent will, it traced a spiral. Then another. And then, words.

Meaningless words.

"Soul..."
"Fire..."
"Flaw..."

Harry approached the desk, his heart sinking, but before he could read more, the inkwell shattered for no reason. The ink spilled like blood, forming a pulsating stain.

He turned to the crib.

He was no longer sleeping.

He was watching him. Fixedly. With an impossible calm for a newborn.

And Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't looking at him as a son looks at his father, but as something ancient contemplating a temporary guest.

Then, the child's eyes focused on a point behind Harry.

And that's when the nearest candle exploded. It didn't burst: it was consumed in a sigh, as if something had emptied it from within.

The child laughed.

A low, dry laugh. Barely a gurgle.

And yet, that laugh resonated in Harry's mind as a warning.

He approached, trembling. He knelt by the crib and looked him straight in the eyes.

"What are you...?" he whispered, not expecting an answer.

The baby raised a tiny hand and touched his cheek, full of love and tenderness.

He yawned. And fell back asleep, as if nothing had happened.

Harry couldn't move. Or speak. He barely breathed.

He could no longer deny what he had felt from the first moment he held him: Hadrian wasn't simply a child. He was a rift. A turning point in the history of magic. Something that shouldn't exist... but was now here.

And he loved him. By all the gods, he loved him.

But for the first time since he took him in his arms, Harry felt afraid of him.

The first week was... inhuman.

The child, though strange in his essence, was still a newborn. He ate every few hours, cried with a sound that seemed to pierce walls, and required constant attention. And Harry, who had never even cared for a plant without it dying, now found himself improvising as a father, protector, and student, all at once.

Nights were brief and full of scares. During the day, Harry attended class with red eyes, slow reflexes, and a half-functioning mind. Ginny looked at him worriedly from the other end of the classroom. Hermione, from a distance, seemed to restrain herself from intervening. And Ron... well, Ron didn't know what was happening, but he had already made a couple of clumsy comments about Harry's "lack of sleep" that Harry simply ignored.

During every break, he would run through secret passages to the Room of Requirement. The room always greeted him the same way: like a small home suspended between realities. There he left Hadrian, surrounded by enchanted toys that swayed by themselves and soft music that seemed to emerge from the air. But it wasn't enough.

The child felt his absence. Sometimes he didn't cry, but when Harry returned, he found him awake, motionless, looking at him with those impossible eyes. As if he had been awake for hours... waiting. Demanding.

The child didn't tolerate enchanted bottles or dolls that rocked him with spells. He wanted arms. He wanted Harry. He recognized his voice and only calmed down when he was near, with his skin against his. An intense, almost painful bond.

Harry fed him by hand, bathed him with lukewarm water conjured with difficulty, changed him as best he could with clumsy spells and a desperation that became routine. He was running out of insomnia potions. He no longer remembered when he had last eaten calmly.

And yet... he couldn't walk away.

Every time he held him, something inside him settled. As if his own magic rearranged itself upon contact. As if, despite the fear and doubt, his soul said: Here. This is where I need to be.

But there was something else too.

Sometimes, while the baby slept, the walls of the Room murmured things that shouldn't have a voice. Echoes of other versions of himself. Of futures that hadn't happened yet. Of fears that weren't his. The candles flickered without wind, the clocks rewound a few seconds, and the mirror showed more than what was in front of it.

Reality was resenting it.

And Harry... was starting to break.

Each day grew heavier, his legs became more numb, and his eyes closed between classes.

He knew he was going to collapse soon. Hermione told him he looked more and more like a dead man. Ron was starting to scold him for not paying attention during Quidditch practice. And Ginny... it was better not to talk about Ginny.

She chased him every hour to see if he was eating well or if he was arriving on time for his classes. It was... unbearable.

...

Dinner in the Great Hall proceeded with a normalcy Harry couldn't afford. His fingers trembled around his fork as he tried to pretend he wasn't falling apart inside. He had left Hadrian asleep in the Room of Requirement, protected by all the enchantments he knew. But the child was growing too fast, changing day by day... and Harry couldn't shake the feeling that his time with him was slipping away like water through his fingers.

He hadn't touched his food. He had barely heard Hermione talk about an overdue essay, or Ron complain about Defense homework. He only thought about going back. Returning to that room that already felt more like home than his own bed in the tower.

And then... he felt it.

A shiver. Like a stab of ice running down his spine. A tremor in the air. Something had changed.

He stood up abruptly, ignoring the stares he attracted, and walked purposefully out of the Great Hall.

The corridor seemed longer than usual. Each step towards the Room of Requirement was a dull thud on the floor, each shadow deeper. The castle, which he knew like his own breath, seemed to contain him.

When he arrived, the cold grew intense, alerting him.

He entered, wand in hand.

The room greeted him with a screaming silence. The floating lamp flickered like a trembling star, and the fire in the fireplace burned low, as if it didn't want to draw attention.

And there he was.

Tom Riddle, standing by the crib, with the creature in his arms.

He held him with a strange delicacy. Not like someone holding a weapon... but a miracle. Or a bomb. His long fingers held the baby with an almost reverent firmness, and his eyes—those eyes Harry feared more than any spell—were fixed on the child, not on him.

"He sleeps deeply," Tom said without looking back. "As if he knows that, for now, the world is silent."

Harry raised his wand.

"Let him go."

Tom didn't flinch. He just stroked the child's cheek with the back of his hand, slowly. The child didn't even stir.

"Do you always react with violence when someone else holds him?"

"I always react that way when it's you," Harry spat, taking another step.

Tom turned, baby in arms. There was something unnatural in the calmness of his movements, as if time didn't touch him.

"I saw you leave the Great Hall," he said calmly. "It was simple. The Chamber of Secrets is more alive than you think... and its passages lead further than you remember."

"You were watching me."

"I was waiting. There's a difference. One that you, out of tiredness or arrogance, seem not to distinguish."

Harry lowered his wand a little, but not out of trust. Only because exhaustion was starting to weigh more than rage.

"What do you want?"

Tom looked at the child, then at him. His eyes seemed less cold, but no less dangerous.

"A deal."

"Again?"

"This time... a real one. No threats, no failed rituals. Just this: let's share his care. You can't do it alone, Harry. You're trying, yes. But you're dragging him with you into a broken life."

"And you'd give him a better one," Harry growled. "Would you teach him to use darkness before he can walk? Would you tell him he was created, not born?"

Tom fell silent. Then, very slowly, he placed the little one back in the crib. The baby sighed in his sleep, turning his head, oblivious to everything.

"I don't know how to raise him. I don't know if I'm capable of being anything more than what I've been. But I know this child is something new. Uncontrollable. Irrepeatable. And without guidance, he can destroy himself... or the world."

Harry approached the crib. His fingers rested on the edge, right next to Tom's.

For a moment, they stood like that. In silence. United only by that small body that had no idea of the war being waged over him.

"I don't trust you," Harry said at last.

"Nor do I expect you to," Tom replied with a brief smile. "But look at him, Harry. Are you going to let only one of us teach him what it is to love... or to fear?"

Harry swallowed. He felt the weight of the decision like a heavy slab. But also the certainty that he couldn't continue alone.

"Very well," he whispered. "A deal."

Tom looked at him, surprised for an instant.

"But with rules," Harry continued. "You do nothing without consulting me. You don't touch him if I'm not present. You don't try to mold him in your image. If you cross a line..."

"You'll know," Tom completed. "I promise."

Harry looked at him for a long time. Then he turned his gaze back to the small human being.

"For him," he said. Only that.

Tom nodded.

"For him."

And that night, in the Room of Requirement, there was no blood or curses. Only an impossible truce.

And a child sleeping in the midst of two worlds that should never have touched.

Chapter Text

Harry, trying to hold his breath, carefully carried the baby, and with a fear disguised as seriousness, handed him to Tom. His fingers trembled as they brushed Tom's; the contact between them, minimal and cold, left an almost electric residue in the air. Tom didn't look at Harry. He only observed him through the child, as if the little one were the true bridge between them and there was no longer space for words.

The door to the Room of Requirement closed behind them with a hollow echo, as if swallowing the world.

Upon arriving at the mansion, it was as if time had dragged them in the wrong direction. The lamps didn't flicker with fire; they burned with a pale blue, almost translucent light. The floorboards creaked with every step, not from weakness of the wood, but from a consciousness that never slept. Something was watching. From the cracks. From the root.

Tom walked down the main corridor with the little one in his arms. He carried him like a relic: unhurriedly, precisely. He entered a room at the end of the hall—where his mother once lived, where no one had dared to enter since—and there he had prepared everything. There was no ordinary crib, no toys, no color. There was a protection circle carved into the floor with obsidian dust and ritual salt. There was a veil hanging from the ceiling, embroidered with runes in ancient Latin and Parseltongue.

He placed the child in the center of the room. That thing didn't cry. It watched.

Tom looked at it in silence, standing, as if waiting for a sign. Something. Anything. And he got it: the veil trembled, a shadow stretched from a corner, and the symbols on the floor briefly lit up, as if recognizing their owner.

"I knew you would," Tom murmured, without a smile.

He wasn't referring to the baby. He was referring to the magic. To the response.

And the little one, as if understanding, blinked once. Slow. Measured. Too aware for someone so small.

Tom sat in a high-backed chair, held the child in his arms, and began to speak to him in Parseltongue, slowly, like one training a sacred creature.

The child didn't blink this time. He just fixed his gaze on Tom, his eyes like crystals steeped in still fire.

Tom held the baby on his lap, one hand holding him with surgical precision, the other free to trace figures in the air. Every one of his gestures seemed to provoke a reaction in the room: dust rose, candles vibrated, symbols on the floor flickered. It wasn't cast magic; it was latent magic. An energy field that adjusted to the infant's presence.

"Your magic is old," Tom whispered softly, almost in a trance. "It's not mine. It's not hers."

The baby made a soft sound, a brief, guttural grunt that didn't sound like a newborn. Tom raised an eyebrow. It wasn't exactly language... but it was intent.

"You're barely days old, and you're already questioning. Fascinating."

Outside, the afternoon remained still. Gaunt Manor had sealed itself, as if protecting something valuable. The snakes carved into the doorframes seemed to move occasionally, as if guarding the unexpected visitor who was, in fact, their legitimate lord.

Tom slid a black blanket over the little one, a cloth woven with enchanted threads, capable of repelling minor curses. Not for protection—not from the outside, at least—but to contain any spontaneous emanation from the child. He had already seen what its mere presence could do.

"We have a few hours left before he returns," he murmured, with a shadow of contempt as he said "he." "But it doesn't matter. In this time, I will sow what I need."

Then he took a small ceremonial dagger from a nearby shelf. It wasn't sharp. It wasn't for cutting flesh, but for channeling. He passed it through the air, over the child, without touching it, creating an invisible outline over its forehead, chest, and abdomen.

The baby closed its eyes. Its breathing became slow and steady. The runes on the floor glowed once more.

Tom smiled. Barely.

"You see it, don't you? You are mine, deep down. Because no art would have allowed it if you didn't bear my mark in the deepest part of your being."

He stood up. He walked to a bookshelf on the other side of the room and took a thick book with worn, untitled covers. He opened it just a few pages. He placed it on the floor, at the edge of the circle.

The child began to move its hands, as if playing with invisible threads.

And then, the door creaked.

Harry.

He made no sound, but Tom already knew. He turned slowly, holding the baby with an almost insulting calm.

Harry stopped dead at the sight: the pale candles, the carved circle, the vibrating symbols on the floor. The little one in Tom's arms, wrapped in a black blanket.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing?"

"Nothing that would harm it," Tom said, undisturbed. "I'm just helping it to understand."

"Understand what?" Harry growled, stepping into the room.

"What it is. What it will be. What it could be, if someone doesn't cling to the absurd idea of raising it as a normal child."

Harry approached until he was at the edge of the circle. He didn't step on it. Something in his instincts forbade him.

"I'm not going to let you mold him," he said firmly. "That's why we agreed on this. I handle the nights, you the days. We watch. We share. But you don't train him, you don't corrupt him, and you don't touch him with that magic of yours without me knowing."

Tom looked at him for a long time. Then he lowered his gaze to the baby, who was yawning as if none of it mattered.

"I don't need to corrupt him," he whispered. "He already is."

Harry extended his arms.

"Give him to me."

Tom held him for another second. An eternity in his language.

And then, he handed him over.

The baby changed arms without a complaint, without a cry. He just looked at Harry, once more, with those impossible eyes.

Harry hugged him tightly. Not with anger, but with a mixture of love and resignation. As if every second were a victory... and a condemnation.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said softly.

Tom nodded. He said nothing else.

Harry turned around and left, with the baby wrapped in his arms.

The door closed behind him, and once again, the echo sounded like a premonition.

—

During the day, Harry did his best to maintain the facade. He attended classes, took notes, trained with the Quidditch team, and even smiled when necessary. But beneath it all, he carried an exhaustion impossible to hide.

Every morning, he returned from the Room of Requirement with bloodshot eyes and an aching back from having slept only a couple of hours. No one saw him leave, but he always appeared in the Great Hall in time for breakfast, feigning normalcy.

Ron had stopped asking questions days ago. Hermione still gave him worried glances, but she seemed to understand that forcing him to talk wouldn't work.

Ginny, on the other hand, was beginning to grow impatient.

"You're distant," she said one afternoon, as they walked through the gardens. The setting sun cast long shadows on the grass. "You barely look at me when we talk, and you're always tired. Is something wrong?"

Harry hesitated. The answer was yes, of course it was. There was a powerful, unstable creature sleeping under Hogwarts, his but not his, and he carried the weight of caring for it as if he could protect the world from the inevitable. But he couldn't say it.

"It's just the final year. NEWTs, Quidditch... everything at once."

Ginny didn't seem convinced, but she didn't press him either. She took his hand, gently.

"I'm here, Harry. No matter what it is."

He felt a pang of guilt as sharp as a Crucio.

The rest of the day slipped by between classes, crowded corridors, and simulations of normalcy. But every sunset, when the castle quieted and the portraits dozed, Harry would disappear again.

No one asked where he went.

No one noticed that his steps always led him to the same place. No one heard the slight creak of the Room of Requirement door opening stealthily.

There, the little one no longer waited for him alone.

Because every night, after the last class, Harry crossed the threshold... picked up the child and cared for him all night.

. . .

Ginny closed the bed curtains with a sharp movement, trying to control the trembling in her fingers. Harry, still half-dressed, watched her from the pillow with her bra half off.

"Did you fall asleep...?" Ginny murmured, not offended, but confused. Hurt in a way she didn't want to admit.

Harry sat up abruptly, blinking.

"What...? No, I just... closed my eyes for a second."

Ginny looked at him. That gaze that pierced through excuses.

"Harry," she said, in a low voice. "We were about to have sex. You got on top of me, looked at me like you wanted to devour the world... and you fell asleep."

The silence that followed was more eloquent than any defense.

"Ginny, I'm sorry. Really. I'm... I'm exhausted. I don't know what's wrong with me. I barely sleep lately, and..."

"You don't know?" she interrupted him, lowering her voice so as not to draw attention from outside the curtains, but still with contained fury. "Really? Because I do know. You disappear every night. You look at me with that face like the world is falling apart, but you won't let me in. And now you can't even stay awake with me?"

Harry lowered his head. He had no way to explain that he spent his nights caring for a creature that shouldn't exist. That every minute with the little one was a mix of love, fear, and unbearable pressure. That Tom Riddle, the same Tom, was part of his life now. How do you explain something like that?

"It's not that I don't want to be with you. It's just... there's something I have to do. It's important."

Ginny pursed her lips. Hurt.

"There's always something you have to do, Harry. There's always a war, a mission, a responsibility. And me? Where do I fit into all of that?"

Harry remained silent.

The answer was painful. And probably unfair.

Ginny sighed. She stood up, picking up her blouse with tense movements.

"I don't want to be another burden," she said, before stepping out from behind the curtain.

Harry didn't stop her.

Not because he didn't want to... but because, at that moment, the child woke up in his mind.

As if calling him from the other side of the castle.

And he knew he had to go.

. . .

Hogwarts' towers were shrouded in mist. The cold bit to the bone as Harry walked through the deserted corridors, his steps quick, almost silent. His gaze was fixed on the ground, as if the weight of his own thoughts prevented him from looking up.

Ginny. The argument. Her hurt face.

Guilt throbbed beneath his skin, but he had no time for it. Not tonight.

The entrance to the Room of Requirement appeared when he walked past it three times with a firm stride. Upon entering, he expected to find the usual calm of the magical alcove. Perhaps the little one sleeping, perhaps the soft murmur of the old enchanted phonograph.

He didn't expect to find him.

Tom Riddle stood by the crib, holding the baby with chilling naturalness. His dark robes fell like a liquid shadow around his boots, and his face, for once, showed no arrogance or threat. Only... contemplation.

"You're late," Tom said, without turning, in an almost domestic tone.

Harry stood in the doorway, paralyzed.

"What are you doing here?" he growled, closing the door behind him with more force than necessary. "We said that..."

"We said many things," Tom interrupted softly. "But we said this was mutual, didn't we? That neither of us would give in completely. And you can't take care of him alone. At least not without... collateral effects."

Harry frowned.

"I'm doing fine."

"Are you?" Tom turned to him, not raising his voice. There was something dangerous in his serenity. "You're so exhausted you fall asleep on your girlfriend. You come to class with dark circles that look like curses. And while you run between classes and keep up appearances... the child grows. Changes. Observes."

The baby in his arms stirred slightly. It didn't cry. It just looked at Harry with that impossible calm.

Tom stroked its little head with his gloved fingers.

"You can't afford to make mistakes with it. Neither of you can."

Harry clenched his fists. He moved closer.

"You can't just show up like this. Not at Hogwarts."

"I didn't," he replied with a half-smile. "There are still secret entrances from the Chamber. You know that."

Harry clenched his jaw. Of course, he knew. Damn it.

Silence settled between them. A tense, but intimate silence. Like two soldiers who hate each other but still have each other's backs.

Harry extended his arms.

"Give him to me."

Tom hesitated for an instant. Only one. Then he carefully placed the baby in Harry's arms. The little one let out a soft murmur, satisfied.

"There are things it wants that you can't give it," Tom said softly. "But also things you can... and I cannot. That's why this must be shared."

Harry looked at him. Long. As if trying to find a crack in his mask.

"What if I refuse?"

"Then you will fail. And it will pay the price." Tom turned towards the door. "But don't worry. I'll come to pick him up at dawn tomorrow. It's your turn to rest."

Before Harry could respond, Tom disappeared through the door.

Harry looked at the child. At that being that was not just blood and flesh. It was pure magic, and something more.

"I'm not giving him up to you," he murmured.

The baby closed its eyes. As if it already knew.

. . .

The sun peeked out from between the mountains, but Harry didn't see it. As he crossed the Great Hall that morning, his steps were slow, his posture hunched, as if something invisible was pulling at his back. His gaze was fixed on the ground, and he avoided meeting anyone even remotely familiar.

The seat next to Ron and Hermione waited empty for him. At least that was constant.

"You look horrible," Ron said as soon as he saw him. "Did you fight a troll or is that just your face?"

Harry managed a tired smile. Hermione observed him in silence as she took a sip of her tea.

"You didn't sleep again," she finally said, in a low voice. It was a statement, not a question.

"I had things to do," Harry replied, stirring the contents of his coffee even though there was no more sugar to dissolve.

"Things like what?" Hermione insisted, frowning.

"Things, Herm. Don't start."

Ron shoved bread into his mouth and effortlessly changed the subject, telling him about the upcoming Quidditch practice. Hermione continued to look at Harry for another second before giving up.

Harry appreciated that silence, though he also felt it as a defeat. Not even his friends were trying to understand him anymore.

Classes passed like a thick fog. In Charms, he confused a Lumos Duo with a Lacarnum Inflamarae and burned one of the curtains. In Potions, he fell asleep for an instant over his cauldron and Snape left him a written threat. In Care of Magical Creatures, he almost let a Niffler cub escape because his reflexes were slow.

But the worst was in Defense.

"Potter," Professor Burns said, crossing her arms. "If you're so interested in the ceiling, would you like to climb up and show us how to conjure a shield from there?"

Laughter. Glances. And the heat of shame rising up his neck.

He didn't answer. He just forced himself to raise his wand and repeat the spell. The shield was weak. Fragile. Like him.

When the last period finally ended, Harry almost ran through the corridors. It didn't matter if anyone saw him. He just wanted to get to the Room. To get back to the child. To feel that his world, though broken, still had an axis.

The door appeared. He pushed. He entered.

And there it was. The baby, wrapped in its little blanket, on a soft rug. Sleeping. The room smelled of old wood and lavender. But Tom was gone. Only a note remained, perfectly folded, on the sofa cushion:

"Slept after feeding. Didn't try to destroy the universe, for now. –T."

Harry pressed his lips together, suppressing an exasperated smile.

He sat beside the baby. He watched it breathe. He still felt the echo of Tom's words: "There are things you can give it... and I cannot."

Sometimes he thought the only thing he could offer was love. And that that would be enough.

But he wasn't sure.

Not when the child kept attracting shadows.

—

Gaunt Manor, still ruinous in certain wings, seemed transformed. Not by restoration spells, but by the child's presence. Every room the little one occupied gained a strange vitality: the walls breathed with more warmth, the lamps shone with a clearer light, and the shadows retreated, as if fearing its gaze.

Tom carried him in his arms as he walked through the silent corridors, observing him with an expression that bordered on obsession. He didn't speak. He didn't sing to him. But his movements were precise, attentive, as if every step were part of an ancient ritual.

He had learned to interpret its minimal complaints, to anticipate the exact moment he should feed the child, what temperature the bottle should be, and how to place the blankets to prevent them from unraveling under the baby's strange touch. In his own way, he cared for it with the efficiency of a strategist. But also with something quieter. Something he wouldn't admit.

In the afternoons, when the clock struck nine, Harry appeared.

He arrived exhausted, still in his wrinkled school uniform and with his backpack half-open, but his eyes only sought one thing: the baby.

"Did he cry?" he always asked, almost breathless.

"No," Tom replied, handing him the child. "But he missed you."

Harry took him to a room that the Room of Requirement perfectly replicated every night. He bathed him, fed him, cradled him while listening to the walls whisper unknown languages. And when the child finally slept, Harry sometimes stayed watching him for hours, just to make sure he was still there, that he wouldn't vanish like a mirage.

The next morning, before breakfast, he carefully wrapped him and took him back to Gaunt Manor, crossing the secret threshold between Hogwarts and the other world he now shared with his worst enemy.

The routine was dangerous.

But also human.

And in the midst of it all, the little one grew. Not like an ordinary child, but like a focal point of power that unintentionally altered its surroundings. The walls registered its laughter as if they were an echo of prophecy. Magic stretched around it. And despite the fear, despite their differences, Harry and Tom found an increasingly clear point of common ground: the child had to be protected.

And no one else in the world was capable of doing it.

. . .

Morning slowly arrived at Gaunt Manor, filtering through the high windows like a contained premonition. Tom Riddle had been awake for hours. The house was utterly silent, save for the faint sounds the baby made in its bassinet, moving with soft spasms, as if dreaming.

Tom watched it from the desk, with a cup of tea that had grown cold without him touching it. Every day, since that strange pact with Harry, the routine began the same way: he received it at dawn, wrapped in a blanket, barely awake and still smelling of the other boy's warmth.

It was... annoying. But also strangely comforting.

The little one was a demanding child. Not in the usual sense, but in a deeper, more primitive one. It demanded attention, presence. It was impossible to leave it alone for too long without something in the environment becoming distorted. Sometimes, mirrors fogged up for no reason. Or clocks stopped.

And yet, it wasn't a crying child.

That morning, like so many others, Tom held it carefully—more by instinct than affection, he told himself—and wrapped it in a black jacket to protect it from the cold. After preparing a bottle of nutritional potion, he took it for a stroll in the Muggle park, concealing his magical presence under discreet enchantments.

The child looked at the sky as if it could decipher it. Tom watched him from the bench, frowning.

"I shouldn't like you," he murmured, more to himself than to the baby. "But you're managing it."

He didn't know when he started to enjoy those shared silences. The walks. The trips to the ice cream parlor, where he ordered something sweet just to watch the baby try to lick the air, with clumsy infant movements. The shop owner already greeted him with familiarity.

Once he took it to a Muggle shop. He chose a pair of small pajamas, with patterns of dragons and moons. He didn't know why. Perhaps because Harry would have liked them.

That thought irritated him more than he cared to admit.

Harry.

The nights were his, and though Tom pretended not to think of him during the day, it was a lie. He imagined him running through the corridors of Hogwarts, exhausted, desperate to hide the truth. And yet he returned, every night. He did it for the child... or for something more.

Tom noticed it. In the way he looked at him when he thought Tom wasn't looking. In his held breath when touching the baby. In his desperation disguised as strength.

They were linked, all three of them. By magic, by error, by the decision to raise something that shouldn't exist... but that already lived.

And Tom was getting used to it.

A routine, yes.

But also, a bond.

And that was more dangerous than any curse.

Chapter Text

Harry's wand rested between his fingers, but his mind was miles away. Professor Flitwick's murmurs about the Levitation Charm faded into a monotonous hum, overshadowed by a single idea that had been haunting him since he walked into class:

Tom was in the castle.

He knew it. He'd let him in the night before, allowing him to use the Room of Requirement to look after Hadrian while he attended his morning classes. In theory, it was a practical arrangement. In practice, it meant the man he trusted the least in the world was, at that very moment, a few hallways away from his son.

His son.

The word still sounded strange to him, but it carried more weight every day.

A slight shiver ran down the back of his neck. At first, he thought it was paranoia... until it happened.

He felt it.

That unmistakable magic, raw and wild, that seemed to scratch at the foundations of Hogwarts, shot through his body like a whip. It wasn't Tom's magic. It wasn't anyone's magic he knew. It was Hadrian's.

Harry jumped to his feet. The desk scraped against the floor.

"Mr. Potter!" Flitwick's sharp voice squealed. "Where do you think you're going? We haven't even—"

He didn't hear the end of the sentence.

Harry was already running for the door, his heart pounding, driven by the feeling that something was about to break.

In the hallway, the magical wave grew more intense, like a pulse that resonated in the walls and in his own chest. He didn't care if anyone saw him; he threw himself down the stairs, dodged two students going up, and rounded a corner without even thinking to give an explanation.

There was only one certainty in his mind: he had to get to him before Tom did… anything. The door to the Room of Requirement materialized in front of him, and Harry burst through it without a second thought.

Inside, the room had transformed into a bright and warm space, with a crib beside a dark green upholstered armchair. And there was Tom.

Standing, impeccable as always, with his hair in place and his brow slightly furrowed, he held Hadrian against his chest. The baby was crying, cheeks flushed and fists clenched, as if each sob were a battle.

"He takes too long to calm down," Tom commented, his neutral tone barely hiding his frustration. "He's... excessively sensitive to movement."

"What did you do?" Harry spat, advancing towards him.

"Just tried to get him to stop screaming, nothing more," Tom replied, giving the child a slight sway, which only resulted in a sharper cry.

Harry held out his arms.

"Give him to me."

Tom watched him for a second too long, then carefully placed the baby in Harry's arms. The result was immediate: Hadrian burst into an even louder cry, arching his back as if trying to break free.

"Well, Potter, I see your bond isn't as unbreakable as you thought," Tom commented with a slight, ironic curve of his lips.

Harry clenched his jaw, trying to cradle the child against his shoulder, but nothing worked. The baby's breathing was ragged, his crying inconsolable.

"He's... scared," Harry murmured, feeling the unease rise in his chest.

"Or he simply knows who he wants to be with," Tom said, holding out his hands again.

Harry hesitated... but in the end, he gave him back.

The change was immediate. Hadrian stopped crying in a matter of seconds, letting out a soft gurgle, his eyes half-closed.

Harry swallowed.

"You shouldn't... You can't form that kind of bond with him."

Tom raised an eyebrow, adjusting the child as if he had always belonged there.

"It's not a matter of bonds, Potter. It's a matter of efficiency."

Harry didn't answer. Because what he had just seen had nothing to do with efficiency, and he knew it. Tom remained standing by the crib, watching as Hadrian settled in his arms, his breathing becoming slow and regular. The child's weight wasn't great, but there was something about that warmth that was… unusually pleasant.

It wasn't the first time he had held a newborn, although the memories he had of it were not his own, but stolen through Legilimency. And yet, this was different. This wasn't a mere experiment, or a subject of study. Hadrian reacted to him in a way he couldn't explain: as if, in his presence, the world was a little less hostile.

He didn't like to admit it, but the fact was there.

And, in some way, Harry was also tied to that feeling. The boy irritated him, challenged him, contradicted him in everything... and yet, there was something curious about sharing this strange custody with him. A rhythm, a routine, an order that was unlike anything he had ever had before.

For years, Tom had lived for cold, distant goals: power, control, absolute domination. Now, however, in this interval of time, he found himself taking the child to the park in the mornings, buying him soft blankets, or stopping at a bakery just to see what he would do if he tasted something sweet.

A waste of time, he told himself. A distraction.

But when Hadrian sighed, weakly clutching the fabric of his robes, Tom felt an invisible tug, like a rope tightening inside his chest. And he knew that, even if he wanted to, he wouldn't be able to cut that thread. The silence in the Room of Requirement grew thicker, broken only by the baby's soft breathing. Tom remained by the crib, his eyes fixed on Hadrian. He didn't say anything when he heard the door open with a slight creak.

Harry entered slowly, as if not to break the small balance that had formed. He came close enough to see the child fast asleep in Tom's arms, and something in his chest loosened.

"I'll stay for a while," he said in a low voice, sitting in a nearby armchair. "In case he needs anything."

Tom raised an eyebrow, as if the idea that Harry could be useful was worthy of a careful evaluation. Then, without another word, he looked down at the baby.

A few minutes passed like this, in a strange silence that wasn't entirely uncomfortable.

"We could go out," Tom said suddenly, without looking up.

"Go out?" Harry looked at him incredulously. "Where to?"

"To the forest, and from there to buy what we're missing. The Room doesn't provide everything we need, and I doubt you want to live on magical improvisations for a newborn."

Harry blinked, trying to imagine Tom Riddle walking with a baby and doing errands like a normal person. The image was almost absurd... and yet, he couldn't deny that he was right.

"What if someone sees us?" he asked, with the tone of someone already anticipating a disaster.

Tom smiled, very slightly.

"Leave that part to me." Harry watched in disbelief as Tom, with almost military precision, placed items inside a diaper bag he had just transfigured from an old school backpack. Bottles, blankets, potions for colic, a small jar of anti-rash ointment, even a perfectly sealed thermos with hot water.

"Since when do you know how to do this?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The logistics are the same for any mission," Tom replied with total seriousness, adjusting the straps. "Only the nature of the 'cargo' changes."

Harry wasn't sure if that was more reassuring or more frightening.

When Tom slung the diaper bag over his shoulder and prepared to leave through the door as if it were any hallway in his mansion, Harry tensed.

"Wait! You're going out like that? We can't just cross half the castle with a baby in our arms."

Tom turned on his heels and gave him a look that mixed patience and slight exasperation.

"Relax. We'll go to the Astronomy Tower and take a broomstick. It will be harder for anyone to see us from the air."

"Harder? Or more obvious if someone looks up?" Harry muttered, but he still hesitated... and ended up nodding.

They left the Room of Requirement with a calculated pace. The baby was sleeping peacefully, oblivious to his parents' tension.

The echo of their footsteps resonated in the hallways, and Harry felt that at any moment Filch or a professor would turn the corner. He kept his eyes forward, but his ear was tuned to every whisper, every creak of stone.

They turned a corner and came face to face with Ron.

"Harry!" he exclaimed, visibly agitated. "I've been looking for you ever since you ran out of Charms."

Harry froze, and Tom, in response, tightened the blanket covering Hadrian a little more.

"Uh... I was busy," Harry said, avoiding Ron's gaze.

"Busy? With whom...?" Ron frowned, glancing at Tom. "And why are you carrying a backpack as if you were going to...?"

"It's none of your business, Weasley," Tom interrupted, his tone low but full of authority.

Ron glared at him, annoyed, and Harry felt the tension could be cut with a knife.

"Ron, really, I can't explain now," he said, and before his friend could reply, Harry dodged him with a quick movement and continued walking.

Ron was left behind, watching as Harry and Tom disappeared around the bend in the hallway, the baby's blanket swaying gently with each step.

Ron's face was seared into Harry's mind. The confusion in his eyes, the way his gaze fell on the blanket... no, that couldn't be. This was crazy.

Harry stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. Tom, who was already several steps away, turned on his heels.

"Tom, stop. This isn't going to work," Harry murmured, his nerves on edge. "We can't keep doing this. Sooner or later someone else is going to see us."

Tom watched Harry with exasperating calm, the baby still asleep and safe in his arms.

"I've planned this. Relax."

"Relax? We just dodged Ron! What would have happened if he'd realized you were carrying a baby? What do you think he would have thought?"

Tom didn't bother to respond, raising an eyebrow with disdain. His look was a clear message: your anxiety is irrelevant. But before Harry could explode, a new sound became audible. The familiar tapping of hurried footsteps and the rustle of a robe.

They both froze. Harry knew immediately. It was Hermione.

Tom reacted first. Without a second thought, he grabbed Harry's arm and dragged him behind a knight's armor. Just at that moment, Hermione rounded the corner, her face absorbed in reading an Arithmancy book. She walked right past without noticing anything, so immersed in her studies that she didn't even see the slight glint of the diaper bag peeking out from behind the metal.

Harry's heart was pounding. Beside him, Tom's breathing was slow and controlled. Once the sound of Hermione's footsteps faded, Harry came out of his hiding place, exhaling with relief.

"Okay. You're right," Harry said, more grudgingly than with conviction. "But I'm going first."

Tom gave him an questioning look, but Harry didn't give him time to reply. He ran up the last few flights of stairs that led to the Astronomy Tower, pushed the door open, and burst through, the cold afternoon breeze caressing his face.

Tom followed him, and Harry, without a word, held out a hand and summoned his Firebolt. The broomstick flew to his hand with a familiar whoosh.

"I'll go in front. Tom, you'll go behind with Hadrian," Harry ordered, his voice firm, with a tone that didn't allow for objections. "Hold on tight."

Tom raised an eyebrow, but nodded. Harry had already mounted, adjusting his feet in the footrests. When Tom climbed on behind with the baby, the broomstick dipped slightly, but Harry held on to the handle tightly.

"Don't try to do anything stupid, Tom," Harry snapped, a final warning over his shoulder.

"I don't have to, Potter. You're already doing it for both of us," Tom replied, with that irritating calm, as the baby snuggled against his chest.

In the air, the feeling was different. Harry accelerated, moving away from the castle walls. The cold wind whistled in his ears. But the most unexpected sound was a giggle. A soft, sweet giggle that belonged to neither Harry nor Tom.

Hadrian was awake. The baby, with his eyes wide open, didn't seem scared, but fascinated. And as they floated in the air, he moved his little hands, as if trying to reach for a cloud, and a soft golden glow surrounded him. A small, pure, and powerful magic that made his little fists try to levitate as if they were feathers.

Tom held him tighter, his eyes fixed on the child. For a second, Harry also forgot where they were. He forgot the danger, Ron, and Hermione. There was only the sky, the sound of the wind, and the soft babbling of that baby, so oblivious to the strange and tense alliance that was transporting him.

Tom and Harry walked through the Hogwarts barrier, the warm air outside feeling heavy in contrast to the castle's protective magic. The walk through the forest was tense and silent, with the occasional rustle of leaves and Hadrian's soft cries breaking the calm.

Once they were far enough from the castle, Tom gestured for Harry to stop.

"What's the nearest Muggle city we can go to?" Tom asked, frowning as he scanned the surroundings.

Harry thought for a moment. Hogsmeade was the most obvious option, but it was a magical village. The plan to go to a Muggle shopping center sounded safer.

"Hogsmeade won't work, it's a magical village. We have to go somewhere bigger with more Muggles," Harry said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "London must be the closest. We can use a Portkey that leaves us in a central spot."

Tom nodded, his mind processing the information.

"Do it. Now," Tom said, his voice firm.

Harry prepared to perform the Portkey charm, but before he could, Tom stopped him.

"Wait. We can't appear in wizarding clothes, it would give us away. I don't know if Muggle clothes will suit us," Tom said, looking at Harry and then at himself.

"Don't worry about that, I'll take care of the clothes," Harry said, taking out his wand to perform a transfiguration spell on his robes.

Harry transformed his wizard robes into a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved t-shirt. The change was so radical that he looked like just another Muggle. Tom's clothes, however, were a little more difficult. His black wizard robes had to be transfigured into something less conspicuous, but that at the same time, wouldn't make him look like a Muggle. Harry decided to transform them into a pair of black jeans and a grey hoodie. The result was a more casual look, but one that still gave him a mysterious appearance.

Once they were ready, Harry took an old shoe from his pocket and transformed it into a Portkey.

"This will take us to King's Cross station in London," Harry said, his voice nervous.

"Good. Let's do it," Tom said, his voice calm.

Harry and Tom held hands and touched the shoe. A second later, they felt as if they were being dragged by an invisible force, until they landed with a thump in a dark alley in London.

The sound of traffic and people, the smells of food and garbage, and the bright lights of the signs overwhelmed Harry and Tom. Tom, however, seemed to find it an interesting and fascinating place, full of new things to discover.

"Where are we?" Tom asked, his tone revealing his curiosity.

"In London. And the shopping center is only a few streets away," Harry said, trying to get his bearings.

They walked through the streets of London, with the diaper bag on Tom's back and the baby in his arms. People didn't notice their presence; they were too busy with their own affairs. The shopping center was a structure of glass and steel, with several floors and all kinds of stores. The sound of music and the hustle and bustle of people overwhelmed Harry and Tom, but the baby, however, was fascinated. Hadrian babbled and laughed, as if he were in his own world.

"He seems to like the noise," Tom said, a smile on his face.

Harry didn't reply; he was too busy looking for a baby clothing store. He didn't know where to start. The shopping center was so big that his head was spinning. Tom, however, looked at him calmly, as if he were used to such chaotic places.

"What do we do now?" Harry asked, his tone revealing his desperation.

"We'll find a store that has what we need. And then, we'll take care of the logistics," Tom said, his tone calm.

Harry nodded, his mind processing the information. He felt like he was in an action movie, but instead of saving the world, he was buying diapers. The situation was so absurd that he couldn't help but laugh. Tom looked at him with a frown, as if he didn't get the joke.

The large shopping center felt like a whirlwind of colors and loud noises. Harry reluctantly walked beside Tom, who was carrying Hadrian. The baby, oblivious to the chaos, was avidly drinking from his bottle, his little sucking sounds the only peaceful soundtrack in that place. Harry couldn't help but feel as if they were in a ridiculous movie, but Tom's determination was absolute.

"He can't keep wearing that wizard's blanket," Tom had said with a frown.

"It's a clean, magical blanket—I transfigured it myself!" Harry retorted.

But the argument had ended when Tom pointed out that "a future Riddle should not wear rags." Harry had swallowed, not daring to correct him.

They arrived at an ostentatious-looking children's tailor shop, with mannequins dressed in tiny linen and fine silk outfits. Harry was already preparing for the inevitable, costly disaster. As they entered, a woman in her fifties with half-moon glasses approached them, with a professional smile.

"Welcome! How can I help you?" she asked, looking at the baby with adoration.

"My son needs a custom suit. A worthy outfit," Tom said, in a tone that made it sound as if the tailor shop had the honor of serving royalty.

Harry frowned. A custom suit. Like a "little gentleman." The idea was so foreign for a baby that he snorted. Tom ignored him completely.

The tailor, however, didn't seem surprised by the request. She led Tom to a section of fabrics and began talking about different types of linen and cotton. Harry stayed behind, feeling a pang of annoyance at Tom's condescension. He was the only one with a wallet full of Galleons, which meant he would be the one paying the exorbitant sum for the suit.

Tom pointed to a navy blue linen suit. The tailor nodded enthusiastically.

"An excellent choice! Now I just need to take the little one's measurements. And his name? We need to know his name for the tag."

Time stopped. Harry and Tom looked at each other. Hadrian. That was the name Harry had chosen. But saying it out loud in front of Tom, knowing what it implied, made him hesitate.

Tom couldn't answer. He looked at the tailor, then at Harry, then at the baby who had just finished his bottle. Tom's brow furrowed slightly.

"It's... a private matter," Tom said, in a tone that sounded like a warning.

The tailor felt a little uncomfortable, but she didn't insist. Harry, however, noticed the tension in the air. They didn't have a name for the baby. Not a name they could both agree on.

"I'm sorry, but we need a name for the tag," the tailor insisted, her voice firmer.

Harry and Tom fell silent, not knowing what to say. They looked at each other, each one waiting for the other to speak. The baby, oblivious to everything, began to yawn, his little eyes closing slowly.

The silence in the tailor shop grew thick, heavy with the woman's expectation and the tension between the two wizards. Harry was the first to break it, feeling that he couldn't stand Tom's inquisitive gaze for another second.

"Hadrian," Harry said, his voice firm.

The tailor nodded with a smile. Tom, however, stared at him, his eyes narrowed. The word "Hadrian" seemed to offend him, resonating in his mind like a taunt. The name, chosen by Harry, was a clear challenge to his authority and his worldview.

Harry ignored the gaze of Tom and walked over to the crib. Tom deposited the baby in Harry's arms, and the little one, who had been half-asleep, woke up immediately. Hadrian let out a happy babble, as if greeting Harry, and his small fists closed around his father's shirt.

"We don't need more than one garment," Harry said, while looking at Tom with an expression of disapproval. "A simple shirt and pants will be enough."

Tom nodded, his gaze fixed on the baby. The tailor, a little disheartened, showed them a selection of more casual clothes. Harry chose a white linen set and a light blue cotton one. Despite his attempt to be practical, the sum he had to pay made him shiver. Harry's wallet felt considerably lighter.

While Harry paid with a credit card, Tom observed him intensely, with his arms crossed and an expression of contempt on his face. Harry felt Tom's gaze on his back, but didn't pay attention until they left the store.

"Why that name?" Tom asked, in a low, dangerous voice.

"It's a good name," Harry responded, avoiding Tom's gaze.

"It's an ancient name, a name of an emperor. It's not a name for a wizard," Tom said, with a tone of voice that revealed his anger.

"It's a name of an emperor, so what? There's nothing wrong with that," Harry retorted, feeling rage in his chest. Then, his voice became harder. "Don't you like that the name has to do with Muggles?"

Tom fell silent, with his gaze fixed on Harry.

"I don't care. But you do. It's what bothers you. That it's a name with Muggle origins."

"What would you know about what bothers me?" Tom snapped.

"I know because you yourself called yourself Tom. Remember? Tom Riddle. A Muggle name that also made you uncomfortable. You forget where you come from, don't you?" Harry challenged him, with a look of contempt.

Tom fell silent, with his lips pressed together. The mention of his original name had hit him harder than Harry expected. Harry didn't say anything else, simply took the sleeping baby in his arms and walked away. Tom was left behind, immobile, processing Harry's words. The sound of the Muggles, the smell of fast food, and the bustle of the shopping center, suddenly, felt more intense, more overwhelming.

The toy store was a whirlwind of colors and shrill noises. Harry held Hadrian, who had woken up and was looking with fascination at the shelves full of stuffed animals and board games. Tom walked by his side, the expression on his face a study of disdain. The sounds of the store, the children's laughter, the high-pitched voices and the pop music in the background, seemed to erode his patience.

"These Muggles are… loud," Tom murmured, with his eyes narrowed.

Harry ignored him and went to a section of baby clothes, but a sudden movement stopped his advance. A small boy, about five years old, ran and crashed into Tom, spilling his ice cream on his robe. The boy's father quickly approached, apologizing.

"I am so sorry, sir. It's just that…"

Tom didn't listen to him. His face, pale and tense, was contorted into a grimace of anger. A spark of dark magic shot from the tip of his fingers, and a whisper of an inaudible spell resonated in the air. Harry, with his heart in his throat, reacted immediately.

"Tom, no!" he exclaimed, interposing himself between Tom and the family. Harry's magic merged with Tom's, creating a bubble that isolated them from the outside world.

"What are you doing?" Tom snapped, with bloodshot eyes.

"Calm down!" Harry said, trying to make his voice sound firm. "We can't do magic here! We're going to be discovered!"

Tom looked at him with fury, but Harry's voice, full of desperation, seemed to resonate in him. The magic bubble dissipated and, without saying another word, Tom turned around and walked away.

Harry, with Hadrian in his arms, apologized to the family and walked behind Tom, who had stopped at a fast food restaurant. Harry caught up with him and sat in front of him, without saying a word. Tom, with his gaze fixed on the void, did not seem to be hungry.

"What do you want?" Tom asked, with a tone of voice that revealed his frustration.

"I don't know. Whatever," Harry responded, feeling exhausted.

Tom ordered two hamburgers and french fries. Harry, on the other hand, barely took a bite out of his.

"What's wrong with you?" Tom asked, while chewing.

"Nothing. I'm just tired of all this. Of you not being able to control yourself. Of us not being able to live a normal life."

Tom looked at him, his expression a little calmer.

"I'm not a Muggle, Potter. I can't adapt to their world."

"But we have to. For Hadrian," Harry said, with a tone of voice that admitted no replicas.

Tom fell silent, with his gaze fixed on the baby. Harry, with his heart in his throat, realized that Tom, in his own way, had understood his point.

Once they finished eating, they both headed for the exit. Harry made sure that Tom was calm enough before they appeared on the outskirts of Hogsmeade.

Twilight painted the sky in orange and violet tones when Harry and Tom materialized at the entrance of Hogsmeade. The moon, a small pale flash, began to peek out. The peaceful atmosphere of the village, with the lights of the lanterns turning on one by one, was a welcome contrast after the chaos of London. They walked in silence to the grounds of Hogwarts, the fresh and comforting evening breeze. It was a Friday night, and the castle was bubbling with weekend energy, but for them, there was only the calm of their strange routine.

The door to the Room of Requirement materialized in front of them, and upon crossing the threshold, the warm and familiar air enveloped them. Harry went directly to the crib, carefully placing Hadrian in it. The baby, still asleep, snuggled into his blanket, his breathing soft and regular.

Once Hadrian was safe, Harry approached an armchair and collapsed into it. Tom sat in the armchair in front, the silence between them was not uncomfortable, but rather a tired truce after the Muggle odyssey.

"We need to talk about the name," Harry said, breaking the silence.

Tom looked at him with a frown.

"There's nothing to talk about. Hadrian is the name you chose and it's the name we will use."

"No. You're right, in part," Harry said, surprising Tom with his admission. "It's a Muggle name. And although I don't care, I understand that for the future of the child... for when he grows up, he may need a name that is more... versatile."

"Versatile?" Tom asked, with a tone of voice that revealed his curiosity.

"Yes. A name that he can use in both the magical and Muggle world. One that doesn't pigeonhole him."

Tom fell silent, with his gaze fixed on the fire in the fireplace.

"Then... what name will we give him?" Tom asked, with a tone of voice that sounded like a surrender.

"I don't know. We can think of one. We have time. For now, we can call him Hadrian."

Tom looked at him, and for the first time, Harry saw a glimpse of something that was not contempt or anger. It was… acceptance.

"Hadrian," Tom repeated, the name sounding different in his mouth. As if he were tasting its flavor.

Harry nodded.

"For now, he's Hadrian. We'll think of another name. When we are calmer."

Tom fell silent, with his gaze fixed on the sleeping baby. Harry felt that, despite their differences, they had found common ground. At least for that night, Hadrian had a name. And for that night, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Sunday night draped Hogwarts in a blanket of stillness. Inside the Room of Requirement, time seemed to move at a different pace. The room had transformed into an intimate bedroom, with a king-sized bed so large it looked like a lake of white sheets, in the center of which a tiny three-month-old sun, Hadrian, slept soundly. Beside him lay Harry and Tom, two opposing worlds bound by a fragile tie.

Harry lay back, one arm under his head, and watched Hadrian. In his mind, the laughter from the afternoon with Ron and Hermione and the warmth of Ginny's hugs still resonated. It had been a reprieve, an escape from the weight of his strange double life. And now, that life was calling him back.

Tom, impeccable in his black silk robes, looked completely out of place. Yet, his gaze never left Hadrian. With a finger, he delicately traced the baby's tiny hand, which had weakly grasped the sheet.

"Ginny's worried," Harry broke the silence, not looking at him.

"Why?" Tom asked, without taking his eyes off the child.

"Because she doesn't know where I've been. And you know why."

Tom didn't respond immediately. A dense silence settled between them.

"I didn't like it," Tom finally said, his tone a mix of contempt and resignation. "It's obvious they won't trust me"

"And for good reason," Harry said, sitting up to face him. "You've hurt them a lot."

Tom raised his head, and his dark eyes met Harry's. The air grew tense.

"I'm not asking you to understand me. I'm just saying that if this continues, there will be more problems."

"There's no other option. I'm not going to leave. And I'm not going to hide Hadrian forever," Harry said, his voice firm.

Tom sighed, an unusually human gesture.

"Your day seems to have been… productive. More so than mine."

"Yeah, it was good. It reminded me a bit of the old times." Harry paused, the words that were burning in his throat finally coming out. "The times before you."

The statement didn't get the reaction he expected. Tom just looked at him, emotionless, and for the first time, Harry felt that the question that had been on his mind for months couldn't wait any longer.

"Where's your snake form?" he blurted out. "How did you survive the war? I saw you vanish, Tom. I saw your last Horcrux break."

Tom remained silent, the calm on his face so absolute it was unsettling. Then, his eyes moved to Hadrian.

"You were wrong. There was one more," he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Harry felt his heart race.

"One more? No... It can't be."

"An accidental Horcrux. Like you." Tom explained. The story he told next had no trace of pride, just a deep weariness. "The day I killed my father, at twenty years old, my soul was already… unstable. Fragmented. And in a moment of rage, a piece broke off. I kept it without knowing what it was. A simple, unimportant trinket that I never dared to use."

Harry stared at him. A piece of his soul, that of a twenty-year-old Tom Riddle, had survived. It wasn't Voldemort, the noseless monster he had faced, but the young man he once was.

"And since it was my last resort, my last fragment… I am no longer immortal," Tom continued, in an unusually monotonous tone. "Over time, my body will deteriorate. I will grow old. And eventually, I will die."

Harry was breathless. The revelation hit him with a force he didn't expect. The image of an elderly, vulnerable Tom Riddle was so strange and surreal he couldn't process it. He felt a mixture of relief and a strange pity for the man who had ruined his life.

"The war destroyed me, Potter. It gave me back my life, but it took away my immortality. It's my punishment," Tom said, his eyes fixed on nothing, as if he were reliving the pain of the past.

Silence returned to the room, but this time it was different. It wasn't the tension of confrontation, but the heavy stillness of an unexpected truth.

Harry lay back a little closer to Hadrian, his heart beating fast. He reached out, his fingers brushing Tom's skin. He didn't know why he was doing it, but a strange mix of emotions drove him: pity, curiosity, and a hint of something more.

Tom didn't pull his hand away. For an instant, Harry felt Tom's breathing slow, but the moment vanished as quickly as it had arrived. Tom looked at him, and Harry saw resentment mixed with a hint of guilt in his eyes.

Harry, unperturbed, decided to ask the final question.

"Why did Hadrian's nickname bother you so much?" Harry said. "I mean… it might be a Muggle emperor's name, but that kind of name is very common among wizards."

Tom remained silent, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, as if he were remembering something painful. Harry lay back, patiently waiting for the answer.

"The name didn't bother me, it bothered me that you chose it," Tom murmured, not looking at him.

"But why?"

"Because it reminded me of my own name. Tom. A Muggle name. And I hated it. I hated being called that. I hated being a normal person," Tom said, in a voice that was a mix of contempt and pain. "You made me remember what I was. And what I no longer am."

Harry was silent, his gaze fixed on Tom. He didn't know what to say. It felt like he had been hit, but not in the way he usually was. This hit was different. It was an old wound, one that he hadn't been able to heal.

"Hadrian isn't a Muggle name. It's the name of an emperor. Of someone powerful," Tom said, his eyes fixed on the sleeping child. "I didn't realize it until I saw him. He… he's different. He's a being of power. He's not a normal child. He's… a leader. An emperor."

Harry looked at Hadrian, who was sleeping peacefully. His small body radiated a peace that contrasted with the darkness in the air. Harry felt a strange connection between himself and the child. A connection he couldn't explain.

"What do you mean?" Harry murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

"He's a special child. With a special destiny," Tom said, his eyes fixed on the child. "A destiny that isn't for the wizarding world. Or the Muggle one. A destiny that… is like mine."

Harry was silent, his mind processing the information. He felt as if he had opened a door that he shouldn't have opened. And now, he didn't know how to close it.

The silence had grown heavy in the room. Tom's revelations had created an invisible distance, a chasm of uncomfortable truths that Harry didn't know how to cross. Guilt, pity, and a strange understanding swirled in his chest, choking the words.

To break the ice, Harry suggested they go to the kitchens for some dinner, taking advantage of Hadrian sleeping peacefully. Tom looked at him with skepticism but nodded. They got up, and when Harry held out his hand, Tom, without hesitation, took it.

The walk through the Hogwarts corridors was silent, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the night. Harry didn't let go of Tom's hand, and neither did Tom. The warmth of his hand was an anchor in the darkness of the night, a strange connection that bound them together.

Upon reaching the kitchens, Harry showed Tom the entrance. A few seconds later, the pair found themselves in a vibrant space, filled with house-elves moving with the speed of thought. The elves, upon seeing them, stopped and looked at them in amazement.

"M-master Potter," an elf stammered, its eyes wide.

"Hello, Winky," Harry said, finally letting go of Tom's hand. "We just came for some dinner."

"House-elves," Tom murmured, in a voice that was a mix of contempt and fascination. "They are… a waste of magic."

Harry looked at him, and a tired sigh escaped him.

"Don't talk to them like that. They're not a waste of anything. They're… friends."

Tom didn't respond, his eyes fixed on the elves, who were uncomfortable under his gaze. Harry, without wasting time, went to one of the kitchen tables, where there was a tray full of sandwiches, tarts, and cakes. Tom followed him, but his eyes never left the elves.

"Why do you treat them like that?" Tom asked, his tone a mix of resentment and curiosity.

"Like that? You mean, we don't give them orders?"

"Yes. Don't you see they're inferior? That their magic is for service?"

Harry stopped. He stared at him. The question wasn't one of contempt, but of a deep and painful incomprehension.

"No. They're not inferior. They're just… different," Harry said, in a voice that was a mix of sadness and frustration. "They are beings with feelings, Tom. With dreams and desires. They're not things you can use as you please."

Tom remained silent, his gaze fixed on Harry. He didn't know what to say. It felt like he had been hit. And for the first time in a long time, Harry's gaze wasn't one of hatred or resentment, but of a strange and deep pity.

Harry, without another word, took a couple of sandwiches and offered one to Tom. He took it, and their eyes met. The moment lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough for Harry to feel that, for the first time, they weren't at war. They were at a truce.

______

The first ray of Monday's sun was barely peeking out when Hadrian's soft babbling woke Harry. In the stillness of the early morning, a new rhythm had been established. Harry got up and joined Tom, who was already changing Hadrian. The baby, with wide-open eyes, was playing with the pacifier of his bottle, completely oblivious to the strange dynamic of his caretakers.

Together, Tom and Harry moved with an unusual synchrony. Tom, with an almost magical precision, put on the elegant clothes they had bought in London, while Harry put the clothes in the suitcase. The task, once unthinkable, now seemed like a daily routine. There were no words, just the sound of the baby and the soft breeze coming through the window.

They left the Hogwarts grounds in a shared silence. The truce from the night before still floated in the air, a fragile bubble that no one dared to break. They held hands, and the world vanished in an instant.

They Apparated to Gaunt Manor.

Upon passing the magical barrier, Harry was breathless. The place, which had been a memory of decay and darkness, now stood with astonishing beauty. The stone walls, once cracked and covered in vines, looked impeccable and were adorned with flower vines. The air, which used to smell of dampness and death, now felt fresh, with a scent of wet earth and flowers.

The manor, once a ruin, now felt alive. The windows, which were once broken, now shone with their own light. The garden, once a jungle of weeds, was now full of colorful flowers and small trees.

Harry looked at Tom, who was watching him with a mix of pride and expectation.

"Do you like it?" Tom asked, in a voice that was a mix of resentment and a hint of hope.

"It's… it's incredible. How did you do it?" Harry asked, his voice full of amazement.

"The manor needed love. And magic. A lot of magic," Tom responded, in a voice that was a mix of pride and pain. "For a long time it was a place of death. Now it's… a home."

Harry was silent, his gaze fixed on Tom. He didn't know what to say. He felt as if he had seen a part of him he had never seen before. A part that wasn't of darkness and death, but of beauty and life.

Tom approached Harry and took his hand.

"Come on, there's a lot to see," Tom said, in a voice that was a mix of excitement and a hint of anxiety.

Harry nodded, and together, they entered the manor.

The scent of oatmeal and scrambled eggs filled the kitchen of Gaunt Manor. Harry, with an apron on and a spatula in his hand, felt strangely at home. The morning sun filtered through the windows, illuminating the space and making everything feel… normal. Beside him, Tom, impeccable as always, held Hadrian in his arms, the baby babbling and grabbing the edge of his robe.

Suddenly, Harry stopped. He looked at the clock on the wall and his heart skipped a beat. It was already too late for his first class of the day. A knot formed in his throat. He felt trapped between two worlds, the one he had left behind at Hogwarts and this new, surreal one at Gaunt Manor.

"I have to go," Harry said, his voice tense.

He approached Hadrian, who was laughing and moving his little hands. Harry gave him a soft kiss on the forehead, and the baby let out a giggle, a sound so sweet and pure that it made his heart turn over.

He stopped and looked at Tom. He wanted to do the same. He wanted to give him a kiss, or at least a hug, but he stopped. His mind fought against his emotions. He waved goodbye.

"Goodbye," Harry said, his voice barely a whisper.

Tom nodded, his face unreadable. Harry vanished, leaving a void in the kitchen. The silence became dense, broken only by Hadrian's soft babbling.

Tom was silent, his gaze fixed on the spot where Harry had been. He felt a strange mix of emotions, of anger, of sadness, and of… something else. Something he couldn't name. Something that made him feel alone.

_____

The afternoon slipped by in Gaunt Manor with Hadrian's soft babbling as the only measure of time. Tom, with a makeshift apron over his silk robes, had set himself an unusual task for a Monday: teaching a three-month-old baby to do magic. Despite his young age, Hadrian possessed the mindset of a five-year-old, a magical quality as astonishing as it was unsettling, a result of his pure-blood origin.

Tom held a small wooden cube and, with a precise movement of his hand, made it disappear and reappear. Hadrian's gaze was one of absolute fascination. The baby tried to imitate the movement, moving his small hands, and a soft golden glow, a pure magic that didn't have the harshness of Tom's, bloomed from his fingers.

"Harder," Tom murmured, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. "With intent."

Throughout the day, they played, laughed, and created a universe of their own. Tom began to notice his heart softening. The war and the fact that he had lost to Harry Potter hurt his pride, but for some reason, Tom felt happy with his new life. He was saner and, although he sometimes wanted to kill Harry, the feeling of hatred was no longer as strong.

But there was something else. A guilt. A silent voice in his mind that reminded him of all the deaths at Hogwarts and in his own family, murders that directly involved him. The guilt was a thorn that pierced his chest. He would never accept it, but it was there.

His mother's voice. His uncles' voices. His grandparents' voices. All of them, murdered by his own hand. Guilt was a feeling he couldn't control. And in the silence of the manor, surrounded by the beauty he himself had created, he felt alone. Alone with his demons, with his memories, with the pain of his past.

Guilt was a burden he couldn't shake. He couldn't go back. He couldn't change the past. He could only live with it. And the only way to do that was to accept that his son's future depended on his own redemption.

The universe of peace that Tom had built was shattered by a scream. Hadrian, who had been so quiet, erupted in a high-pitched, desperate cry. It wasn't a simple babble of hunger or discomfort, but a heartbreaking wail that echoed off the walls of Gaunt Manor.

Tom tried everything he knew. He cradled him, sang to him in a low voice, offered his magic as a soft blanket, but nothing worked. The baby's crying was an echo of his own anguish. He felt helpless, useless. Frustration rose in his throat, a dark, familiar rage that he tried to repress. He took Hadrian in his arms and rocked him, but the crying only got louder.

The guilt, which had been silenced, made its presence known. Maybe he wasn't fit for this. Maybe Harry was right. A being like him couldn't take care of such a pure child.

The sound of the crying became so unbearable that Tom felt his mind fragmenting again. He had overcome war, hunger, death… but a baby, a small, vulnerable being, was tearing him apart.

There was only one person who could help.

Tom, without a second thought, took Hadrian in his arms. The baby clung to his robe, his small fists clenched, but the crying continued. They left the manor, the cool night air hitting their faces.

Gaunt Manor, which had once been his refuge, now felt like a prison. Tom Apparated to the entrance of Hogwarts, his heart pounding. He felt like an intruder, like a ghost who had returned to haunt the living.

He ran through the corridors, the echo of Hadrian's cries resonating in the stillness of the night. He felt humiliated, desperate. He had sought immortality, absolute power, and now, here he was, running, asking for help from the only person who had defeated him.

He arrived at Gryffindor Tower. He stopped at the entrance, not knowing what to say. Hadrian, however, seemed to feel something. The crying subsided to a sob. Tom realized he didn't have to say anything. The child's magic, his pure longing to be with his father, was the only introduction he needed.

Harry's night had been a rare oasis of normalcy. Lying in his bed in Gryffindor Tower, he felt the warmth of Ginny beside him, her laughter and whispers filling the space with a peace he rarely experienced. The outside world, with all its complexities, seemed to have vanished.

But then, a scream broke the spell. It wasn't an audible scream, but a pang in his magic, a visceral pull that made him stand up abruptly. It was Hadrian. He was in danger. Without a second thought, Harry got dressed in a hurry, with an urgency he couldn't hide.

"Harry? What's wrong?" Ginny asked, her voice full of concern.

"I have to go," Harry said, his voice tense.

"What? Go? Where?"

"I can't explain it now, Ginny. Just… I have to go," Harry said, as he rushed to grab his things.

Ginny got out of bed, her eyes full of rage.

"No! You're not leaving again. I'm tired, Harry. I don't know what's going on with you, but I know something's wrong. I want to know what it is."

"There's nothing to worry about. I swear," Harry said, his voice full of desperation.

"Don't lie to me. I've seen you in the last few weeks. Your clothes, the way you act, your nerves… What's going on, Harry? Is it a mission? Is it a curse? Is it Voldemort?"

The last word made Harry tense up. Fear, anger, and frustration took hold of him.

"It's not Voldemort!" Harry shouted, in a voice that was a mix of anger and pain. "And I can't tell you!"

Ginny was silent, her eyes filled with tears. Harry's gaze, however, wasn't one of anger, but of a deep and painful fear.

"Don't you trust me?" Ginny whispered, her voice breaking.

Harry didn't answer. He turned and ran out, leaving Ginny alone in the room. Hadrian's cry was getting louder, an echo of the loneliness he had left behind.

Harry ran through the Hogwarts corridors with an urgency he hadn't felt since the war. Hadrian's cry, an echo in his magic, guided him through the darkness of the castle. He rounded a corner and came face to face with Tom. Despite everything, he felt a sense of relief in his chest at seeing him. Tom was holding Hadrian in his arms. The baby's face was flushed, his breathing agitated. A high-pitched, desperate cry came from his small mouth, but upon seeing Harry, it softened.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," Tom said, in a voice that was a mix of desperation and frustration. "He won't stop crying."

Harry held out his arms, Tom handed him Hadrian, who snuggled against his chest, his breathing ragged. Harry, with his heart in his throat, felt the heat. Hadrian was burning with a fever. An uncontrollable fever, one that didn't seem to react to anything.

"Let's go to the Room of Requirement," Harry said, his voice firm.

Tom followed him. The Room, which had once been a refuge, now felt like a prison. Harry laid Hadrian on the bed. The baby moved restlessly, his small body trembling. Harry, with his trembling hands, placed his wand on the baby's forehead. The wand shone with a golden glow, but the fever didn't subside.

Tom came closer, his face a canvas of frustration and desperation.

"What's wrong?" Tom asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"I don't know. The magic isn't helping him."

Suddenly, Hadrian arched, his small body tensing. A heartbreaking scream came from his mouth, and a dark, thick liquid, like ink, he vomited onto the white sheets.

Tom and Harry were silent. The strange substance seemed to burn the sheets. It wasn't normal vomit. It was a magical substance, one that felt as dark and powerful as Tom's.

"What is that?" Harry murmured, his voice full of fear.

"I don't know," Tom responded, in a voice that was a mix of terror and fascination. "But I know something is very wrong."

Silence settled in the room, broken only by Hadrian's ragged breathing. The night, which had once been a blanket of stillness, now felt like a storm.

The smell of burned magic floated in the air of the Room of Requirement. Harry knelt beside the bed, feeling the insane heat emanating from Hadrian's small body. The fever didn't subside, and the dark, thick vomit he had left on the sheets was irrefutable proof that this was no ordinary illness. Hadrian's magic, so pure and golden, was turning dark, as if a shadow had settled over it.

Harry stood up and looked at Tom. Tom's eyes were filled with a mix of terror and fascination. He was the only one who could understand the true nature of the evil affecting their son.

"We have to take him to St. Mungo's," Harry said, his voice firm and decided.

Tom looked at him with skepticism.

"We can't take him. What will we tell them? That he's our son? That he's a baby who can do magic without a wand? They'll ask us questions, Harry. Questions we can't answer."

"We'll have to find a way to answer them," Harry said, in a voice that allowed no objections. "St. Mungo's is the only place they can help him."

"I don't trust them. I don't trust anyone," Tom said, in a voice that was a mix of desperation and frustration. "What if they find out it's me? What if they find out I'm alive?"

"It's our risk. But I'm not going to let Hadrian die because of your pride," Harry said, in a voice that was a mix of anger and pain.

Tom was silent, his mind processing the information. He felt trapped between two worlds, the one he had left behind in the war and this new, surreal one in the Room of Requirement. He felt useless, helpless. He had sought absolute power, and now, here he was, running, asking for help from the only person who had defeated him.

"And what are you going to do, Potter? Take him to St. Mungo's and pray they don't find out you're the father of an ex-Dark Lord's baby?" Tom asked, in a voice that was a mix of contempt and resignation.

"I have no other choice," Harry said, in a voice that was a mix of desperation and resignation. "I won't let him die."

Tom was silent, his gaze fixed on Harry. He didn't know what to say. It felt like he had been hit, but not in the way he usually was. This hit was different. It was an old wound, one that hadn't been able to heal.

Chapter Text

Harry, trying to hold his breath, carefully held the baby and, with fear disguised as seriousness, handed him over to Tom.

Hadrian’s cry was left floating in the Room of Requirement, a harsh echo that vibrated against the enchanted walls. It was as if the castle itself held the memory of that sound. Harry stepped back, his heart clenched, watching Tom receive him with the unnatural calm of someone holding a secret too big for the world.
—I'll look for the nearest exit...

When Harry left, the door closed with a muffled groan, and Tom was left alone with the crib. The silence was filled only with the child’s ragged breathing. Yet, Tom wasn’t thinking about the baby, but about the war: the screams, the bodies, the blood. About the battle still raging inside the creature now squirming between the sheets.
With a slight flick of his wand, he levitated the crib. He wouldn't leave him there. He would protect him, even if he wasn’t entirely his.

The dark corridor received him like an open grave. And with it, the memories: the hiss of Nagini, the crackle of curses, the last sight of Severus Snape collapsing onto a pool of blood. Tom closed his eyes for an instant, still hearing that gurgle. Voldemort had collected him, dragged him to the Gaunt Manor, and sealed him in a stasis charm: neither alive nor dead, suspended in a limbo where time did not run.

Months passed. Until Hadrian was born, and everything changed.

Tom then descended to the dungeons. With a dry movement, he undid the spell. Snape woke up with gasps, his lips chapped, his face sunken in shadows. The first thing he saw was his former master, standing—though not entirely Voldemort anymore—and in his arms, a baby who breathed as if he had never known the weight of the world.
—What… what is this? —Snape muttered, barely audible.
—A baby. And you, by some miracle, are still alive —Tom replied.

It was an impossible sight. The Dark Lord, the monster who had filled his life with fear and obedience, held a baby as if it were the most fragile thing in the universe. Snape looked away, unable to process what he saw.

Harry soon arrived. He had rushed from Hogwarts, guided by the pulse of his son's overflowing magic. The Gaunt Manor received him with a chill that pierced his bones, and in the main hall he found the image he never would have expected: Snape alive, though emaciated, standing next to Tom.
—Snape… —Harry whispered, incredulous.
The professor's eyes widened with a mix of hatred and surprise.
—Potter…

The air grew heavy, unbreathable. Hadrian, laid out on an improvised table, was burning with fever. Magic burst from him in invisible gusts, shattering Tom’s diagnostic spells before they were even finished. Harry rushed toward him, but Snape, with a shred of professionalism, waved him away.

He leaned over the child, and for a moment he was again the severe master everyone knew. His voice, when he spoke, was sharp and merciless:
—It is not illness. It is rejection. His body cannot withstand the magnitude of the magic it contains. It is… overflowing.
The word was lodged like a knife. Harry trembled, his throat tight.
—And how do we cure it? —he asked desperately.
Snape looked at him harshly.
—There are three paths. Take away his magic. Forge him a stronger body. Or let him become pure magic.

Harry felt the ground open beneath his feet. Taking away his magic was like tearing out his soul. Forging him a new body was a dark act, closer to creating a homunculus than caring for a son. And letting him become pure magic... was condemning him to stop being human.

Tom, however, did not hesitate despite his internal complaints.
—We must extract part of the magic. Not all. Enough for him to live.
—What if he doesn't survive? —Harry cried.
—He will die anyway if we don't —Tom replied coldly.

The silence was worse than a scream. Harry closed his eyes. Deep down, he knew Tom was right. And with tears running down his face, he accepted.

The spell/ritual was brief, but devastating. Hadrian's magic rose from the baby's body like liquid crystal, an iridescent fragment that shone with its own pulse. The child arched, cried, and then, exhausted, fell into a deep sleep. His breathing normalized. The relief was brutal.

Harry held Hadrian in his arms. The small bundle, once a burning furnace of uncontrollable magic, was now just an exhausted baby. Harry leaned against the crib, feeling a cold sweat run down his back. He was safe.

Tom, however, was not looking at the child. His gaze was fixed on the iridescent fragment that floated, alive and vibrant, in the middle of the room. There was an intensity in his eyes that was not anger, but deep, quiet disapproval.
—It is a waste —Tom murmured, not addressing anyone in particular. His voice was flat, almost bored, but that indifference was more terrifying than any scream—. So much power contained in such a... fragile vessel.

Harry looked up, hugging Hadrian tighter.
—It was about to kill him, Tom. It’s not a fragile vessel, it’s our son. He was suffering.

Tom turned his head. His gaze was like ice, and Harry saw the icy fury. It was not the usual fury against an enemy, but the rage of an architect whose masterpiece has revealed an irreparable structural flaw.
—A pure wizard does not drown in his own power, Potter. A pure wizard masters his container. The weakness he has shown is... disconcerting. We have saved his life, yes. But at the cost of his potential. Now, the first task will be to design a way so that we never again have to resort to magical mutilation.

Harry felt bile rise in his throat. —Mutilation? We saved his life!
—And you snatched away a part of his birthright —Tom spat, his voice barely audible, but laden with venom—. His body has betrayed us. We must teach him to be stronger. Not to settle for less.

Harry looked at Tom, his heart clenched with fear. He realized that while they both loved Hadrian, what they loved was radically different: Harry loved the human and vulnerable baby; Tom loved the potential for power the baby represented. And that difference was as dangerous as the magic they had just extracted.

The silence in the room vibrated; the discomfort and Snape's strained breathing spread miles away from the manor.
—We cannot leave it loose —Tom murmured, his attention completely focused on the floating fragment. He moved toward the speck of light, extending a hand as if to claim it. There was a cold, voracious appetite in his expression. It was his son's fragment of power, and he could not bear for it to exist outside his control.

—I know where to hide it —Harry replied, with a certainty that surprised even Tom. Harry had noticed the possessiveness in Tom's eyes. He knew that if that magic fell into his hands, it wouldn't be to protect it, but to analyze it, perhaps even to use it in some ritual that would strengthen Hadrian's body, or worse, his own.

Harry carefully placed the baby in the crib and, without further explanation, Disapparated.

Tom stood still, looking at the empty space. The magic fragment dissolved into the air seconds after Harry left.

Minutes later, Harry returned, his hands empty.
—Where did you put it? —Tom demanded. His voice was a low growl; his frustration over the loss of knowledge and power was tangible. He took a step toward Harry, wand in hand.
—In a place no one can find —Harry said firmly.

The tension between them was unbearable. And Snape, witnessing everything, watched with eyes full of contempt.

Amidst the subsequent calm, a gesture broke the balance: Harry leaned over Hadrian, kissed him on the forehead and, in a strange impulse, gave Tom a quick kiss on the cheek. The subsequent silence was heavier than a scream. Tom remained rigid, his brow still furrowed by the irritation of the lost magic, but the kiss had frozen him in a state of confusion. From the other side of the room, Snape watched them with barely contained fury.

— — — — — —

Time passed. The Gaunt Manor, a month later, was unrecognizable. Hadrian, now more stable, barely caused magical flares, which Tom observed with clinical coldness, making a mental note of every small sign of "weakness." Snape, reduced to a shadow of himself, occupied a corner like a resentful servant. Harry, despite everything, was beginning to see the place as a home, and Tom, although he wouldn't admit it, was too.

One afternoon, Harry broke the silence, setting aside a Muggle toy that Hadrian had ignored.
—I already know what I want for Christmas —he said.

Tom, who was analyzing a parchment on Magical Body Reinforcement (research born from the need to "fix" Hadrian's deficiency), looked up impatiently.
—And what is it that seems so important to me?

Harry let out a somewhat weak huff before answering.
—I want to spend it here. With you.

The echo of his words filled the manor, turning that place of death into a strange refuge. Tom slowly lowered the parchment. The idea of a Muggle celebration in his ancestral home was offensive, but the idea of stability for Hadrian was irrefutable. His gaze turned to the crib, and the need to maintain a controlled and predictable environment for his son's development won the internal debate. Once again, logic and the survival of his "creation" prevailed over his contempt.
—A sentimental waste of time —Tom declared, returning to the parchment, but his voice contained an unusual note of resignation—. But interrupting the routine with long journeys is inadmissible for the child. If you insist on the festivity's charade, let it be here.

Harry smiled, a genuine smile that lit up the gloomy room.
—Perfect. We need a tree. And lights. Lots of lights.

Tom gave him a look of contempt.
—Muggle occupation. Don't waste time on trivialities. The Gaunt Manor will not be decorated with trinkets.

—Yes, it will —Harry retorted firmly—. We are not doing it for you or the Manor, we are doing it for Hadrian.

Snape, who had been observing the interaction with the gaze of a wraith, choked on the air. His face, emaciated and pale, contorted into an expression of disbelief and disgust.
—Celebrating Christmas? In this... hovel? —Snape hissed, unable to contain himself—. Potter, you have once again reduced the wizarding world to the levels of a children's story, and what's worse, you have dragged him into it.

Harry turned to Snape.
—We are alive. Hadrian is alive. And if that means putting lights on a tree so that, for once, something feels right, I will do it.

Tom intervened, his voice sharp.
—Enough. I will not tolerate unnecessary noise. Potter, you can order the "trinkets" by post. Snape, you will be responsible for the fireplace and heating in the east wing. The Manor must be functional.

Snape, furious at the humiliation of being relegated to "heating the east wing," glared venomously at Harry. Harry, feeling momentarily triumphant for having forced Tom's hand, responded with a completely childish gesture. He made an exaggeratedly victorious face at Snape, his mouth twisted into a mocking smile he hadn't used since his school years.

Then, with a deliberate movement that defied the manor's formality, Harry sat Hadrian on the floor next to him, letting the baby kick his legs on the somber rug.
—It's a shame Hadrian didn't celebrate Halloween with us —Harry declared, his tone light and provocative, looking at Snape.

—It was your fault —Tom declared with a hint of frustration, without looking up from his parchment—. That day you left Hadrian with me while you went to do "I-don't-know-what-the-hell with your friends."

Harry laughed, a chuckle that was too loud for the Gaunt Manor.
—I did the I-don't-know-what-the-hell so you could spend some time with him.

Tom put down the parchment. His frustration was not due to the interruption, but to the imperfection of the memory.
—The day was tolerable —Tom said, with the coldness of one evaluating a report—. But his routine was altered. And your choice of costume for him was profoundly vulgar.

—It was a bat! —Harry protested.

Snape, unable to endure more of the trivial conversation contaminating his torment, stood up, his robes billowing.
—Lord Voldemort discussing costumes for a baby —Snape hissed, contempt saturating every word—. It is pathetic. I hibernated for months to wake up and find this... domestic circus.

Tom looked at him. The recognition of the truth in Snape's words, combined with the defiance, was too much.
—Your usefulness is running out, Severus —Tom warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper—. Focus your energy on the fortification of the Manor. Or I promise you your fate will be worse than hibernation.

Snape bowed stiffly, the hatred visible on his face, and withdrew.

Harry watched Snape disappear, then looked back at Tom.
—Fortification? Do you think someone will attack us at Christmas?

Tom shook his head, his gaze once again on Hadrian, who was babbling happily on the floor.
—It is not about an external attack, Potter. It is about ensuring that this place fulfills its sole purpose: the containment and development of what we have created. And Christmas, if it makes you happy, is simply another parameter that I must control.

Tom stood up and walked toward one of the dark bookshelves, examining the spines of old magic books, his mind already on the logistics of security. Harry knew that, despite the sunlight on Hadrian's face, his truce with Tom was built on sand. Christmas would not be a break, but a test.