Chapter Text
It was all Hermione’s idea, really – a little fun thing to get their minds off the absolute nightmare that was Umbridge and Harry’s fluctuating temper. “We just send in a sample,” she’d said, hair frizzled with excitement as she pushed the pamphlets across the table, “and they’ll analyse them and give us a reading!”
“Hermione,” Ron had said, staring down at the pamphlet. “This is the Quibbler.”
She’d huffed. “Yes, thank you. They’re only hosting the article and results, it’s a third party actually analysing them. See?” She’d pointed at a name; Harry hadn’t bothered reading it. “She’s one of the leading witches in research of magical cores! It’s for research. It’s entirely anonymous!”
Her enthusiasm had been infectious. It was just a small fee, anyway, and while their results would be in a public database it was entirely anonymous, and they’d get a little magical bauble each – it looked much like a Remembrall, from the picture – that would display their unique magical signature in a visual format. “Like a fingerprint!” Hermione had gushed; Ron had wrinkled his nose.
They’d received their core imprints a week later, sitting in the hushed fire of the common room tilting them to this side and that, intrigued by the ways the light bounced of the colors and sparks within the glass. It’d been the first time in a long time Hermione and Ron didn’t end up fighting. Ultimately, they’d put away their imprints. It had been a fun little experiment, helping with samples for research, and that had been that.
And then the letter came. A single sheet of paper, delivered not by owl, but some sort of black bird that was probably either a raven or crow – not at the breakfast table, but straight to Harry’s bed one evening as he was leafing half-heartedly through his unfinished homework. He stood up to read it.
Addressed to ‘the one with the fluid core’, it read simply:
Your magical core intrigues me greatly. I would like to speak with you about opportunities beneficial to the both of us. I await your presence at Murder Mollis, Knockturn Alley, at ten in the evening the 16th of September to discuss this further. Ask for Gaunt. You may stay anonymous.
It was the signature that made Harry’s knees give out.
Lord Voldemort.
*
“You can’t seriously be thinking about it, Harry!”
Harry spun on his heel to cross the floor for the third time in thirty seconds. “But it’s perfect,” he said, sweeping his arm out at nothing in particular. Ron and Hermione were sat watching him from their armchairs, the former bewildered and the latter deep in thought. “No one else is telling me anything about anything, and especially not about him! Maybe – maybe I can gain some, some – what’s it called, ‘Mione?”
“Intel,” Hermione supplied, though her brow was still furrowed.
“Exactly!” said Harry, snapping his fingers at her. “Besides, he said my core intrigues him. What does that even mean? If I have any – any hidden powers or something, I want to know. How ironic wouldn’t it be, if he helped in his own defeat?”
Something seemed to come alive in Hermione. “Are you entirely sure about this? You don’t think you should tell someone?”
Harry barked a dry, humourless laugh. “Who’d I tell? Dumbledore? His favourite hobby is pretending I don’t exist. The Order? They’d just tell me to – to ignore it, or something.” Exhaling heavily, he collapsed into the last remaining armchair. “I just want some answers.”
“You’re not going alone,” said Hermione.
Reaching out blindly, Harry fumbled for her hand – squeezed. Once upon a time he would have let go instantly; now the feeling of her warm hand in his was comforting. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Ron’s hand found theirs, clasping both at the same time. He sounded unbelievably exasperated when he said, “I can’t believe I’m the rational one.”
*
Hermione was a force to be reckoned with on the simplest of days, but for once, both Harry and Ron were perfectly alright with following right along as they read about disguises, shielding charms, illusion wards, Portkey creations, voice alteration potions and endless other things. Ron had taken to keeping a count of all the rules Hermione was breaking, and it was about to reach triple digits by the time Saturday drew near.
“She’s insane,” said Ron to Harry, late Friday night, rather dreamily.
“Yeah,” said Harry, rather less dreamily, but no less grateful.
*
The room Lord Voldemort had managed to secure was by no means luxurious, but the steep price meant complete neutrality: Murder Mollis was an excellent place for meetings like these, although the room consisted of nothing more than two armchairs, a table and a blackened window.
Voldemort sipped his tea, checking the time once again. Only two minutes until ten.
He had no idea if this mysterious person would appear. It might have been foolhardy of him to reach out to a complete stranger without weighing all his options first, but the fluid core had occupied every waking moment of his life since he’d seen it in the database and he was looking forward to get it over and done with. If the one with the core did not show, then Voldemort could at last close this chapter of his planning. If they did show… well, then he would have to see.
A sound by the door brought him to full attention. After a knock – “Enter!” – one of the employees stepped inside, falling into a brief curtesy. Voldemort allowed himself a slow smile; had she known who he truly was, that courtesy would have been far deeper. “They are here, sir Gaunt.”
Voldemort raised a brow, the only inclination of how truly surprised he was. “Show them in.”
It was not one, but three cloaked figures who stepped into the room. They reeked of magic, layers upon layers of wards and spells meant to disillusion and hide – even their cloaks, though they did nothing to change the figures’ heights, shrouded their forms. The darkness that hid their faces was nothing short of unnatural, either. There was no detailing or style about the cloaks, excepting an embroidered sigil on their chests: three wands, crossed above a semi-circle. It was not at all familiar.
“Welcome,” said Voldemort, inclining his head to all three as the door shut behind them. “You come well prepared, I see.” He let a trace of amusement into his voice as he leaned back in his armchair, draping an arm haphazardly across the back. It was a show of superiority, as well as openness; he did not expect an attack. “And not alone.”
One of the figures stepped forward, offering a brief bow before they took the empty chair. The two other figures fell back to flank the chair, still and unmoving. Voldemort had to wonder if that was the result of magic, as well, or sheer familiarity.
“You are not a man I would want to be associated with,” said the figure; their voice was warped, clearly by magic, toneless and pitchless to be utterly neutral. “And I wouldn’t consider you safe, either.”
So the stranger did not doubt who Voldemort was, despite the appearance of his younger years. Were they someone who knew him, then? Had they switched sides? No matter; they were on neutral ground. “Yet, you came.”
The figure nodded their head; for the briefest of moments there was a glimpse of something green, far within the shadows, but it was gone as fast as it came. “I want to know what you know. Why are you interested in my core? What’s so special about it?”
A thrill went through Voldemort. Only years and years of training meant he was able to keep his surprise under wraps: this person, the one with the fluid core, had no idea why they were special. Were they young? Raised by someone incompetent? Surely, they were not a pureblood, or they’d know these things already. Was this perhaps not someone Voldemort could ally with, but teach?
“Before we proceed,” he said, spreading his hands over the table, “I would like you to identify yourself, if you can. How do I know I’m speaking with the one with the fluid core, when you have gone to such lengths to shroud yourself?”
There was a long silence. Then the figure made a grotesque sound that was highly likely a warped sigh; they reached into a pocket with a gloved hand, pulling a core imprint from the shadows. “I am Muto,” the figure said, placing the core imprint upon the table between them. It roiled and shifted, silver streaks cutting straight through shades of blue, gleaming spots of blinding light twisting now and again within the glass. Like the ocean, it was ever-changing, but when Muto placed it on the table, the lights withered and fell to sleep.
At a flick of their wrist, Muto called forth their guards. “These are my companions,” they said, “Terra and Favilla.” The two figures placed their own core imprints upon the table. Rather tellingly, Terra’s was dark as soil, shimmering with specks of green and grey until they let it go – Favilla’s glowed hot and fiery red until they placed it, at which point it retreated to glowing embers. Nothing interesting in particular about those two, except for the ways all cores are interesting.
Muto’s, however…
“So, it is true,” Voldemort muttered. “A fluid core.”
He looked into Muto’s darkened hood, searching fruitlessly for a pair of eyes to gaze into before he pulled a core imprint from his own pocket, placing it on the table between them.
It roiled and shifted, silver streaks cutting straight through shades of blue, gleaming spots of blinding light twisting now and again within the glass.
The moment Voldemort’s fingers no longer touched it, it dwindled.
All three figures inhaled sharply.
“Yes,” said Voldemort, pleased at this reaction. “Do you understand why this is significant?”
A long pause. The two imprints on the table – not identical, but as close as two cores can be – kept swirling in the infinite dance.
“No,” said Muto eventually. “I don’t. Care to tell me?”
It was hard to tell, with the magic and illusions, but there was a faint tinge of frustration to those words. Was it at Voldemort, for not explaining immediately? At their own lack of knowledge? Someone else, perhaps, for not having told them before?
Fascinating. “What do you know of magical cores?”
Another long pause. Only the presence of their cores on the table let Voldemort keep his patience. This was a valuable asset; whether Muto became an ally, student, whatever else. He wouldn’t mark them, oh no, this was something else entirely.
“Very little,” said Muto. “Not nearly enough.” Another, much briefer pause. “It’s where our magic is stored.”
Definitely not pureblood. Unless, perhaps, from a branch of the traitors in Dumbledore’s grasp… and wasn’t that an interesting thought. Voldemort needed to get Muto off this neutral ground and recruit them to his own cause before it was too late.
“An accurate assessment,” he allowed. “We unfortunately have no time now to go into the details of it; I have the room booked for only half an hour.”
Muto snorted. At least that’s what Voldemort assumed the sound was. “Aren’t you the Dark Lord?”
“Murder Mollis is neutral ground. Something you ought to be thankful for; a Dark Lord requires more respect than that.” It was only half-serious; Voldemort was so utterly taken with the near-identical core imprints he’d let the cheek pass. Not to mention how fascinating it was to meet someone who knew who he was and still did not worship the ground he walked on.
Or tried to murder him on sight. He supposed that was nice, too.
Muto, rather tellingly, said nothing.
Voldemort continued smoothly: “I can tell you this, however: a fluid core is rare. Exceedingly rare. There has only been one recorded case before myself, and it was approximately two thousand years ago.”
“It could be a coincidence,” said Muto. “Isn’t that why you’re doing more research?”
Voldemort blinked, then smiled. “Not an unwise assumption, but no, the research isn’t mine. I am merely interested in seeing where it goes. A core like yours, however… I would like to see what you might be able to do with it. If you could accomplish even a fraction of what I have.”
There was another long silence. It was impossible to know what Muto was thinking – even when they spoke, there was no emotion in the warped words. “Why did you call me here?”
No time for trickeries or manipulations, only straight to the point. It was… unfamiliar. Nevertheless, Voldemort was not about to be outdone: he could be straightforward as well. “I was curious. I wished to gauge you; see if you could be an asset in my efforts, if it would be beneficial to keep in contact.”
Muto shifted in their seat, leaning back – closer to their companions, perhaps. “I can’t help but notice the past tense.”
Perceptive, considering the vague information Voldemort had managed to gather. “Correct. I have decided the best course of action.” Voldemort smiled, a small thing that was nonetheless tinged with pride. It always worked wonders on his pureblood Death Eaters. “A core so similar to mine cannot be a coincidence. I would like to take you on as an apprentice.”
All three figures reeled back. Terra and Favilla glanced hurriedly at each other, then down at Muto, before returning their focus – presumably – to Voldemort.
After the longest pause yet, Muto said, “you know nothing about me.”
“I need not,” said Voldemort. “I know your core. I will have tests made to gauge your knowledge and go from there.”
A garbled sound. “No, I mean –”
A slow smile spread over Voldemort’s face. “Ah. You disagree with my views.”
The figures tensed. Muto remained silent.
“I offer my teachings not as a Dark Lord, but as a powerful wizard with knowledge far beyond my years.” He was feeling very patient today, and Muto’s core… he would do anything to learn more about that core. “We need not discuss politics.”
If only he knew more about Muto or his companions, he would be able to sweeten the deal for them… not that he should have the need to; an apprenticeship with him was a great honour. Muto likely knew that, though – other things were holding them back. Like their opposing world views. Not that it mattered; the imprints on the table spoke for themselves.
To hell with it, he’d take a risk. Softening his voice, Voldemort said, “I would teach you the inner workings of the Wizarding World.”
A sound by the door announced an employee’s presence before they could knock.
“Enter!”
It was the same employee from before, curtsying briefly without looking at any of them. “Your time is almost up, Sir Gaunt.”
“Very well,” said Voldemort, inclining his head to her, “thank you.” Back to the three figures, he said, “think on it, Muto.” With a flick of his hand he conjured a scroll of parchment; a brief, wordless incantation later he held a copy of it across the table. “You may contact me with this. Whatever you write will appear on my copy, and vice versa. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
The trio pocketed their core imprints. Muto stared at the parchment on the table so long Voldemort started wondering if they might not take it at all.
Gloved fingers curled around the scroll. “I’ll think on it,” they said, and without another word, they left.
*
Not a word was spoken as they fled the pub to Portkey back to Hogsmeade, nor was anything said between them as they hurried along the path to a quiet patch of still night. Hermione cast a silencing ward; Harry cast a disillusion spell; Ron made sure they weren’t being watched.
Hermione was the first to rip her hood off. She was positively aflame, cheeks dark and hair wild, eyes gleaming as she gaped at Harry. Ron was next, tearing the hood off with as much fire as Hermione, though he looked more on the pale and horrified side of things.
“Harry,” Hermione gasped. “Harry, oh my God.”
With shaking hands, Harry pulled down his hood. He was… he was…
“Mate,” said Ron, “mate, no, you can’t be serious.”
“Ron!” Hermione spun upon him. “It’s perfect. It’s perfect! Of course, I have to refine these charms, make an anchor of sorts, maybe embroidering runes into the cloak? Oh, so many ideas! All the things you can learn, Harry!”
“He’s the Dark Lord,” Ron snapped back, though from his frantic expression it was not anger. “He’s – you know, the slimy evil bugger we’re supposed to hate!”
“He wasn’t himself,” Harry said quietly.
They snapped to attention.
“He wasn’t so sane in the graveyard. I… Ron… Ron, I have so many questions.” Harry shook his head. “So many questions. And he’s – you know? Offering to answer them?”
He tried to remember last time an adult had actually tried to answer a question without trying to shelter him through it and came up horribly blank.
“This is insane,” said Ron. “You’ve officially lost it.” He looked from Harry, to Hermione, to Harry again – and sighed. “Right, so what’s the plan, then?”
*
The plan was to ask questions. Many, many question, courtesy of Hermione. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was trying to kill him from sheer stress,” Ron muttered as the three of them worked together on a list.
“They have to be perfect,” Hermione muttered. She was always so fond of her puzzles.
*
The list was long. Some questions were broad and important – will I be safe with you? If yes, what measures will be taken to ensure that? – while others were less so – where will the teaching be taking place and how will I get there? – but as Harry wrote them all out on the charmed scroll, he made it abundantly clear he would not be accepting any apprenticeships before every question had been answered.
He didn’t expect every question to be answered. Honestly, he didn’t expect much at all; it was too good to be true, in the way a Dark Lord offering to tutor you is good. Surely it was a trap – an insanely detailed plan to ensnare Harry and get rid of him for good?
Except… it really didn’t feel like it.
Doubly so when the response to their questions came through – a detailed explanation and answer to every single question. Moreover, Voldemort went out of his way to give several options in some cases; the question where will the teaching be taking place was answered with a plethora of potential places, ending with I can arrange meetings on any neutral ground you wish. A Portkey will be provided.
“He seems really…” Ron gestured vaguely with the hand not currently busy gripping at his hair.
“Accommodating?” said Hermione.
“Sane,” said Ron. “But yeah, that, too. Blimey, mate, I think he really wants to teach you. Seems pretty… desperate for it, really.” He grimaced, pushing the scroll away from him. “Ugh, You-Know-Who, desperate. Not a mental image I like.”
Hermione grinned, rolling her eyes before she reached over to Harry, placing a hand atop his. “Are you still interested?”
“I have to,” said Harry. “I have to.”
“Then we’ll write a contract,” said Hermione, with one hard nod.
*
Harry couldn’t sleep.
It was only a month into the schoolyear, and already things were going horribly wrong. The back of his hand burned, not only with the words carved into flesh, but with the tingling of glamour charms left on for too long. He hadn’t told anyone about the scars, not yet – it made him burn with embarrassment to think about it for too long; he should be stronger, fiercer…
Huffing a breath, Harry turned in bed and threw the covers over his head. He didn’t want to linger on those thoughts; instead he found himself drifting to the other, major thing going on in his life.
Lord Voldemort.
While Hermione was working on the contract, Harry and Ron spent their free time finding – and reading – books on magical cores. Their information now served as a much broader, albeit still very vague, image on how magical cores served as a secondary personality trait, of sorts. Like Hermione had described, a fingerprint, entirely unique – but unlike a fingerprint, the appearance and feel of your magical core meant something, and there were whole branches of study designated for it.
They hadn’t found out what it could mean, that Harry’s core was near identical to Voldemort’s. Harry wanted to ask him, but hadn’t been sure how the question would be taken. It was rude, wasn’t it, to say “hey, do you think I’m evil, too?” Not that Voldemort deserved kindness, but if Harry wanted answers, he’d have to pretend a little while longer.
There were other things he could ask about, though. Things Hermione and Ron hadn’t brought up as relevant, and Harry had been too anxious to mention. And really, he couldn’t sleep… and the night was so long and silent and still, the sleeping forms of the other Gryffindors shrouded by the shadows…
Harry sat up.
It was easy pulling out the scroll from his bedside table; easy finding the always-inked quill he’d borrowed from Hermione. It was even easy writing out, hello.
And then it was all so reminiscent of his second year that he almost wrote, I’m Harry. Thankfully he stopped himself in time to turn the H into a wonky M to spell his alias instead.
Hello. I’m Muto.
He chewed his lip. He didn’t expect a response right away – it was the dead of night – so instead he wrote out, we’re working on a potential contract. But I have some more questions.
Harry paused, then skipped a line and wrote, questions about you.
For a while there was no answer. It felt like days – it felt like seconds – before, slowly, unfurling in Voldemort’s fine hand, the scroll read: by all means, Muto. Ask.
Letting out a trembling breath, Harry wrote, I know how you were before your resurrection. You’ve changed. Why?
Only the steady splotches of a quill dripping ink onto the parchment told Harry Voldemort was still on the other end. As the rushing of Harry’s blood threatened to deafen him, letters appeared to spell: Why did you not ask me this in person?
Harry wrote, hand shaking, I thought you might just kill me on the spot. He paused, flashed a brief smile, and added, I was right, wasn’t I?
You were.
The words, their haste, the cold flick of the period – it went flying from Voldemort’s hand through his quill onto the parchment and into Harry – plucking his spine like the string of a guitar, reverberating with… with…
Swallowing thickly, Harry put down the scroll. With what? Fear? Thrill? Unbidden, the thought presented itself: how long could he ignore the magnetic pull of the Dark Lord? Pull or no pull, he was still Voldemort. Leader of a bloody war, killer of his parents, bigoted donkey of an ass. Murderous mad-man. It was so easy, far too easy, to fuel the magnetism into hatred.
It didn’t stop him from frantically scrabbling for the scroll when Voldemort continued writing.
Since you evidently inhabit a fair amount of self-preservation, I shall reward you with the answer. Magic is a tool not unlike a knife: it can be useful as well as harmful – also to the one who wields it. In my years of experimenting with magic, I dealt great damage to my psyche. The damage was undone shortly after my resurrection.
A pause.
That should be a sufficient answer to your inquiry.
Harry’s chest hurt with emotions. He couldn’t pinpoint them, couldn’t say what they were, but they were overwhelming. It ached and swelled; he wet his lips, swallowed, shifted in his bed, trying to understand why the thought of Voldemort healing was so… so…!
He wrote, you’re telling me you seem saner because… you ARE saner?
There was a sense of amusement, somehow, in the response. Indeed.
Good to know, said Harry, because it was.
For a while, there was no communication from the parchment. Then, were any other questions on your mind, Muto?
Harry brought the quill to the paper, then… hesitated. He’d meant to ask, why do I feel drawn to you? or maybe, why do you hate me? – meaning Harry Potter – but… the question that came to mind instead was, why are you so desperate to teach me?
Harry tensed at the appearance of a dashed, black line marring the scroll. It was quickly followed by: brat. Clever to ask with a parchment between us, but I nonetheless deserve respect as your mentor.
Adrenaline coursing through every vein in his body and encouraged by the lack of curses coming through the scroll, Harry wrote, not my mentor yet. Answer the question.
Brat, wrote Voldemort again. Clearly he was not used to actually coming up with insults; he must’ve gotten far too used to the Cruciatus curse over the years. I have always wanted to be a teacher. I applied to teach at Hogwarts, as a matter of fact. Of course, Dumbledore was already the Headmaster then and would rather see me dead. Ah, not that you asked for that, of course, Muto.
Was Voldemort bashful? Harry rubbed his eyes, but the tone of the words remained as it had been. He must be losing his mind. Both of them must be losing their minds!
You have great potential, Voldemort wrote. Not only because of our similar cores. Besides, you fascinate me. I would like to see you flourish.
Harry put down the scroll. His hands shook.
Casting his covers aside, he stumbled his way to the bathroom. He blanched at the sight of himself in the mirror; a ghostly thing, ashen and taunt and with bloodshot eyes peering out from the shadows of his haunted brow, his disarrayed curls. What was he doing? This was a dance with the devil, a deal with the devil, and the devil didn’t even know.
He had to keep going. In less than a month, Voldemort had told him more about himself than Dumbledore had in four years. What other secrets would the Dark Lord spill if only Harry pushed? Gained his trust? As an apprentice?
And, a cruel little voice whispered deep inside, what would he learn?
*
After splashing his face with cold water and hoping to look less like a zombie when he woke come morn, Harry returned to the scroll.
There was only one new line added below the last: I look forward to seeing your contract. Goodnight, Muto.
“Yeah,” Harry muttered drily, fingers trailing over the dried ink before he hastily wrapped the scroll up again. “G’night, Voldemort.”
*
Two days later Hermione ran out of research material in the Hogwarts library, and so the trio turned to other sources: Hermione owled the DMLE, Ron owled Bill and Harry contacted Sirius – all three asking for the same thing, blaming a school project.
Within a week they had their Apprentice contract examples. As expected the three sources – the Law, the Bank, and Dark Pureblood Society – had vastly different contracts. Combining the three would be perfect, and so they did – all three of them fretting over word choices, clauses, fine print and so on. When they were sure they could no longer perfect it, Hermione – who had the neatest handwriting – painstakingly copied it to the scroll.
Voldemort sent it back with revisions the same day. Ron scoffed over them and took Hermione’s notes, and within the next ten hours they settled on a final copy. It was to be signed by Voldemort and Muto, with witnesses from each side. Terra and Favilla would be Harry’s; Voldemort had chosen Lucius Malfoy.
“I knew it,” Ron had hissed upon seeing the name.
“I told you,” Harry had said, tired but not surprised. “I wonder if that’s where he’s staying.”
“Be civil!” Hermione had taken the scroll away from them before they’d knock any inkwells over it. “Neutral ground, remember?”
Before they could sign the contract – and the agreed time was the next Wednesday, October 11th, at Murder Mollis – there was another matter to be dealt with. It was Ron who alerted them to it; that magic would render the contract void unless it recognized Harry, Hermione and Ron as Muto, Terra and Favilla.
To have magic recognize them as those people they would have to declare themselves as such; it required a ritual, complete with runes and potions. Hermione was utterly taken with it when she bent her head over ancient tomes: “this is amazing!” she exclaimed. “So many similarities with the muggle Occult, how fascinating, why don’t we learn more of this?”
Then there was only a question of where to perform it; they considered the Forbidden Forest, for a while, but thankfully there was a better solution: Dobby. Ron bemoaned one late night of research that he’d love a cup of hot chocolate right about then, and there Dobby was, tray balanced in his hands. When they’d joked all they needed now was a room to perform ancient rituals in, Dobby told them of the Come and Go room, or as Hermione called it, the Room of Requirement.
They checked it out the same evening. It was perfect. It even supplied the ingredients they needed, as long as they existed somewhere in the castle as well.
“We can really do this,” Hermione muttered, trailing her hand along the raised stone that circled the centre of the circular room. The ceiling opened into a glass dome, charmed like the Great Hall to display the sky; rows of plants and murals of constellations and stars traced the walls. It was nothing short of serene. Hermione turned to Harry and Ron, eyes wide, face flushed. “Are we… are we really doing this?”
Ron turned to Harry.
“I’m doing it,” said Harry. “With or without you.”
There was silence, for a moment, and then Hermione’s expression went from awed to stern. “Come on, don’t be ridiculous,” said Hermione, and planted her hands on her hips in a move so reminiscent of Mrs. Weasley it was almost scary. “We’re with you. Right! Let’s plan the ritual, then.”
And so it came to the three of them sat in the Room of Requirement on the 8th of October, under the light of the full moon as they meditated and chanted and burned herbs – timed perfectly from Hermione’s calculations and Ron’s quick thinking, the Earth’s shadow swallowed the moon as vows of acceptance fell from their lips.
Afterward they sewed runes of shrouding into the seams of their cloaks, one for each, breathing magic into the symbols with the remnants of peace the ritual offered. When there were no remnants left they sewed their patches on instead: three wands, crossed above a pot. They entered the Room of Requirement the Golden Trio; they left it the Three Wands. Harry, Ron, Hermione. Muto, Favilla, Terra.
From here on out, there was no turning back. Never again to this point; their lives knocked off-course, their centres of gravity shifted.
And yet, Harry had never felt more balanced.
*
The balance didn’t last long. October 11th the Three Wands stood with Lord Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy in Murder Mollis, reading over the contract before them several times to ensure nothing had been changed from their agreement. Harry had expected Voldemort to be frustrated by it, but he showed no signs of that – leaned back in his seat, a grin toying at the corner of his mouth like he enjoyed it. Malfoy, for his part, was stood beside his chair watching the Three Wands with nothing short of boredom.
“It’s acceptable,” said Terra, falling back to the shadows.
Favilla stood bent over it another moment before he, too, gave Harry a nod and joined her.
“Right,” said Harry, and grabbed the raven-feathered quill Voldemort had placed out. Voldemort and Malfoy had already signed; Harry had watched them, careful, trying to spot any mishaps. There were none.
He signed.
Favilla signed after him, then Terra – and the moment she drew out the last loop of the ‘a’, magic rushed in to wrap about them all like film.
“It’s done,” said Harry, lifting his head to meet Voldemort’s gaze. Those blood-red eyes shone with ravenous hunger.
Had Voldemort been able to see Harry’s face, he would’ve seen the same expression reflected back to him.
*
It was midnight when they returned, and the Common Room was not empty.
“Neville,” said Harry, frozen right inside the entryway.
“Ginny,” Ron added, just as tense.
The two were sat by the glowing embers of the fireplace, watching the Three Wands with narrow eyes. “Where were you?” said Neville.
“What?”
“Where were you?” he repeated. “You missed Astronomy.”
From the corner of his eye, Harry noted Hermione’s face draining of color. “Fuck,” she said, to gasps from Ron and Ginny – both rather delighted. “We forgot Astronomy. How could we forget Astronomy?”
All eyes drifted, as though by fate, to Harry.
Harry sighed, quickly flitting through his options before saying, “I’ve found a mentor. I can’t tell you any more than that.”
Ginny snorted, leaning back in her chair with her arms behind her head. “Good for you. That bitch Umbridge won’t teach anyone anything, I think.”
“She wouldn’t know teaching if it bit her in the arse,” Ron muttered.
“Hear, hear.”
Neville, though, was still eyeing Harry. It was eerie, how still he was – face cast in shadow but for the brief moments of flickered light. He had never seemed this serious, this somber. “Does Dumbledore know?”
A thrill of fear.
“Thought not,” Neville muttered. He rose from his chair, and for possibly the first time ever, Harry’s stomach dropped at the hollows beneath his eyes. “Let me know if you need someone to cover for you. I’m going to bed.”
“Wait, Neville!” Hermione called, darting half-a-step forward before Neville turned, giving her a tired look. “What did Dumbledore do?”
“Something I cannot forgive,” said Neville, and left.