Whispers Through Time

by mizzan1992

Summary:

On his way to the burrow Harry gets hit with a stray hex. He wakes up in 1976. With no way to go back to his time he must learn to life in the past.

Alternate version (but no copy) of 'Rewriting Fate'. Both stories can be read as standalone.

Notes:

While working on 'Rewriting Fate' I had some ideas for scenes and events that wouldn't fit that specific timeline.
As the ideas got more and more I started writing them down. Somehow it ended up becoming a complete story...

A/N: I've changes some things from canon to better fit the story, hope you won't mind.
Most characters belong to J. K. Rowling. I only own a few side characters.

Please note: While I appreciate feedback and criticism, the story is already almost completely written. So If you find a mistake that requires me to rewrite a larger part of it please understand I won't be able to. I'd rather not put it on a break for the weeks or months it would take me to rewrite these parts until I am satisfied with the result.

Hope you enjoy the story.

Chapter 1: 1976

Harry stares out the window of the train as it pulls away from the station, the darkening sky reflecting his mood. The first half of his sixth year at Hogwarts has passed in a blur of lessons, Quidditch, and an ever-growing sense of unease. Now, with Christmas around the corner, he should feel lighter—heading to the Burrow with his friends and the Weasleys always does that to him—but something weighs on him. He can’t shake the feeling that danger is closer than ever.

The compartment is filled with the sounds of light chatter and the rhythmic clatter of the train speeding along the tracks. Hermione, predictably, is deep in conversation about their classes. “Honestly, I think Professor Slughorn is a far better teacher than Snape ever was,” she says, her tone firm. “He might not be as good a potion master, but at least he explains things clearly. Snape never bothered with that. He just... expected us to know.”

Harry shifts in his seat, half-listening. He can’t deny that Slughorn is better at teaching. The man makes potions more accessible, less like some cryptic art that only the most talented can grasp. But at the same time, Harry feels a wave of discomfort at the mention of Slughorn. He has no desire to say it out loud, especially in front of Ron and Hermione, but Slughorn’s constant attention makes him uneasy. It isn’t just the way Slughorn favors him or how he is always pulling Harry into his “Slug Club.” It’s the way the man seems to see Harry as a trophy—a prized possession to show off. It isn’t teaching that Slughorn is most interested in, at least not with Harry. It’s fame, and Harry has never felt more trapped by it.

"Yeah, well," Ron interjects from beside him, leaning back into his seat with a loud sigh. "It’s holidays. Can we stop talking about school for once? We’ve got two whole weeks without Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, or anything else. I’m not thinking about Snape or Slughorn, and I don’t want to hear about them either.”

Harry smirks at Ron’s exasperation. He can always count on Ron to put things in perspective, to remind them all that there is more to life than schoolwork and lessons. Hermione huffs but relents, sinking back into her seat as well. The conversation lulls into a comfortable silence, punctuated by the occasional rustle of parchment or the turning of a page from Hermione's book.

As they near their destination, the familiar sense of relief that comes with returning to the Burrow starts to creep into Harry's chest. The warmth, the chaos, the feeling of family—it’s what he has come to cherish most during his time at Hogwarts. And this year, especially with everything happening, the Burrow feels like the safest place in the world.

The train finally pulls into the station, and they gather their things, stepping off into the chilly evening air. The Muggle side of the station is busy with holiday travelers rushing about, lugging heavy suitcases and calling out to one another over the din of the trains. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the Weasleys stick close together, weaving through the crowd toward the exit.

“We’re almost there,” Ginny says brightly, her breath visible in the cold. “Mum’s going to lose it if we’re late for dinner.”

Harry is about to respond when he feels it—a shift in the air. His hand instinctively reaches for his wand, but before he can grasp it, a blur of motion erupts in the corner of his eye.

"Get down!" Hermione shouts, just as spells begin flying through the air.

It’s chaos. The bustling station turns into a battlefield in an instant, the holiday travelers scattering in panic as curses and hexes light up the evening like fireworks. Death Eaters. They have attacked before he even realizes what is happening. Harry’s heart races, adrenaline flooding his system as he ducks behind a pillar, pulling out his wand.

"Stupefy!" Ron’s voice rings out, followed by a flash of red. Hermione is already casting shield charms, her eyes wide but focused.

Harry raises his wand, trying to get a clear shot at the figures moving in the shadows. He has fought them before—he has faced worse—but something about the randomness of this attack throws him off. This is a Muggle station, filled with people who have no idea what is happening. Innocent people who are now running for their lives.

A flash of green shoots past his head, narrowly missing him. He turns, spotting the figure of a masked Death Eater closing in. His heart pounds in his chest, and he raises his wand again, but before he can cast a spell, he feels it. A sharp, burning pain rips through his side as a stray hex hits him with the force of a Bludger.

His vision blurs, the world around him tilting dangerously. He stumbles backward, his wand slipping from his grasp as his legs give out beneath him.

"Harry!" Hermione’s voice seems distant, muffled, as if she’s calling from underwater. He tries to respond, to tell her he’s fine, but the pain is too much. His vision darkens, and the last thing he sees is the chaotic swirl of lights and spells before everything goes black.

The coldness of the ground is the only thing he’s aware of as he slips into unconsciousness, the sounds of battle fading into nothingness.

***

Harry wakes up with a dull throb pulsing through his side, and it takes him a few moments to realize he's lying on the cold, hard floor of what looks like King's Cross Station. His body feels sluggish, and a sharp ache lingers where the stray hex hit him, but he can't recall the exact moment he lost consciousness. His vision is blurry, and the familiar clatter of holiday travelers and trains is gone. The station, which was chaotic just moments ago, now feels unnervingly empty. His heart pounds in his chest, and for a brief second, he wonders if he's still dreaming.

He forces his eyes to focus, blinking against the harsh overhead lights. Where is everyone? Panic builds as he looks around, but all he sees is the empty platform stretching out before him.

A voice comes from somewhere nearby, drawing him out of his fog. “You okay there, lad?”

Harry blinks and turns his head toward the voice, his muscles stiff and uncooperative. A young man is kneeling beside him, his face filled with concern. The man’s long red hair catches the light, reminding Harry instantly of Bill Weasley. But as Harry focuses, he notices differences—subtle but significant. The man’s eyes are a deep brown, not Bill’s familiar blue, and his features are sharper, more refined, like someone who carries a sense of ease and confidence that Harry rarely associates with Bill's laid-back nature.

"Where's everyone?" Harry asks, his voice cracking slightly. He sits up, clutching his aching side. His mind is still trying to catch up with what’s happening.

The man looks around, frowning. “Didn’t see anyone else. Just you.”

Harry’s confusion deepens, and panic flares. Where are Ron and Hermione? Where are the Weasleys? The memory of the attack floods back to him—Death Eaters, spells flying everywhere, and the frantic rush to find cover. He grips his wand tightly, feeling its comforting weight in his hand, but it offers little reassurance now.

“Just me?” Harry repeats, more to himself than the man, his mind spinning. This doesn’t make any sense. Where could they have gone? And why was he left behind? A flicker of dread creeps into his chest—had something terrible happened to them while he was unconscious?

The man sighs, running a hand through his long hair. “It seems you’re in shock. You’re lucky I found you when I did. What’s your name? I’ll contact your family, let them know you’re all right.”

“Harry Potter,” he answers, still too disoriented to think clearly. He’s searching for any sign of his friends—his eyes darting around the platform—but it’s like they’ve vanished without a trace.

The man’s face goes blank for a split second, but Harry catches it—a flicker of recognition or surprise that passes quickly. Then the man’s expression softens, though his eyes seem sharper, as if he’s sizing Harry up. “Alright then,” the man says, nodding to himself. “Off to Potter Manor we go. Euphemia should be at home right now.”

“Wait—Potter Manor?” Harry’s confusion intensifies, his voice rising in alarm. “What are you talking about?”

But before he can finish, the man grips his shoulder firmly. With a crack, Harry feels the suffocating tug of Apparition yank them both from the station. The ground shifts beneath him, and the world spins violently around him.

When they land, Harry stumbles, his knees buckling slightly from the force of the sudden Apparition. His surroundings have changed drastically. The cold, drab station is gone, replaced by the sight of a large, imposing manor house. It stands proudly, its tall windows gleaming in the fading light. The manor’s expansive gardens stretch out in front of them, lined with beautiful rose bushes, their blooms impossibly vibrant and fully blossomed despite the December chill. Harry takes a step back, overwhelmed by the surreal beauty of the place. The air smells fresh, fragrant with the scent of roses, and there’s a calm stillness to it all that makes his head spin.

His breath catches in his throat as he gazes at the manor. Potter Manor? He’s heard of it in passing, but he has no memories tied to it. He never grew up here. His childhood had been spent in a cramped cupboard under the stairs of Number Four, Privet Drive, not in a grand estate with a garden of blooming roses.

The man tugs him forward, guiding him briskly through the garden toward the large front door. “Come on,” He says, glancing back at Harry. “You’re probably in shock, and I don’t blame you, but we’ll get you sorted out.”

Harry stumbles along, still trying to make sense of everything. “What—what’s going on?” he asks, feeling more like a lost child than ever. “Where are we? Who are you?”

The man doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulls Harry up the stone steps and toward the towering front door. Before they can knock, the door opens with a soft creak, revealing a tall woman with elegant black curls and cool gray eyes. She’s dressed in deep blue robes, her posture rigid and composed. She smiles faintly at the man but glances at Harry with undisguised curiosity.

“It isn’t like you to drop by without notice, Fabian,” the woman says smoothly, stepping aside to let them in. “Has something happened?”

“No, everything’s fine,” Fabian replies, his grip still firm on Harry’s arm. “Just dropping someone off. Is Euphemia at home?”

The woman’s eyes flick to Harry, and though her expression remains neutral, he can feel her studying him closely. “Euphemia should be in her study. Mippy?”

A small house-elf appears instantly, bowing low. “What can Mippy do for Mistress Dorea?”

“Tell Euphemia her presence is required,” the woman—Dorea—commands.

“Mippy be getting Mistress Euphemia,” the elf says, before disappearing with a soft pop.

Harry feels a cold knot of confusion settle deeper in his stomach. Euphemia? That name stirs something in the back of his mind. He doesn’t know anyone named Euphemia, but somehow it sounds familiar—distantly familiar, like a name from a story long forgotten.

Moments later, a middle-aged woman enters the room. She’s striking, with the kind of poise that suggests she’s used to being in control. Her eyes land on Harry, and they widen briefly, though she masks her surprise quickly.

Fabian steps forward. “I seem to have stumbled across a wayward relative of yours. I found Harry here injured and unconscious in the muggle part of the train station. Don’t worry, I already did a diagnosis charm. It’s nothing that you won’t be able to treat, so I decided to skip St Mungus and bring him here. Unfortunately Harry here seems to be in shock. He only managed to inform me of his name and that he had no idea where he was.”

“Harry?” Euphemia asks.

“Yes, Harry Potter.”

For a moment Euphemia’s and Dorea’s eyes widen but they immediately school their features. “Thank you for bringing him here. I’ll take care of him.” Euphemia replies.

Fabian salutes before he leaves.

Euphemia and Dorea lead Harry to a cozy guest room down the hall. As Euphemia tends to his injuries, after she frowned at the result of the diagnostic charm, Harry tries to make sense of what’s happening. His thoughts are still muddled, but something feels... off. He watches the women closely, noticing how they seem to be measuring every word, every glance. Once Euphemia finishes and hands him a calming draught, the tension in Harry’s body eases, but the confusion remains.

The two women exchange a glance, then turn their full attention to him. There’s an intensity in their gaze that makes Harry feel as though he’s being examined under a microscope.

“Let’s see who Fabian Prewett has brought into my home,” Euphemia begins, her tone careful. “You said your name is Harry—Harry Potter?”

Harry nods, still feeling a little dazed. “Yeah...”

Dorea hums thoughtfully, her gray eyes narrowing as she studies Harry more closely. “Well, you certainly look the part, even if I know of no Harry Potter,” she says, her voice steady yet curious. “Who are your parents, dear?”

Harry frowns slightly. “James and Lily,” he replies, a hint of confusion in his voice. Shouldn’t they already know this? His parents’ names were famous, especially after Voldemort’s attack. And Fabian Prewett… wasn’t he Mrs. Weasley’s brother? The one killed in the First War?

Euphemia’s brow furrows deeply. “James and Lily? That’s impossible...” Her voice trails off as she looks at Dorea, a flicker of something—recognition?—crossing her face. Then she looks back at Harry with urgency. “Unless—when were you born?”

“31st July 1980,” Harry answers, now feeling the weight of the situation pressing in on him. “Why?”

Euphemia gasps, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. Dorea’s sharp intake of breath follows as she whispers, “Time travel?” Her gray eyes widen, reflecting the same disbelief Harry feels swelling inside him.

Harry’s breath catches. His mind races. “Time travel?” he echoes, his voice cracking slightly as he struggles to grasp the concept. He’s sure he’s misheard them. Time travel, the kind that can take you back years, shouldn’t be possible—at least not to this extent. “I’ll probably regret asking, but… what date is it? What year?”

“June 4th, 1976,” Dorea replies quietly.

Harry stares at them, his heart pounding in his chest as the weight of their words sinks in. He feels like the ground beneath him is slipping away. 1976? Time travel. He’s somehow gone back years. Everything suddenly feels unreal, as if he’s caught in some bizarre dream.

“I… I don’t understand,” Harry mutters, his voice shaking. “How did this happen?”

Euphemia gently rests a hand on his shoulder. Her touch is warm, grounding him in the midst of his spiraling thoughts. “We’ll figure it out, dear. But for now, there’s something I need to know,” she says, her voice gentle yet filled with concern. “You say your parents are James and Lily. But what about your grandparents? Can you tell me their names?”

Harry blinks, taken aback by the question. His grandparents? He hesitates, suddenly feeling a pang of loss he hadn’t expected. “I… I don’t know,” he admits quietly, his voice tinged with sadness. “They died before I was born. And my parents—” His throat tightens as he thinks of them. “They died when I was one. I don’t remember, and… nobody ever told me their names.”

Euphemia’s expression softens as she takes a step closer to Harry, her eyes filled with a mix of understanding and sorrow. She looks at him like she’s seeing a part of herself in him. “James is my son,” she says softly, her voice almost trembling with emotion. “If you’re James’ son, then you’re my grandson.”

The room falls into a deep, still silence. Harry feels a strange warmth bloom in his chest at her words. Her grandson. He had always known about his parents, but he had never thought much about his grandparents. He had never had the chance to.

Euphemia’s eyes well up slightly, and she gently cups Harry’s face, her touch light as if she’s afraid he might disappear. “You’re family, Harry,” she says, her voice tender. “You’re home now.”

Harry swallows hard, the emotions rising in his throat. It’s a strange sensation, this mixture of disbelief and comfort, of shock and a longing he hadn’t realized he carried. He had always been an orphan, alone with only the stories and memories of those who loved him. But now, in this moment, he has something he never thought he’d experience—a connection to family he never knew.

Chapter 2: A shocking discovery

Dorea and Euphemia exchange a glance, their eyes filled with understanding. “We need the rest of the family,” Dorea says quietly. Though her voice is calm, there’s a clear sense of urgency beneath the surface. She turns to Euphemia, who nods in agreement, her expression warm but concerned.

Euphemia steps toward Harry, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been through so much already, dear. We’ll get to the bottom of this,” she says softly. “But first, we need to bring in the rest of the family. They should hear this, too.”

Harry’s stomach tightens at the thought. He’s no stranger to unexpected and dangerous situations, but this? This is something different. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, not knowing whether he’ll fall or be caught.

Dorea gives him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Harry. You’re in good hands. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together.”

She leaves the room for a moment and returns holding a small vial of shimmering silver liquid. “This is an ancestry potion,” she explains. “It’s the best way to confirm what you’ve told us. We’ll wait for the others before we begin.”

Harry feels a twinge of unease at the idea of being tested, but he nods. There’s no reason to hide anything—he’s telling the truth. As he sits in the richly furnished room, his fingers grip the arms of the chair tightly. Euphemia watches him with her usual gentle warmth, though her eyes seem to be searching him, as if she’s trying to understand him more deeply.

After a short while, the sound of footsteps fills the hall. The rest of the Potter family arrives, and Harry feels a surge of nerves. He’s never been introduced to extended family before. The thought of meeting them, especially under these circumstances, makes his heart race.

Dorea steps forward, taking charge as always. “Harry,” she says with a kind smile, “I’d like you to meet the rest of the family.”

Charlus Potter, Dorea’s husband, enters first. Harry recognizes him from the family tree Sirius had shown him at Grimmauld Place. Charlus stands tall, his sharp features bearing a striking resemblance to James, though his hair is darker and streaked with gray. Despite his strong presence, his eyes are warm and welcoming.

 “This is my husband, Charlus Potter,” Dorea says. Charlus steps forward, offering Harry a friendly handshake. “It’s good to meet you, Harry. Welcome to the family,” Charlus says with a smile that immediately puts Harry at ease.

Following Charlus is an older man. His posture is straight, his face lined with age but still bearing the regal air of a wizard of great standing. His dark eyes study Harry for a moment, and then a kind smile breaks across his face.

“That’s Fleamont Potter, he is Euphemia’s husband and the head of the family. And Charlus’ older brother.” Dorea continues.

 “You’re welcome here, no matter what. We’ll sort this out together.” Fleamont says and it’s clear he means his words.

Euphemia smiles at her husband and then introduces the next family member. “This is Cepheus, Charlus and Dorea’s son,” she says as a tall, lean man steps forward. Cepheus has the same sharp jawline as his parents, with deep brown eyes that gleam with intelligence. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry,” Cepheus says, shaking Harry’s hand. His tone is warm, his expression kind.

“And this is Elena, Cepheus’ wife,” Dorea adds as a beautiful woman with long, dark hair and a graceful presence steps forward. Elena’s smile is gentle and sincere. “It’s lovely to meet you, Harry.” she says kindly.

Harry feels a little overwhelmed, but the kindness radiating from the family begins to chip away at his nerves. Dorea continues, “You’ll meet our granddaughter, Carina, later. She’s with Elena’s parents—she’s only three and a bit too young for all this excitement.”

Charlus chuckles softly at the mention of his granddaughter. “Carina would probably love meeting you, though. She’s a little spitfire, just like James at her age.”

At the mention of James, Harry can’t help but smile. “Where is James?” he asks, hoping to finally meet his father face to face.

Fleamont and Euphemia exchange a look. “James is still at Hogwarts,” Euphemia explains gently. “But he’ll be home soon enough. He’s going to be thrilled to meet you.”

With the introductions complete, Dorea takes charge again. “Now, let’s get to the matter at hand. Harry has told us something extraordinary—he’s time-traveled, and he believes he’s the son of James Potter and Lily Evans.”

The family listens intently, their curiosity piqued. “That’s quite a claim,” Charlus says, though his tone remains warm. “But we’re Potters—we believe in magic and the impossible.”

Dorea steps forward with the ancestry potion in hand. “We’ll perform an ancestry test to confirm his story. It’s the best way to ensure the truth.”

Euphemia carefully takes three drops of Harry’s blood and adds them to the vial of shimmering liquid. The potion glows softly as she murmurs an incantation, and the silvery substance begins to swirl and shimmer even more brightly.

With great care, Euphemia pours the potion over a piece of parchment laid out on the desk. The room falls into a tense silence as everyone watches the parchment closely.

For a moment, nothing happens. The room remains eerily quiet, the air thick with anticipation. Then, slowly, names begin to appear, branching out into a family tree. Harry’s name appears at the top, followed by James Potter and Lily Evans, as expected.

At first, it’s what Harry expects—his own name, linked to James and Lily. There’s a sense of relief at seeing his parents’ names connected to his, like a reassurance that he does belong to them, despite everything that’s happened. From James the line connects to Euphemia and Fleamonth Potter.

The 16-year old watches as the branches extend backward, generations of Potters appearing—strong, noble wizards, as he had always known. The Potters beam with pride as their family history is confirmed before their eyes.

But then, something unexpected happens. The line from Lily Evans’ side begins to stretch farther back, farther than anyone could have anticipated. The Evans name disappears into an older, more ancient lineage, and the room grows eerily quiet as a new name appears.

Vanessa Gaunt.

Harry’s heart skips a beat. His breath catches in his throat as the line traces back to one of the most infamous wizarding families in history.

“The Gaunts?” Charlus murmurs, his voice laced with disbelief. He steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he examines the shimmering line that now connects Lily Evans to the ancient bloodline of Salazar Slytherin himself.

Euphemia gasps softly, covering her mouth with one hand. “This can’t be possible,” she whispers. “The Gaunts are—”

“Descendants of Salazar Slytherin,” Harry finishes for her, his voice hollow. His heart pounds in his chest, the shock sinking in. “This would explain why I’m a Parselmouth.”

The room goes deathly still.

“You’re a Parselmouth?” Dorea’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and disbelieving.

Harry nods slowly, feeling the weight of their stares. “Yeah. I’ve always wondered where it came from. It’s hereditary, but the Potters don’t have it, and my mum was supposed to be a Muggleborn.”

There’s a brief, uncomfortable pause as everyone processes this. Harry shifts uneasily, the silence pressing down on him like a physical weight. He feels exposed, vulnerable in a way he hasn’t felt since standing before the Mirror of Erised. His mind races, piecing together the fragments of information, trying to make sense of it all.

“It’s possible,” Euphemia begins slowly, “that the ability was dormant in your mother’s line, only awakening in you. Some family traits, especially those tied to magic, can remain hidden for generations.”

Fleamont nods thoughtfully, still studying the family tree. “The of Stinchcombes have always been connected to ancient magic. We’ve brought back dormant abilities before. That’s why we changed our name to Potter.”

The room collectively stiffens, a sense of dread settling over the group. Charlus, who had been pacing, stops abruptly and stares at Harry, his face pale.

Harry stares at Dorea, his mind whirling as the full weight of the truth bears down on him. A cold sweat breaks out across his skin, and his throat goes dry. The room feels stifling, the walls closing in around him. His voice comes out in a hoarse whisper, “I’m related to... Voldem—”

Before he can finish the dreaded name, Charlus moves swiftly. His hand clamps over Harry’s mouth with startling force, his eyes wide with alarm. “Don’t!” Charlus hisses, his voice a harsh whisper. “There’s a Taboo on that name! If you say it, he’ll know where we are. He’ll send someone.”

Harry feels a rush of heat to his face, a mixture of embarrassment and fear. He hadn’t known. He nods, apologizing silently as Charlus slowly removes his hand.

“I’m related to him,” Harry corrects, his voice low and haunted, the weight of the truth pressing on his chest like a heavy stone. The silence that follows is deafening.

Dorea, pale and wide-eyed, breaks it first. “I beg your pardon?” she whispers, her usually calm and refined voice shaken, though her eyes remain fixed on Harry, searching his face for any sign that this might be a mistake, that it might not be true.

Harry takes a deep breath, feeling the room tighten around him as all eyes focus on him, waiting for an explanation. “Tom Marvolo Riddle... Vol—You know who I mean—is the son of Merope Gaunt,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. The Potters flinch at the near mention of Voldemort’s true name, their discomfort palpable. He continues, carefully navigating the details. “Merope was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, and apparently... so was my mum. She came from the same line, the Gaunts.”

Charlus and Dorea share a stunned glance, but Harry presses on, needing to get it all out. “Merope was in love with a Muggle named Tom Riddle Senior and used a love potion on him, but when it wore off, he abandoned her. She was pregnant at the time. Merope later died in childbirth and Tom Riddle grew up in a muggle orphanage. He was born on the 31st December 1926 if I remember correctly.”

The room falls silent again. The Potters stand frozen, processing the enormity of what Harry has just revealed. The horror in their eyes mirrors the sick feeling in Harry’s gut.

Dorea finally speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Tom Riddle is... Him?” Her words seem to hang in the air like a dark, heavy fog.

Harry nods, his stomach churning. “Yeah.”

There’s another long silence, and Harry watches as fear creeps into their faces. The idea that Harry, the boy who stands before them, is somehow linked to the darkest wizard of their time is too much for them to process all at once.

“I’ll show you,” Harry mutters, almost to himself, and with a wave of his wand, he writes Tom Marvolo Riddle in shimmering letters in the air. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he rearranges the letters just as Tom Riddle had done in the Chamber of Secrets, forming the words: I am Lord Voldemort.

A collective gasp echoes through the room as the name morphs into its sinister form. Dorea clutches at her chest, her eyes wide with disbelief, while Charlus takes a step back, as if the very letters carry some malevolent force.

“I can’t believe we didn’t see this sooner,” Dorea murmurs, her voice shaky but her mind clearly racing. “But I understand now... why he’d want to keep it hidden. He couldn’t very well preach pureblood supremacy if people knew he was a half-blood, could he?”

Harry grimaces. “Yeah. He’s obsessed with keeping his past hidden. He killed all his remaining relatives—framed his uncle for the murder of his father and grandparents. Mum and I are probably the only one left alive.”

The Potters look at him, their expressions a mixture of horror and sympathy. For a moment, no one says a word. The weight of Voldemort’s name—his bloodline—hangs in the air like a curse.

Fleamont, standing at the back of the group, finally speaks, his voice grim. “This… this connection between you and You-Know-Who must remain a secret,” he says firmly, stepping forward. “If anyone were to find out—”

“It would put us all in danger,” Charlus finishes, his voice dark, his gaze sharp as it lands on Harry. “He can’t know you’re related to him. No one can.”

Dorea’s hand trembles as she moves closer to Harry. “You understand the danger, don’t you, dear?” she asks gently, though her voice wavers. “If this got out...”

“I know,” Harry says quietly, feeling the pressure of their expectations closing in on him. “No one can know.”

Euphemia’s hand finds his shoulder again, a comforting presence amid the rising tension in the room. “We’ll protect you, Harry,” she promises softly, though her eyes are shadowed with worry. “But you must be careful. Not a word to anyone. Not even to people you trust. If You-Know-Who finds out...”

Her voice trails off, but Harry can fill in the rest. If Voldemort—or Tom Riddle—discovered their blood connection, Harry knows it wouldn’t end well. He has already seen firsthand what the Dark Lord is capable of. The thought of what Voldemort might do if he knew Harry was family made his stomach churn.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Harry says, his voice more resolute this time. He looks around at the Potters, who watch him with a mixture of fear and protectiveness. “I promise.”

Fleamont nods approvingly. “Good lad,” he says. “For now, we’ll keep this between us.”

Charlus, though still shaken, looks at Harry with a certain resolve. “We’ll help you, Harry,” he says, his voice softer than before. “We’ll figure out a way to deal with all of this. But for now... we stay quiet. Understand?”

Harry nods again, his heart heavy with the new secret he must bear. He feels a deep sense of isolation, but also a strange sense of belonging—these people, his family, are willing to protect him, despite the terrifying revelation.

As the silence stretches, Harry looks around the room, at the faces of the Potters—his family—and wonders what his future holds. He has fought Voldemort so many times, but this is different. Now, the Dark Lord isn’t just an enemy; he is blood. And that changes everything.

Chapter 3: New identity

The silence in the room is thick, weighed down by the enormity of what Harry has just revealed. Fleamont is the first to break it, his voice low and thoughtful. "We need to be careful with this. Time travel isn’t something we can just brush off. If the Ministry gets wind of it..." He trails off, his face grim, the unspoken consequences looming in the air like a shadow.

Euphemia, seated beside him, looks at Harry with a mixture of concern and protectiveness. "If they find out you’ve come from the future, they’ll want answers," she says, her voice soft but serious. "The Ministry might not mean any harm, but in the name of research… they could do terrible things to you, Harry."

Harry’s stomach clenches. He knows all too well how the Ministry operates, their hunger for control often eclipsing their sense of ethics. The thought of being used as a test subject, experimented on, interrogated for information about the future—it’s terrifying.

Charlus crosses his arms, his expression hardening. "And if it’s not the Ministry, it could be someone else," he adds, his tone sharp. "There are plenty of people who wouldn’t hesitate to kidnap you. The knowledge you hold about the future... it’s too valuable. You’d be a target the moment anyone finds out."

Harry swallows hard, feeling the weight of his situation press down on him. Fighting Voldemort seemed straightforward compared to this—at least then, he had a clear enemy. Now, he’s adrift, a lone piece of the future in a world that doesn’t yet know him.

"We need to give you a new identity," Dorea says, her voice decisive as she leans forward, her sharp eyes locking onto his. "Something that won’t raise suspicion."

"A new identity?" Harry echoes, the concept slowly sinking in. He’s always been Harry Potter—whether ‘The Chosen One’ or ‘The Boy Who Lived,’ he was still Harry. The idea of becoming someone else unsettles him, yet there’s a strange sense of liberation in it, too.

Fleamont taps his fingers against the arm of his chair, lost in thought. "I might have an idea," he says slowly, his brow furrowed as he considers. "There’s a witch named Isabella McConner. She returned to England a few months ago after marrying a squib. She’s got a bit of a... history."

Harry looks at him in confusion. "What kind of history?"

Fleamont leans in, his voice lowering as though speaking Isabella’s name could invite trouble. "She drugged Charlus once, with a very potent lust potion. If Dorea hadn’t interrupted her, they likely would have..." He doesn’t finish, but the implication is clear.

Dorea’s expression hardens, her eyes dark with anger. "She tried the same with other married purebloods," she adds, her tone cold. "If not for Dumbledore defending her, she would’ve ended up in Azkaban."

Harry blinks, trying to wrap his head around this. "So... what does this have to do with me?"

Fleamont exchanges a glance with Charlus before continuing. "If we claim you’re the child that resulted from that night, no one will question your sudden appearance. You look the right age and we have evidence of her drugging Charlus, so it would be considered rape. Under wizarding law, Charlus would have full custody."

Harry’s stomach tightens at the thought. "Wait, you can just take her child? Just like that?"

Charlus nods, his expression serious. "There’s a law that makes it impossible for a rapist to retain custody of any child created from their crime. The victim always gets custody. In this case, that would be me. And as Dorea is my wife, she shares the same rights. If you had been my child with Isabella, we could take you from her without a second thought."

Harry stares, the sheer audacity of the plan making his head spin. "And... no one would question it?"

Charlus shakes his head. "No. We’d be well within our rights. In fact, we could even charge her with kidnapping if she tried to keep you."

The idea feels surreal to Harry. He isn’t sure how he feels about pretending to be the child of someone like Isabella McConner, but the logic is sound. His mind races as he considers the consequences. It isn’t just about hiding from Voldemort or protecting himself from the Ministry—this is about survival. If anyone discovers he’s from the future, they’ll tear him apart for information or worse.

"And what happens if she finds out?" Harry asks, his voice quieter now, a nervous edge creeping in.

Dorea’s expression remains calm. "She won’t be able to do anything. The law will be on our side, and her reputation isn’t exactly... sterling."

Fleamont smiles faintly, the first real sign of reassurance Harry’s seen since this conversation began. "No one will question it, Harry. In the eyes of the wizarding world, you’ll be Charlus’s son. And as far as anyone’s concerned, you’ve always belonged to this family."

Harry’s head spins as he processes the enormity of it all. Being given a new identity, one that erases who he is... it’s disorienting. His whole life has been defined by his name—Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One. Now, he’s going to be someone else.

He shifts uncomfortably, feeling the tension in his shoulders as the conversation takes a new turn. His voice is hesitant, unsure if he should even mention it, but it’s gnawing at him. "But that wouldn’t explain where I got my Parseltongue," he blurts out, his eyes flicking nervously between the faces of the Potters. If he's supposed to keep his identity a secret, someone might find out about his ability sooner or later, and that could ruin everything.

Dorea’s eyes light up with a grin that’s both mischievous and victorious, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. "Actually, it would," she says, her voice filled with a certain smugness. She reaches into her robe and pulls out a document, holding it up for the rest of the family to see. "I did a bit of a background check on McConner, and look what I found."

Harry leans in, his curiosity piqued. The document looks like some sort of muggle family register, though he has no idea what it has to do with anything.

Dorea taps the page triumphantly. "Lily Evans’ grandfather had an older sister named Alice. She married someone called Michael McConner, and they had a daughter—our very own Isabella McConner."

Harry’s jaw drops. "What? How is that even possible?"

Cepheus, who has been quietly observing, mutters in surprise, "Everything fits."

Elena, standing beside him, smiles warmly at Harry. "With this, we can easily explain where your Parseltongue comes from. It’s a family trait, passed down through the bloodline."

Dorea isn’t finished. She gives Harry a calculating look, clearly thinking several steps ahead. "You were found by Fabian Prewett at King’s Cross this morning, right?"

Harry nods, recalling the odd encounter. "Yeah. He asked for my name and then brought me here."

Dorea’s grin widens, her excitement almost palpable now. "So here’s what we’ll say: Your mother and her squib husband were abusing you. You found out that Charlus is your real father and decided to run away. Fabian Prewett, a family friend, found you and brought you to Potter Manor. You then told us you’re Charlus’ son, and we did the responsible thing—we used an ancestry potion to confirm it."

Harry listens in stunned silence, trying to keep up with the fast-moving plan. It sounds insane, but at the same time... oddly plausible. And the way Dorea lays it out, it almost sounds too perfect.

Dorea continues, not missing a beat. "Your injuries align with the story," she says, gesturing toward Harry’s arms and the faint scars he hadn’t realized they noticed. "Your body shows signs of abuse, which we’ll talk about later. And since I’ve always wanted more children but couldn’t have any after an accident following Cepheus’ birth, it makes perfect sense for me to take you in. No one would question it."

Harry is about to respond, but the doubts creep in. "But... what about this Isabella McConner woman? She doesn’t know me. Won’t that raise suspicions?"

Dorea waves her hand dismissively, as if that’s the least of their problems. "That’s easily handled. She kidnapped and abused my son. So I tracked her down to... have a little chat. She threatened to kidnap you again, so I obliviated her and her husband, wiping any memory of you. Simple. I can also use this opportunity to get a few drops of her blood, for the blood adaption potion we’ll need."

Harry’s stomach twists at the mention of obliviation. "Won’t you get into trouble for that?"

Dorea chuckles, completely unfazed by his alarm. "Oh, darling, nothing a few bribes and a bit of blackmail won’t solve. She is hardly important enough for anyone to look too closely."

Harry stares at her, utterly dumbfounded by her nonchalance. He’s always known pureblood families operated differently, but seeing it firsthand... it’s like stepping into a different world. His world had always been about survival, about scraping by and hoping for the best. This world—the world of the Potters and the Blacks—is about control. They bend the rules to their will, and the ease with which Dorea talks about bribing and blackmailing makes Harry realize just how powerless people like him would be against them.

"So," Dorea continues, ignoring Harry’s shock, "I’ll leave you in Euphemia’s tender care while I go handle Isabella McConner."

Euphemia nods with a soft smile, reassuring Harry with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Don’t worry, dear. You’ll be safe here with us."

Harry still feels like he’s standing on uneven ground.

"What about the Blacks?" Elena asks, bringing up another concern. "Won’t they get angry with Charlus if they find out?"

Dorea shakes her head, already ahead of her. "Not if I drop by and tell Cousin Arcturus that I need his help with a few bribes and blackmailing some Ministry officials. I’ll simply say I might have overreacted when I saw the results of Harry’s diagnostic charms and did something... rash."

Cepheus, who has been watching quietly, finally speaks up, his voice laced with humor. "Just tell him dad is still at work and doesn’t know anything about Harry yet. That way, no one can blame him."

The adults all laugh at that, and Harry can’t help but feel a tiny smile tugging at his lips. It’s strange—this easy camaraderie, the way they handle dangerous situations with humor and planning. It’s so different from what he’s used to, yet comforting in a way he didn’t expect.

Charlus nods, his expression growing serious again. "This could work."

Dorea claps her hands together. "Then it’s settled. Off you go, Charlus—back to work, and make sure everyone sees you."

With a final, conspiratorial grin, she ushers Charlus out of the room, leaving Harry with the unsettling realization that his life has just changed forever. A new identity, a new story, and a family that’s willing to bend the very fabric of the world to protect him.

As Charlus leaves the room, Harry sits back, the weight of everything pressing down on him. The room feels too grand, too suffocating for what he’s just been through. His mind is spinning. This new identity, the elaborate plan they’ve constructed for him—it’s too much. He rubs his temples, trying to clear his thoughts. But one question lingers, tugging at him like a loose thread.

He clears his throat, his voice barely above a whisper. "What about going back? Back to my time?" His heart clenches as he asks the question, already fearing the answer but needing to hear it.

Euphemia, who has been standing nearby, her presence soothing, looks at him with a mixture of sorrow and understanding. She moves closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Harry, dear," she begins softly, her voice filled with sympathy, "I’m afraid... it’s not that simple."

Harry’s stomach drops. His fingers tighten around the armrest of the chair, knuckles turning white. "What do you mean?" he asks, though a part of him already knows what’s coming.

Dorea exchanges a glance with Cepheus, then steps forward, her expression serious. "The moment you arrived here and interacted with anyone in this time, the timeline you came from was... altered. You changed things, Harry."

Harry’s heart pounds in his chest, a cold dread creeping through him. "Changed things? What do you mean?" His voice wavers, but he fights to keep it steady. "So... I can’t go back? To my time?"

Dorea’s face softens, and she kneels in front of him, her eyes filled with regret. "The future you knew, the one you came from—it no longer exists, Harry. The very moment you talked to Fabian Prewett at King’s Cross, you set events in motion that altered the timeline. Every interaction you’ve had, every word spoken—everything has ripple effects. That future you’re thinking of... it’s gone."

The words hit Harry like a punch to the gut. He feels like the ground beneath him is crumbling, slipping away. "Gone?" His voice breaks. "But... no. That can’t be. My friends—Ron, Hermione—" His voice cracks as their faces flash in his mind, the familiar warmth of the Burrow, the laughter in the Gryffindor common room. All of it... gone?

Euphemia kneels beside Dorea, her gaze gentle but firm. "I’m so sorry, dear. Time is fragile. Once you’ve changed it, there’s no way to undo the effects. It’s like throwing a pebble into a still pond—the ripples spread out, changing everything they touch."

Harry feels the weight of her words crashing down on him. He’s no stranger to loss, but this feels different. This is an entire world lost, a future erased in the blink of an eye. His parents' deaths, Sirius... all those sacrifices for a future that’s now out of reach.

"What about the Time-Turners?" Harry asks, his voice rising in desperation. "There has to be some way to reverse it, right? I mean, I’ve used a Time-Turner before. We saved Sirius. So there must be something like that—"

Dorea gently interrupts him. "The Time-Turners can only go back a few hours, and even then, they work within the same timeline. What you’ve done is... much larger. You’ve moved across decades. And the moment you began interacting with this time, you altered the course of history."

Her words hang in the air, final and unyielding.

Harry sits back, staring blankly at the ornate rug beneath his feet. He feels like he’s floating in a nightmare, detached from everything. It can’t be real. It can’t. "So what... I’m stuck here? Forever?" He can barely hear himself speak, the words tasting bitter in his mouth.

Euphemia’s hand remains on his shoulder, grounding him, though the weight of her touch feels like an anchor pulling him down. "You’re not alone, Harry. You have us. We’ll do everything we can to make sure you’re safe, that you have a place here. You’ll always be part of this family."

A family. Harry had always dreamed of having a family, but not like this. Not in this world, where everything he’s known and loved is gone.

"But..." His voice trembles, a tear sliding down his cheek before he can stop it. "But my friends... Hermione, Ron... Ginny. They’re all gone." He feels the ache in his chest deepen, a dull, throbbing pain that threatens to consume him. The Weasleys, his second family, are they even born yet? What happens to them now, without him there in the future?

Euphemia pulls him into a gentle embrace, and Harry lets her, though the grief inside him is too raw, too new. "I know, sweetheart," she whispers, her voice soothing but unable to touch the depth of his sorrow. "I know."

The other Potters remain quiet, giving Harry space to grieve, though their expressions mirror the heaviness of the moment. They know what Harry has lost, even if they can’t fully understand the depth of it.

After what feels like an eternity, Harry pulls back, wiping at his eyes, his body heavy with the weight of this new reality. He doesn’t know what to feel—anger, sadness, grief—it’s all a tangled mess inside him.

"So what now?" he asks, his voice hoarse, barely managing to get the words out. "What am I supposed to do?"

Dorea and Euphemia exchange a glance before looking back at him, their faces set with determination.

"You’re going to live with us, Harry," Euphemia says, her voice strong. "We’re going to give you a new identity. A new life. You’ll be part of our family, and we’ll make sure no one ever knows the truth."

Harry swallows hard. A new life. A new identity. The words sound foreign to him, like something out of a bad dream.

But in this world, it’s the only choice he has left.

Chapter 4: An unraveled Thread

Arcturus Black sits behind his expansive mahogany desk, buried under a mountain of paperwork. The dim light from his desk lamp casts long shadows across the room, accentuating the lines of fatigue etched into his face. He’s been handling the intricacies of the family estate, the political machinations of the Ministry, and the ongoing mess with the Dark Lord’s supporters. In the midst of all this, a knock on the door pulls him from his thoughts.

The door swings open, and his cousin Dorea walks in. There’s an air of apprehension about her, something in her demeanor that hints at trouble. Before he can even greet her, she jumps straight in with, “So, I might have done something stupid.”

Arcturus arches an eyebrow, setting his quill down with a sigh. "Stupid as in easily fixable with the right bribes and blackmail? Or stupid as in we will be the talk of the media for the next few months?"

Dorea shifts her weight, her mouth twitching slightly, as if she’s trying to decide just how much trouble they’re really in. "A bit of both."

Arcturus lets out a resigned sigh, leaning back in his chair. Of course it is. "Explain."

Dorea steps further into the room, her gaze flicking briefly to the flickering fire in the corner, as if gathering her thoughts. "Do you remember Isabella McConner and what she did to Charlus?"

At her words, Arcturus feels the muscles in his jaw tighten. How could he forget? Isabella McConner, the manipulative woman who had used one of the most potent lust potions on Charlus—attempting to ensnare him in a trap that could have shattered the Potters’ reputation and their marriage. Dorea had intervened before things had gone too far... or so they had thought. But if his cousin in here because of that vile woman, then there must be more.

"I remember," Arcturus says grimly, folding his hands in front of him. He inclines his head, signaling her to continue.

Dorea draws in a breath. "I thought I had stepped in before she had the chance to... rape him." Her voice falters slightly on the last word, the disgust evident in her tone. "But I was wrong. This morning, a boy showed up at Potter Manor. He claims to be Charlus’ son."

Arcturus narrows his eyes, already sensing the complexity of the situation. "Your expression tells me he’s no imposter."

Dorea nods, confirming his suspicion. "I performed an ancestry test. Harry, the boy, is indeed Charlus’ son—with Isabella McConner."

Arcturus leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he processes the information. His mind whirs with calculations. An illegitimate son, born from such scandalous origins, would pose serious political risks. If this were to go public... He straightens, meeting Dorea’s gaze. "I see."

But Dorea doesn’t stop there, her voice growing more intense. "There’s more," she says, her tone heavy with meaning. "Harry was injured when he arrived. Euphemia performed a few diagnostic charms on him... just to make sure he was alright."

Arcturus feels a dark current running beneath her words. He’s been in politics long enough to recognize when someone is holding back the worst of the news. "And?" he prompts, though he can already sense where this is going.

Dorea’s voice cracks slightly as she continues. "They abused him, Arcturus. Badly." Her eyes glisten, but she blinks back the tears with the kind of practiced grace their family was famous for. "I couldn’t let him go back there. I wouldn’t let him go back."

Arcturus’s hands grip the armrests of his chair. Abused? The thought of any child enduring that kind of treatment makes something dark stir in his chest, but for it to be a child tied to his own bloodline, even if only indirectly... He remains silent, waiting for her to finish.

Dorea’s eyes darken with remembered fury. "I went to confront Isabella. I had every intention of keeping it civil—just to inform her that Harry would be living with us from now on. But when I arrived, she laughed at me. She had the audacity to say that if I didn’t return Harry, she would take me to court."

Arcturus’s mouth sets into a grim line. "And she could. Dumbledore’s influence—"

"Exactly." Dorea’s voice sharpens with frustration. "Dumbledore has enough sway with the Wizengamot to ensure that she gets custody, despite the laws being clear. He kept her from being convicted for all those rapes in the first place. I couldn’t take that chance, Arcturus. Not with Harry’s safety at stake."

His cousin’s eyes meet his, pleading for understanding. And for all of Arcturus’s cold calculation and pragmatism, he can’t help but feel a flare of sympathy for her. Dorea has always been fiercely protective of her family. To let a child, Charlus’s child, fall back into the hands of a woman like McConner? Unthinkable.

"So," Arcturus says, his voice measured but curious, "what did you do?"

Dorea squares her shoulders, her jaw set in determination. "I obliviated her and her husband. They no longer remember Harry, nor that they even saw me after returning to England."

There’s a moment of silence, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Arcturus’s gaze sharpens, his mind already turning over the potential consequences. "You obliviated her," he repeats slowly, making sure he’s understood the full scope of what she’s done.

Dorea nods, resolute. "I did what I had to do. It’s done, and there’s no going back now."

Arcturus leans back, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the desk. His first instinct is to weigh the risks—the legal ramifications, the potential for scandal, and the delicate balance of power between the Black family and Dumbledore’s influence over the Ministry. But something else tugs at him—something that’s harder to measure: family loyalty.

“The obliviation will only hold if no one discovers the truth,” Arcturus finally says, his voice calm yet authoritative, like a general issuing orders on the brink of battle. “If they do, we could face significant repercussions. However, given my influence, we can manage the fallout.”

Dorea, her face a canvas of worry and determination, listens intently. The tension in her shoulders and the tautness in her posture reveal the depth of her anxiety. She takes a moment to absorb Arcturus’s words, and then her chin lifts, her expression hardening with resolve.

“If the Ministry finds evidence of recent memory tampering,” she begins, her voice steadying, “I can spin the story in our favor. McConner already has a sordid history, and with the right amount of bribes and blackmail, no one will look too closely.”

Arcturus studies her for a moment, his gaze unwavering. He weighs her words with the meticulous precision of someone accustomed to navigating the treacherous waters of power and influence. The silence stretches between them, filled with the weight of their mutual understanding.

Finally, he gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Very well,” he concedes, his tone carrying the gravity of a decision made.

Dorea’s relief is palpable, but it quickly morphs into a new wave of anxiety. “Charlus doesn’t know anything yet,” she blurts out, her voice tinged with panic. “He’s still at work. How do I tell him? What if he doesn’t accept Harry?”

Arcturus’s demeanor shifts from analytical to empathetic, though his voice remains calm and reassuring. “Dorea, calm down. You are talking nonsense. There is no way Charlus won’t accept his son. He might not love him as much as Cepheus because of the circumstances, but you know Charlus. He would never reject his child. He might need time to adjust, but he will come around.”

Dorea’s eyes, brimming with unshed tears, lock onto Arcturus’s. “You’re right,” she acknowledges, taking a shuddering breath to steady herself. “Can you promise me the same? Harry has been through enough. I don’t want anyone in my family to single him out because of his unfortunate ancestry.”

Arcturus’s expression softens, a rare glimpse of warmth in his usually stern visage. He places a reassuring hand on Dorea’s shoulder, his touch gentle yet firm. “I promise,” he says sincerely. “I will treat Harry as if he were your own blood. I will ensure that the rest of our family does the same. He will be protected and welcomed here, regardless of his past.”

Dorea’s shoulders relax slightly, a measure of her tension easing under Arcturus’s assurances. “Thank you,” she says quietly, her voice filled with gratitude. “That means more to me than you know.”

Arcturus nods, his gaze thoughtful as he considers the gravity of the situation. “You should head home now,” he advises. “Charlus will be returning from work soon. It’s best if you are there when he discovers he has a second son. It will be easier for him to process if you are by his side.”

Dorea nods, her expression a mix of resolve and lingering apprehension. “Yes, of course. I want to be there for him, for Harry.”

Arcturus watches her with a contemplative gaze as she makes her way to the door. “Remember,” he adds, his tone imbued with quiet authority, “Charlus will need time to process this. Be patient with him. And if there are any issues, you know you can count on me to support you.”

As Dorea exits the room, Arcturus returns to his desk, his thoughts a whirlwind of strategies and considerations. The office, once a bastion of order, now seems to hum with the uncertainty of the days to come. The weight of the decisions he must make presses heavily upon him, but his resolve remains unshaken.

He sits back in his chair, the rich leather creaking under his weight, and lets out a slow, deliberate breath. The coming days will be challenging, but Arcturus is prepared to navigate the treacherous waters of family dynamics, public perception, and the delicate balance of power. His commitment to protecting his family and preserving their secrets is unwavering, and he will wield his influence with the precision and authority for which he is known.

The door closes behind Dorea, leaving Arcturus alone with the echoes of his thoughts and the shadows of the future yet to unfold. The path ahead is fraught with challenges, but he is determined to see it through with the same steadfast resolve that has guided him through the complexities of his life.

Chapter 5: Finding a place

The echo of Fleamont's hurried departure from Potter Manor still lingers in the air, the click of the front door faint in Harry's ears. Fleamont had been summoned to an urgent Wizengamot meeting, his parting words to Harry filled with a brief but reassuring smile. But as the house falls into a quieter rhythm, Harry feels a growing tension within himself. There’s a strange sensation, like the weight of everything—his displacement in time, the new identity he’s supposed to adopt—settling uncomfortably in his chest.

Euphemia Potter, her presence soft and comforting, steps closer, placing a warm hand on Harry’s shoulder. "Now, Harry," she says gently, her voice carrying the same maternal warmth he had briefly seen in Molly Weasley, "I know things are… different for you right now. But the sooner we can get you comfortable with this new identity, the better. Why don’t you start by calling me ‘Aunt Euphemia’?"

Harry fidgets, his hands nervously brushing the hem of his too-large sleeve. "Aunt Euphemia?" he echoes, testing the name, though it feels strange on his lips. The familiarity of the title clashes with the foreignness of the people around him. He’s only just met her, and now he’s supposed to act as though they’ve known each other for years.

“Yes, exactly,” Euphemia beams. “And, when Fleamont returns, you should call him ‘Uncle Fleamont.’ It will help everyone get used to you being part of the family.”

Harry shifts his weight uncomfortably, staring at the polished floor. "Uncle Fleamont," he repeats, the name feeling less like a connection and more like a mask he’s being asked to wear. He can’t deny how kind they’ve been to him, but each new term feels like it pushes him further from his own life, from James and his real family.

“And Charlus,” Euphemia continues, her tone still soft but with a gentle nudge, “when he comes home, you’ll call him ‘Dad.’”

At those words, Harry’s stomach twists. He glances up, panic momentarily flickering in his eyes. “Dad?” The word slips out, but it feels like it doesn’t belong to Charlus. “I don’t—” His voice falters. James. His real father. The man who sacrificed everything for him. Could he really call someone else that?

Euphemia’s gaze softens, and she seems to sense the internal struggle coursing through him. "Harry, it’s just to help with your new identity," she explains. "We understand this is hard. Truly. But it’s important that you blend in, for your safety."

Cepheus, who has been standing nearby, steps forward, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe..." He pauses, eyes shifting to Harry. "Maybe ‘Father’ would be better? It’s more formal. Less personal, but still respectful."

Harry looks up at Cepheus, gratitude flickering in his green eyes. ‘Father’ feels different. Distant, yes, but it doesn’t sting the way ‘Dad’ does. It won’t erase James’ memory, and it gives him a sliver of space between the life he had and the one he’s being thrust into.

"Yeah," Harry agrees quietly, nodding. "Father works."

Euphemia’s smile is warm, though tinged with sympathy. "Good. That’s a good compromise." She pauses for a moment before adding, “You can still call Dorea by her name, if that makes it easier.”

Relief washes over Harry. Dorea, at least, can stay Dorea. It’s a small mercy in a sea of change, but it helps him feel like he’s holding onto some piece of control.

Cepheus claps his hands, breaking the delicate moment. "Right then, Mippy!" he calls, and the house-elf appears with a small pop, eyes wide and attentive. "Go to the attic and bring down some of my old clothes for Harry."

Euphemia nods, glancing at Mippy. “While you’re at it, Mippy, could you also gather some of James’ clothes? The ones he’s outgrown.”

Mippy nods eagerly. "Yes, Mistress Euphemia! Mippy will do it right away!" With another pop, the house-elf disappears.

Cepheus turns to Harry, offering him a friendly smile. "It won’t take long. Mippy’s fast with these things. In the meantime, let’s show you to your room."

Together, they walk down one of the manor’s many grand hallways, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the high ceilings. Everything about Potter Manor feels old and full of history, but there’s a warmth to it as well—a strange, almost comforting feeling that Harry hasn’t expected. Maybe it's the way Euphemia and Cepheus have been treating him, or maybe it’s the manor itself, with its many rooms and magical charms humming through the air.

"This will be your room," Cepheus says, pushing open a large oak door to reveal a spacious guest room. Inside, the walls are painted in muted tones of cream and soft blue, with a large window overlooking the lush gardens below. A four-poster bed sits against the far wall, its covers neatly tucked and pristine.

Harry steps inside, feeling the weight of it all—the kindness, the generosity, the unspoken expectations. He’s thankful, truly, but it still feels... strange. Alien. Like he’s living someone else’s life, playing a part in a story he wasn’t meant to be part of.

Euphemia walks over to the bed, straightening the pillows even though they’re already perfectly in place. "You can make this space your own," she says kindly. "Whatever you need, just ask. We want you to feel at home here."

Harry gives a small nod, his throat tightening with unspoken emotion. "Thank you," he whispers, though it feels inadequate. He wishes he could tell her everything—how lost he feels, how he doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be anymore. But the words don’t come, and instead, he just stands there, trying to absorb the new reality.

Mippy reappears in a flash, carrying armfuls of clothes. “Mippy has brought Master Cepheus’ and Master James’ old clothes! Is there anything else Mippy can do?”

Cepheus takes the pile of clothes from the elf and sets them on the bed. “No, that’s all for now, Mippy. Thank you.”

Harry stares at the pile—old robes, shirts, trousers. Some are clearly too big, others more worn, but it’s more than he had in his own time. He feels a pang of longing for the simple things from home—his Hogwarts robes, his Firebolt, his invisibility cloak. But those things belong to a time that no longer exists.

Euphemia smiles softly as she helps Harry sort through the clothes. "We'll make sure everything fits, and if not, we can easily adjust them. Magic comes in handy for things like this. It's only for a couple of days, until we get you your own clothes."

Harry forces a smile, nodding. "Yeah, thanks."

With that, Euphemia and Cepheus excuse themselves to give him some space to settle in. Harry turns back to the neatly folded pile of clothes, preparing to put them into the wardrobe, but just as he's about to tuck them away, he hears the faint creak of a door opening downstairs, followed by the quick patter of light footsteps.

Straightening up, his curiosity piqued, Harry moves quietly toward the sound. As he nears the grand staircase, a soft, melodic voice floats up to him. “Carina, love, say hello properly.”

It’s Elena, who had gone to fetch her daughter from her parents’ house. Harry reaches the top of the stairs and peers down. There, standing next to her mother, is a small, dark-haired girl with wide, curious eyes. She’s no more than three years old, her chubby cheeks rosy from the late summer heat. She clings to Elena’s robes with one hand, while the other grips a small, worn stuffed dragon.

Elena looks up and spots Harry. “Ah, Harry! Come down and meet Carina,” she says with a warm smile. “She’s been very excited to meet her new... uncle.”

Harry feels a warmth spread through his chest at her words, though the term "uncle" catches him off guard. He hasn’t even wrapped his head around being Charlus' son, and now he’s expected to be someone’s uncle? Still, something about the little girl’s innocent gaze pulls him forward, and he finds himself slowly descending the staircase.

When he reaches the bottom, Elena kneels beside Carina, her hands gently resting on the girl’s shoulders. “Carina, this is Harry. He’s going to be staying with us for a while. Can you say hello?”

Carina looks up at Harry, her large, dark eyes blinking. She hesitates for a moment, studying him, then breaks into a shy smile. “Hewwo, Uncle Harry,” she says softly, her voice high-pitched and sweet.

Harry's heart clenches. The way she says it—it feels so simple, so natural, as if they’ve known each other forever. "Hi, Carina," he replies, his voice equally soft, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Without any more prompting, Carina lets go of Elena's robes and toddles over to Harry. She reaches up, holding a dragon toy toward him with a grin. The toy is an odd shade of purple, with oversized eyes that give it a comically innocent expression. Its little wings are crooked, clearly worn from years of enthusiastic play, and the dragon's stitched-on smile makes it look more like a cheerful puppy than anything remotely menacing.

"Dis is Draco," Carina announces proudly, her words still slightly wobbly with toddler speech. "He’s my bestest fwiend."

Harry crouches down to her level, his heart warming in a way he hadn’t expected. He takes the stuffed dragon from her hands, careful not to react at the name and pretending to inspect it seriously. "Well, Draco looks very brave," he says, his smile growing wider. "You’re lucky to have him as a friend."

Carina giggles, clearly pleased by Harry’s attention. She takes the toy back, clutching it to her chest before stepping even closer and wrapping her tiny arms around Harry’s neck in an impromptu hug. “Uncle Harry,” she whispers into his ear, as if the name itself is a precious secret.

Harry freezes for a moment, not entirely sure how to react. But then something inside him softens, the tension in his shoulders easing as he gently hugs her back. There’s something pure about the way Carina has immediately accepted him—no questions, no confusion, just warmth and trust.

Elena watches the scene unfold with a soft smile, her eyes gleaming. “It looks like she’s already quite fond of you,” she says, her voice touched with pride.

Harry stands slowly, lifting Carina in his arms as she clings to him with childlike enthusiasm. He glances at Elena, unsure how to express the mixture of emotions swirling inside him—gratitude, affection, and a strange sense of belonging he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever. "She’s... she’s amazing," Harry murmurs, feeling the weight of Carina’s little body in his arms, her head now resting comfortably on his shoulder.

Elena beams. "She is. A bit of a handful at times, but what three-year-old isn’t?"

As Harry holds Carina, he feels something shift within him. He’s spent so much time being cautious, worried about fitting into this new life, but with Carina, none of that seems to matter. She doesn’t care about bloodlines or time travel or complicated family dynamics. To her, he’s just Uncle Harry, and that’s enough.

Carina pulls back slightly to look at him, her small face close to his before , thrusting the stuffed dragon forward. "Uncle Harry, Draco wants to pway wif us!"

Harry bites his lip to stifle a laugh. Draco wants to play, he repeats in his head. The irony is too much. How different this Draco is from the Draco Malfoy he knows—the sneering, arrogant boy who spent years tormenting him at Hogwarts. It’s almost impossible to reconcile the two images. One Draco, a stuffed toy in a toddler’s hands, all purple and friendly; the other, a blond boy with a permanent scowl and an unhealthy obsession with blood status.

Harry’s mind starts to wander as he imagines the look on Malfoy’s face if he saw himself reduced to this—a cuddly little dragon, stuffed with cotton and loved by a three-year-old. The image of Malfoy’s shocked expression—eyebrows raised, mouth gaping in horror—makes it even harder to suppress his laughter.

"Draco's so cute!" Carina exclaims, completely unaware of the internal battle Harry is waging not to burst out laughing. She plops down next to him, tucking the stuffed dragon under her arm and giving it a loving pat on the head. "He’s my best fwiend. Do you want to hold him?"

Harry nods, trying to keep a straight face as he takes the soft, plush toy from her hands. "Sure," he says, his voice strained as he presses his lips together, desperately trying not to lose it.

As he holds the toy in his hands, he can’t help but think of Draco Malfoy strutting around Hogwarts, throwing insults and taunting Harry about his scar, and comparing that version of Draco to this squishy, harmless dragon. The image of Malfoy puffing out his chest in the Slytherin common room while being a tiny purple stuffed animal at the same time is so absurd that Harry has to cough to cover up the snicker that escapes.

Carina looks at him curiously, her big eyes blinking. "Why are you coughing, Uncle Harry?"

"Just, um... something in my throat," Harry says, his voice trembling as he fights to keep his laughter under control. He clears his throat and gives the toy a gentle squeeze, his mind already spinning with ridiculous scenarios of the two Dracos meeting face-to-face. He imagines the real Malfoy sneering at the toy, only for Carina to insist that her stuffed dragon could outsmart him in a duel. The thought almost sends him over the edge.

"Draco's really strong," Carina says, nodding sagely as if reading Harry’s thoughts. "He pwotects me from bad dreams."

Harry chokes on a laugh and quickly turns it into a cough again. "I’m sure he does," he replies, his voice barely steady. The idea of the real Draco Malfoy, protector of nightmares, clad in purple and soft as a pillow, nearly makes him lose it entirely. He can just picture it—Malfoy trying to maintain his dignity, standing stiffly with his arms crossed, while Carina’s Draco valiantly flaps his little stuffed wings.

"Uncle Harry?" Carina’s voice pulls him from his thoughts.

Harry looks down at her, forcing himself to focus. "Yeah?"

"You like Draco, right?" she asks, her tone suddenly very serious as she cuddles the toy close to her chest. "He’s nice, isn’t he?"

Harry’s heart softens, and the laughter finally ebbs away as he watches her innocent expression. The real Draco Malfoy might be a thorn in his side, but this Draco—Carina’s soft, purple companion—is just a reminder of how pure and simple a child’s world can be.

"Yeah," Harry finally says with a smile, handing the toy back to her. "He’s very nice."

Carina’s face lights up, clearly satisfied with his answer. She holds Draco tightly, her small arms hugging him with all the love in the world. "See, Draco? Uncle Harry likes you!"

Harry can’t help but smile as he watches her. The absurdity of it all—this small girl calling him uncle, the stuffed dragon named Draco—has a way of melting away the darker thoughts he’s been carrying. In this room, with Carina and her toy, the complications of time travel, his new identity, and the weight of the past seem distant.

"Draco’s the best," Carina says confidently, her eyes sparkling. "He can pway wif us every day, Uncle Harry!"

Harry nods, chuckling softly. "Of course. Draco can always play with us."

As Carina continues babbling on about her adventures with her stuffed dragon, Harry leans back against the sofa, finally allowing himself to relax. For the first time in a while, the world feels a little lighter, and despite everything swirling in his life, Harry finds peace in the simple joy of a child and her stuffed purple dragon.

Chapter 6: OWLs

The morning sun filters through the windows of Potter Manor, casting a warm glow over the breakfast table. Harry sits quietly, nervously picking at his food, though his appetite is nowhere to be found. Today is the day—he's about to take his OWLs, an event that feels like it could change everything. It’s been a whirlwind of preparation, with every member of the household doing their best to help him. Cepheus drilled him on Defense Against the Dark Arts, Euphemia sat with him to review Potions theory, and even Dorea provided useful tips on Transfiguration that Harry hadn’t learned during his classes at Hogwarts.

Charlus sits across from him, his calm demeanor only adding to Harry’s sense of expectation. It’s strange, thinking of Charlus as his ‘father’ now. Harry isn’t sure how to feel about it yet—his dad is James, but he knows Charlus is trying, and Harry respects him for that.

Charlus finishes his coffee and sets down his cup, turning his sharp, yet kind gaze to Harry. "Ready?"

Harry takes a deep breath and nods, though he can feel the tightness in his chest. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Charlus smiles, placing a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder as they stand. "You'll do just fine. Besides, you’ve prepared well, and that’s half the battle."

The journey to the Ministry of Magic is quiet, Harry’s nerves growing with each passing second. They Floo into the Atrium, and Harry steps out of the fireplace, brushing the soot from his robes, already feeling out of place in the grand, bustling space. Wizards and witches mill about, some rushing to meetings, others deep in conversation. The golden fountain at the center of the hall gleams, casting reflections of the magical beings it depicts.

Charlus walks beside him with an air of authority, his presence commanding respect from those who pass by. Harry notices people glancing at Charlus with recognition, some even giving small nods of respect.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter,” a tall, sharp-eyed wizard greets, stopping briefly to bow his head. “Off to deal with the international legislation today?”

Charlus chuckles lightly. “Not quite, Travers. I’ve more personal matters to attend to. This is my son, Harry.” He places a hand on Harry’s back, gently guiding him forward.

Harry offers a polite nod, still reeling from the formality of it all.

“Ah, young Mr. Potter. Taking his OWLs, I assume?” Travers says with a smile before nodding in approval. “Good luck, then. Your father has quite the reputation here in the Ministry.”

As Travers walks away, Harry blinks, turning to Charlus. “You’re… the head of the Magical Law Enforcement?”

Charlus smiles at him, a glint of pride in his eyes. “I am. Don’t worry, though. Today’s all about you, not me.”

The words should be reassuring, but the pressure Harry feels only seems to grow. Head of the Magical Law Enforcement? Of course, he’d figured the Potters were important, but Charlus being the head of such a significant department feels overwhelming.

They reach the Examination Hall, a grand room within the Ministry, reserved for important occasions like this. Rows of desks are already filled with students, quills scratching on parchment, and the air is thick with the tension of concentration.

“Harry Potter,” a witch with severe glasses calls out, scanning her clipboard. "You’ll be starting with your Transfiguration exam. Right this way."

Charlus squeezes his shoulder lightly. “I’ll wait for you outside. Just focus on doing your best, alright?”

Harry nods, swallowing his nerves as he follows the witch to his desk. The room is quiet save for the occasional rustling of paper and the murmurs of examiners. Harry sets his quill down in front of him and takes a deep breath, trying to steady the flutter in his chest.

The first part of the exam is theory. He scans the parchment, relief flooding through him as he recognizes most of the questions. Still, it’s hard to ignore the weight of everything riding on this moment. He’s not just taking his OWLs to secure a future for himself—this could determine how he fits into this new world, this new family.

He answers carefully, his quill moving steadily as he pours everything he’s learned into each response. Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts—one subject after another. When the practical exams come, Harry takes a deep breath, centering himself.

For Transfiguration, he’s tasked with turning a teapot into a tortoise. His hands are steady as he casts the spell, watching with satisfaction as the teapot shifts, the spout morphing into a small head, legs sprouting from the sides. It’s not perfect—one of the tortoise’s legs looks slightly longer than the others—but it’s good enough to pass.

The Potions exam comes next, thanks to the halfblood price and Euphemia’s tutoring Harry manages to brew a perfect potion.

It’s during the Defense Against the Dark Arts exam that Harry truly feels in his element. He deflects curses and hexes with precision, feeling a sense of pride as the examiner nods approvingly. The practical is challenging, but after everything he’s faced in his own time—battles with Death Eaters, duels, and even encounters with Voldemort—it’s nothing he can’t handle.

By the time the exams are over, Harry feels drained but satisfied. He’s done his best, and that’s all he can do. As he steps out of the hall, Charlus is waiting for him, a calm smile on his face.

“How did it go?” Charlus asks, his tone light.

Harry shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. “I think I did alright.”

Charlus claps him on the shoulder, his pride evident. “I’m sure you did better than just ‘alright.’ You’re a Potter, after all.”

For the first time since arriving in this time, Harry feels a little more like he belongs. It’s a strange feeling, but maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to get used to it.

The sun is low in the sky as Harry and Charlus return from the Ministry, casting long shadows across the grand entrance of Potter Manor. Harry’s feet drag slightly as they step into the cool, quiet house. The OWLs have drained him, mentally and physically, and all he wants is to collapse into bed. But as he trudges through the foyer, Charlus walking beside him, Fleamont appears in the doorway, his face lit with excitement.

“Ah, Harry, just in time,” Fleamont says, clapping his hands together. “The potion is ready.”

Harry pauses mid-step, blinking up at Fleamont. His mind, still foggy from the long day of exams, takes a moment to register the words. “Potion?”

“The blood adoption potion,” Fleamont clarifies, his voice low and conspiratorial. He glances around, as though expecting someone to overhear. “Now, this stays between us. It’s not exactly legal.”

Harry feels his stomach twist at that. “Not legal?” He shoots a glance at Charlus, but Charlus looks calm and unconcerned, as if this is just another routine family matter.

Fleamont waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, nothing to worry about. It’s not that it’s dangerous, just… let’s say, it’s frowned upon by the Ministry. They don’t sell the ingredients or allow it to be brewed by just anyone. Luckily for us, I’m a retired Potions Master, so I happen to have access to what’s needed.”

Harry nods, though his heart races slightly. Legal issues aside, the idea of this potion has been on his mind ever since it was first mentioned. The concept of rewriting his ancestry, of being bound by blood to this family—there’s a strange comfort in it, but also a sense of finality.

Fleamont smiles warmly and gestures for Harry to follow him. “Come along, then.”

Harry exchanges a glance with Charlus, who gives him a reassuring nod, before following Fleamont down the hallway. The manor’s potions room is small but well-equipped, lined with shelves of neatly labeled jars and flasks. In the center of the room sits a cauldron, a faint steam rising from the thick, dark liquid inside.

“It’s not much to look at,” Fleamont admits, “but it’s effective. Now, I won’t lie to you, Harry. This will taste awful. But you only need one dose, and after that, the changes will begin.”

Harry steps closer to the cauldron, peering into the murky potion. He swallows hard, trying to calm the growing unease in his chest. “What does it feel like?”

“Strange,” Fleamont says honestly. “Not painful, just… odd. Like your body is rearranging itself, which, in a way, it is. But it will pass quickly.”

Charlus stands beside him, offering silent support, and Harry feels a flicker of gratitude. Taking a deep breath, Harry steels himself. “Alright, let’s do it.”

Fleamont ladles out a portion of the potion into a small vial and hands it to Harry. The liquid inside is an unappealing shade of greenish-brown, and the smell alone makes Harry’s nose wrinkle. Still, he steels himself, tilts his head back, and downs the potion in one go.

The taste hits him instantly—a thick, bitter sludge that makes his throat burn and his stomach churn. Harry coughs, wiping at his mouth, trying to swallow the taste away, but it lingers like a stubborn memory.

“Merlin, that’s disgusting,” Harry mutters, his face scrunched in distaste.

Fleamont chuckles, patting him on the back. “Told you.”

Before Harry can respond, the feeling begins. It’s subtle at first—a warmth spreading through his chest, down his arms and legs, like his blood is being stirred from within. It’s not painful, but there’s a definite strangeness to it. His skin tingles, as though tiny sparks are dancing just beneath the surface.

He grips the edge of the table, his breath catching slightly as the sensation intensifies. His muscles tighten and relax in waves, as though his body is adjusting itself, settling into something new. His vision blurs for a moment, and he feels weightless, as if floating between two realities—one where he is Harry Potter, son of James and Lily, and another where he is now Harry Potter, son of Charlus.

Just as quickly as it began, the feeling fades, leaving him breathless but unharmed.

“There,” Fleamont says softly. “It’s done.”

Harry straightens, blinking a few times to clear his vision. He flexes his fingers, wiggles his toes—everything feels normal, though there’s an odd sense of lightness, like something deep inside him has shifted, realigned.

Fleamonth conjures a small mirror out of the air. “Look.”

Harry looks into the mirror. He isn’t sure what he expected, just that it isn’t that. “I still look the same.” He whispers in awe.

Euphemia enters the room, holding a small vial of Ancestry Potion. She smiles gently at Harry. “Now for the final confirmation.”

She performs the ancestry test a second time in Harry, but this time the result is different. In the place of his parents are Charlus Potter and Isabella McConner.

Harry stares at the words, a surreal sense of disbelief settling over him. It’s official now—legally, magically, in every way that matters, he is Charlus Potter’s son. The family that once seemed so distant, so foreign, now claims him by blood.

He tries to smile, but his emotions are tangled in a web of confusion. He feels both a strange sense of belonging and an aching pull towards the life he left behind. James and Lily flash through his mind, and he wonders what they would think of all this—what James would say, knowing that someone else now has the title of ‘father.’

“I… thanks,” Harry manages, his voice tight. He glances at Charlus, who stands there, his expression unreadable, though there’s a deep pride in his eyes.

Charlus steps forward, placing a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder, mirroring Euphemia’s gesture. “We’re proud of you, son.”

The word—son—hits Harry harder than he expected. He swallows against the lump in his throat and nods, though he isn’t sure what to say. The weight of everything—the exams, the potion, the shift in his identity—sits heavy on his shoulders.

But beneath it all, there’s a glimmer of something he hasn’t felt in a long time: acceptance. He doesn’t know where this road will lead, but for now, at least, he’s not walking it alone.

Chapter 7: Prongs and Padfoot

The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the lush, green backyard of Potter Manor.  Charlus and Harry stand several paces apart, wands at the ready. The grass is soft beneath their feet, and a slight breeze rustles the nearby trees, but Harry’s focus is entirely on the man in front of him. Charlus is calm, his stance relaxed, but Harry can see the calculating glint in his eyes.

“Ready?” Charlus asks, his voice light but filled with purpose.

Harry nods, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “As I’ll ever be.”

Without warning, Charlus flicks his wand, sending a low-powered Stinging Hex directly at Harry. With a quick twist of his wrist, Harry deflects it, sending the spell harmlessly into the grass. Charlus nods in approval, his movements smooth and precise as he fires off another hex—this one faster, more challenging.

“Good!” Charlus praises as Harry blocks it, his tone encouraging but critical. “You’re improving, but you’re relying too much on defense. Don’t just wait for me to attack—take control of the duel.”

Harry exhales sharply, focusing. Charlus was right, of course. Harry has always been better at reacting than taking the initiative. He narrows his eyes and slashes his wand through the air, sending a Disarming Charm toward Charlus, who easily sidesteps it.

“Too predictable,” Charlus says with a smile. “Again.”

Harry grits his teeth, concentrating on varying his next move. This time, he fires a rapid succession of jinxes, forcing Charlus to move more quickly. Charlus deflects the spells with ease, but Harry notices the flicker of surprise in his adoptive father’s eyes, the subtle shift in his stance as he adjusts to the increased pace.

For a brief moment, Harry feels a surge of pride. This is no longer a child’s duel; this is real, and he’s holding his own. But before he can fully appreciate the thought, Charlus counters with a spell Harry doesn’t recognize. It’s quick—too quick—and Harry barely has time to dodge. A blast of energy knocks him back a few steps, the air whooshing out of his lungs as he stumbles.

“Never lose focus, Harry,” Charlus chides gently, his voice carrying across the yard. “In a real duel, that hesitation could cost you dearly.”

Harry nods, chest heaving, but a small smile tugs at his lips. “I’ll remember that.”

Charlus lowers his wand, signaling a temporary break. “Come, let’s rest for a bit.”

They walk over to a nearby bench, where Charlus conjures two glasses of cold pumpkin juice. Harry takes his gratefully, downing half the glass in one go. His muscles are sore, and there’s a faint throb in his wrist from deflecting so many spells, but there’s also a sense of accomplishment. Charlus has been a tough teacher, but Harry can feel himself improving.

Charlus sets his glass down, his expression softening. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

Harry looks up, curious. “What is it?”

“You’ll be going to Hogwarts starting September,” Charlus begins, watching Harry’s reaction closely. “For your sixth year.”

The words hit Harry like a Bludger. Hogwarts. The place that’s always been home, yet now feels a world away. “September?” he repeats, a mix of surprise and apprehension in his voice. “I’m… going back?”

Charlus nods. “Yes, Dumbledore has agreed to the arrangement. We’ve told him our story—the one about you being my son, raised away from us for reasons beyond our control. That’s all Dumbledore knows, and it’s all he needs to know.”

Harry frowns slightly. “What about James and Sirius? Will they—”

“They won’t know the truth,” Charlus interrupts, his voice firm but kind. “Not yet. James and Sirius… they’re not mature enough to handle it. They’ll just know you as my son, Harry Potter. The story is the same for them as it is for everyone else. Even Carina isn’t to be told.”

A part of Harry feels relieved—keeping his real identity hidden from James and Sirius means avoiding some difficult conversations, but another part feels the weight of the lie pressing down on him. “I understand,” Harry says, though his voice betrays the conflict he feels.

Charlus places a hand on Harry’s shoulder, giving

him a reassuring squeeze. "It's for the best, Harry. In time, things will settle, and you’ll see it was the right decision. For now, focus on preparing for Hogwarts. You’ve done incredibly well adjusting, but I want to make sure you’re fully ready."

Harry nods slowly, digesting the words. Charlus’s confidence in him is reassuring, but there’s a nagging uncertainty about returning to Hogwarts under this new identity. What would it be like, seeing James and Sirius again, but as Charlus’s son, not James’s? He can’t help but feel like an imposter.

“We’ll continue working on your spell work before September,” Charlus continues. “Hogwarts students can be competitive. You’ll want to be on your best form.”

Harry takes a deep breath. “Thanks. I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.” Charlus stands up, stretching his arms. “Ready to go again?”

Harry rises from the bench, feeling the weight of the upcoming conversation at Hogwarts but pushing it aside. He raises his wand, determination replacing his doubt. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

With that, Charlus stands and stretches. “Now, ready for another round? Let’s see if you can block my Disarming Charm this time.”

Harry grins, feeling a renewed surge of energy. “Bring it on.”

They take their positions once more, wands raised, and the air crackles with the tension of an impending duel. Charlus moves first, firing off a quick spell that Harry barely deflects. The rhythm of their duel picks up again, spell after spell, counter after counter, until Harry feels his magic pulsing through him, sharper and more focused than ever.

Just as Harry sends a Stunner Charlus’s way, the sudden sound of voices interrupts their concentration. They both pause, turning toward the source of the noise, only to see two familiar figures striding across the lawn: James Potter and Sirius Black.

James’s eyes widen when he sees Harry, confusion flickering across his face. “Uncle Charlus? Who’s this?”

Sirius, ever the bold one, doesn’t hesitate. “A new dueling partner? Think we can join?”

“Welcome back.” Charlus lowers his wand with a grin and greets them. “Harry, this is your cousin James we told you about and his best friend Sirius who ran away from home and is living with us.” He introduces him to keep up the appearance. “James, Sirius, I’d like you to meet Harry. He’s… my son.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, heavy with implication. Harry braces himself for the inevitable barrage of questions, but to his surprise, James doesn’t seem fazed. His face lights up with a broad grin, and he strides forward to clap Harry on the shoulder.

“Another Potter in the family? Brilliant!” James exclaims. “I’ve always wanted another brother or cousin.”

Sirius, not one to be outdone, steps forward and grins at Harry. “Well, well, another Potter. We’re going to have some fun.”

Harry, momentarily stunned by their easy acceptance, manages a small smile. There’s a warmth in his chest at the way James and Sirius immediately embrace him, without question or hesitation. It feels… right, even if it’s all built on a lie for now.

“We should head inside,” Charlus says, glancing at the sky, which is now painted in shades of orange and pink. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

James and Sirius both nod, eager to get inside after their long journey. But as they enter the house, Euphemia’s sharp voice cuts through the air.

“Hold on just a minute!” She stands in the doorway of the dining room, hands on her hips, looking every bit the stern matriarch. “You boys are not sitting down to dinner like that! Go wash up first.”

James groans dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “Mum, we’re starving!”

“No excuses,” Euphemia replies, giving them a pointed look. “Go on, now. All of you.”

***

When they are allowed into the dining room the large, ornate table is crowded with food, and equally crowded with people. Harry finds himself seated between Sirius and Cepheus, across from James and little Carina, who is perched on a high chair, giggling at the conversation she doesn’t quite understand.

Charlus and Dorea sit at the head of the table, with Fleamont and Euphemia on the other end. Elena, her smile warm, sits beside Carina, gently cutting her daughter’s food into small pieces while managing to keep up with the rapid-fire conversation between James and Sirius.

“So, Hogwarts is still the same,” James is saying, a dramatic sigh escaping his lips. “Same classes, same teachers, and the same stubborn Lily Evans who won’t even give me the time of day.”

Sirius snorts. “Mate, you’ve been trying for how long? Six years?”

“Six years!” James groans, flopping back into his chair. “And she still won’t go on a single date with me. Not one! I’ve tried everything—charms, Transfiguration tricks, I even helped her in Potions once. Potions!”

“Impressive,” Sirius quips, his grin wide. “And yet, nothing. It’s almost like she has taste.”

James shoots him a dirty look, then turns his attention to the food in front of him. “I don’t get it. What more do I have to do to prove I’m not just some reckless troublemaker? I’ve been trying so hard.”

Harry, who has been quietly listening, can’t help but feel a twist of discomfort at the mention of Lily. His mother. His stomach flutters, and he keeps his gaze on his plate, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

The Potters, however, exchange knowing glances across the table. Charlus smirks, while Dorea’s lips twitch in amusement. Even Fleamont and Euphemia share a quick grin, though they are careful not to say anything. The silence stretches for a second too long, and James, always quick to notice when something is off, frowns.

“What?” James asks, looking around suspiciously. “What are you all smirking about? You’re keeping something from me.”

Sirius, who hasn’t noticed the glances before, raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, what’s going on? Why do you all look like you’ve swallowed a Canary Cream?”

Harry’s heart pounds in his chest. The Potters’ silent amusement feels like a secret he is a part of, but also an outsider to. He clears his throat, trying to divert the attention. “So… Evans, huh?”

James turns to him with a sigh, his frustration evident. “Yeah. Lily Evans. The girl of my dreams and the bane of my existence.”

Harry takes a deep breath, his mind racing. He has to tread carefully, but curiosity tugs at him. “What’s her favorite subject?”

James blinks, caught off guard by the question. “Uh… I think Charms?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “You think?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, she’s good at Charms, right?” James glances at Sirius for confirmation, but his best friend just shrugs.

“What about her favorite color?” Harry asks, pressing a little more.

James frowns, clearly not expecting to be quizzed. “I… don’t know. Green, maybe?”

Sirius snickers beside him. “Green? You only said that because of her eyes.”

James scowls. “Well, they are green.”

Harry can’t resist the smile tugging at his lips. “Who are her best friends?”

That one stumps James completely. He looks genuinely puzzled for a moment before admitting, “Uh, there’s that one girl… Mary? Or maybe Marleen? I don’t know.”

Harry leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “James, if I were Lily Evans, I’d turn you down, too.”

The words slip out before Harry can stop himself. The moment they leave his mouth, he freezes. His face goes pale as the entire table falls into stunned silence. His heart drops into his stomach as he realizes what he’s just said—how badly it might be interpreted. James stares at him, wide-eyed, as if he can’t believe what he’s just heard. Harry swallows hard, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment.

“Wait, I didn’t mean—” Harry stammers, panicking. “I mean—well—”

But before he can explain himself, a burst of laughter erupts from the other end of the table. Charlus is the first to crack, his deep, booming laughter filling the room. Dorea soon follows, shaking her head in amusement. Even Fleamont and Euphemia are laughing, though they try to do so more politely.

James, on the other hand, gapes at them. “What? What’s so funny?”

Sirius grins, clapping Harry on the back. “That is the best thing anyone’s said at dinner in months.”

Harry’s ears are burning, but he can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face as the rest of the table continues to laugh. There’s no malice in their amusement, only warmth. It’s a kind of familial teasing that feels oddly comforting, even if he’s the butt of the joke for the moment.

James, however, crosses his arms and huffs. “You lot are keeping something from me. I can feel it. What is it?”

“Oh, nothing, dear,” Dorea says, waving her hand dismissively. But her smile gives her away.

Charlus coughs, his shoulders still shaking with laughter. “Let’s just say, James, you might want to brush up on your knowledge of Lily Evans before you try asking her out again.”

James narrows his eyes, suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry bites his lip, trying to contain a grin. The Potters have known all along. They know who his mother is, and though they aren’t going to say anything, the shared amusement between them makes Harry feel oddly connected to them. It’s like being part of an inside joke, one that isn’t hurtful but instead fills the air with lightheartedness.

Still, Harry can’t help but feel a pang of sadness. The knowledge of Lily Evans will eventually return James’ feelings isn’t something he can share—not yet, anyway. And watching James pine over her is surreal.

“Well,” James says, stabbing a potato with his fork. “If you all aren’t going to tell me what’s so funny, then I’ll just figure it out myself.”

Cepheus raises an eyebrow. “Good luck with that, mate.”

Harry laughs softly, feeling lighter than he has in days. Despite the secrets, despite the lies they have to tell for now, there’s something undeniably comforting about being here with them, with people who care. Even if James doesn’t know the whole truth, even if Sirius never suspects, for the first time, Harry feels like maybe, just maybe, he has a real family.

As the conversation picks up again, shifting to lighter topics and tales of Hogwarts mischief, Harry leans back in his chair and allows himself to relax. For the first time in what feels like forever, he’s home.

Notes:

Next chapter: Regulus Black

Chapter 8: Regulus Black

The cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley buzz with life as Harry walks leisurely through Flourish and Blotts. The soft murmur of customers chatting and the comforting scent of parchment and ink fill the air. For once, Harry feels at ease, grateful for the brief escape from the constant presence of the Potters. Dorea had given him a bit of pocket money, and he had been more than happy to disappear into the magical bookshop, losing himself in the rows of dusty tomes.

As he wanders the aisles, Harry’s eyes land on a familiar spine—the book Sirius had once recommended for the D.A. A small smile tugs at his lips as he remembers those late-night sessions with his friends, the thrill of teaching them how to defend themselves. His fingers brush over the book’s cover, and before he can stop himself, he pulls it from the shelf and places it into his basket. A wave of nostalgia washes over him, prompting him to add the other two volumes in the series as well.

He moves further down the aisle, pausing at a shelf filled with medical texts. Harry's mind drifts to the countless times he or his friends had been injured in the past—especially during the battle at the Department of Mysteries. He frowns at the memory but quickly pushes it aside. After all, having some knowledge of healing spells could be useful in the future. His eyes land on a thick book titled Encyclopedia of Medical Spells by Admiranda Whitts. The cover boasts a detailed index of spells, neatly categorized and complete with explanations on how to cast them.

“That should do,” Harry mutters to himself as he adds it to his growing pile. For good measure, he grabs Curses & Countercurses and A Basic Guide to Warding. “Better safe than sorry.”

With a sigh, he heads to the front of the store, paying for the books and feeling the satisfying weight of them in his bag as he leaves. The streets of Diagon Alley greet him once more, the bustle of shoppers mingling with the occasional pop of Apparition. Harry takes a deep breath, enjoying the brief respite from the weight of his new life.

As he walks back toward James and Sirius, who are likely up to no good in one of the nearby shops, something catches Harry’s eye. Seated at a small café, casually sipping tea, is Cepheus. But it’s not just Cepheus that draws his attention—next to him is someone who looks strikingly like Sirius, but more refined. More elegant. And… really, really attractive.

Harry stops in his tracks, his heart doing an odd little flip in his chest. He blinks, trying to process the scene in front of him. The man sitting with Cepheus has the same sharp features as Sirius, the same dark hair, but his demeanor is entirely different. Where Sirius radiates chaos and mischief, this man exudes grace and poise.

Before Harry can gather his thoughts, Cepheus notices him. A wide smile spreads across his face, and he waves Harry over enthusiastically.

“Harry! Come join us!” Cepheus calls.

Harry hesitates for a moment, feeling a sudden wave of awkwardness wash over him, but there’s no polite way to refuse. With a deep breath, he makes his way over to the table, clutching his bag of books like a lifeline.

Cepheus beams as Harry approaches. “Harry, I’d like you to meet someone very important. This is Regulus, Heir Black. Sirius’ brother.”

Harry’s stomach does a weird flip as Regulus stands to greet him, offering a polite nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry.”

Regulus’ voice is smooth, almost melodic, and Harry is struck by how different he is from Sirius. Where Sirius is all sharp edges and brashness, Regulus seems… composed. Controlled. His gaze, though polite, is sharp and observant, and Harry feels a bit like he’s under a magnifying glass.

Cepheus grins, clearly enjoying the moment. “And, Regulus, this is Harry. My little brother.”

Harry flushes slightly at the introduction, the term “brother” still feeling foreign on his tongue. He offers a nervous smile, trying hard not to look too flustered. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Regulus responds, his lips curving into a small, elegant smile. He gestures to the empty seat beside him with a graceful sweep of his hand. “Won’t you join us?”

Harry feels a rush of nerves and a hint of resignation. He takes the seat, his mind racing with a mix of anxiety and curiosity. Regulus' presence next to him is palpable—his calm demeanor and poised elegance are almost overwhelming. Harry finds himself trying to concentrate on the conversation, but every time Regulus speaks, Harry can’t help but sneak glances. Regulus moves with an effortless grace, and his voice has a smooth, melodious quality that draws Harry in. It’s maddeningly distracting.

Cepheus keeps the conversation light and casual, discussing the latest Quidditch matches and local gossip. Despite the easygoing topics, Harry is acutely aware of Regulus’ proximity. He finds himself distracted by the way Regulus sips his tea, the way his eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles. Harry tries to focus on the words being spoken, but his gaze keeps wandering back to Regulus almost instinctively. It’s like trying to look away from something captivating and beautiful, only to find yourself drawn back to it over and over again.

As they finish their tea, the conversation flows on, but Harry feels a mixture of relief and regret. The time spent at the table feels both like an eternity and a blink. Regulus finally stands, his movements as graceful as ever. “I’m afraid I have some business to attend to,” he says, his voice gentle and polished. He gives a nod to both Harry and Cepheus. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Harry. I hope we get to see each other again soon.”

“Yeah, same,” Harry manages to stammer, his voice barely above a whisper. He watches, feeling a bit dazed, as Regulus leaves the café. His robes flutter slightly in the breeze, and Harry can’t help but follow his departure with his eyes until he’s out of sight.

As soon as Regulus disappears around the corner, Cepheus turns to Harry with a knowing grin, clearly enjoying the moment. “You were staring, you know.”

Harry’s face turns bright red. “I—I wasn’t!”

Cepheus chuckles, clearly enjoying Harry’s embarrassment. “Oh, you most definitely were. You barely took your eyes off him.”

Harry groans, burying his face in his hands. “I didn’t mean to! It’s just… he’s… well—”

“Really attractive?” Cepheus finishes, his grin widening. “Don’t worry, Harry. You’re not the first to notice.”

Harry’s face burns an even deeper shade of crimson, and he can’t seem to find the words to defend himself. Cepheus laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “Come on, little brother. Let’s get you back to James and Sirius before you combust.”

Harry nods, feeling a mixture of relief and lingering awkwardness. “Right. Thanks for introducing us.”

“No problem,” Cepheus says, finishing his tea and setting the cup down. “Let’s head back. I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

He follows Cepheus out of the café, his mind still spinning from the encounter. He can’t believe how awkward he must have seemed in front of Regulus, and now Cepheus knows he finds him attractive. As they walk, Harry tries to focus on anything else—his new books, the bustle of Diagon Alley—but his thoughts keep drifting back to Regulus’ sharp, elegant features and the way his voice had sounded so effortlessly smooth.

Harry hurries toward the spot where James and Sirius had agreed to meet him. His heart still races from his encounter with Regulus, and a small part of him is grateful that Cepheus had kept his teasing limited to the café. He can’t even begin to imagine what would happen if James or Sirius found out about his awkward admiration for Sirius’ brother.

As Harry rounds the corner, he spots them—James and Sirius lounging outside a Quidditch shop, looking thoroughly bored. The moment they see him, James’ face lights up with a mischievous grin.

“There he is! Thought you’d gotten lost in a pile of books, mate!” James calls, pushing off the wall and sauntering over to meet Harry.

Sirius, smirking as always, gives Harry a once-over. “Yeah, you’ve been gone forever. Where’ve you been?”

Harry feels the heat rise in his cheeks and hopes it doesn’t show. “Uh… just got a bit distracted, that’s all. Found some interesting books in Flourish and Blotts.”

“Books, huh?” James narrows his eyes in mock suspicion. “Let’s see what’s so interesting.”

Before Harry can protest, Sirius snatches the bag from his hand, rummaging through it with a laugh. “Ah, come on, Prongs. If he wants to spend all day nose-deep in parchment, let him. What’ve we got here?”

Sirius pulls out the first book, squinting at the title. Encyclopedia of Medical Spells. “Blimey, Harry, feeling like a Healer, are you?”

James, standing next to him, leans over to inspect the next one. “Curses & Countercurses… You planning on cursing someone? Maybe Lily Evans?” He grins at Harry, clearly enjoying himself.

Harry rolls his eyes, trying to keep his tone casual despite his heart pounding. “Just thought they might be useful, that’s all. You never know when you’ll need them.”

Sirius snorts, pulling out the last book. “A Basic Guide to Warding. You’re really going all in, aren’t you? Building your own fortress, are we?”

Harry shrugs, still feeling the heat in his face. “Better safe than sorry.”

James exchanges a glance with Sirius, clearly not buying the excuse but deciding to let it go. “Well, you’re certainly more productive than we’ve been. We were just thinking of ways to pass the time.”

Sirius suddenly brightens, shoving the books back into Harry’s arms. “Actually, we had an idea. Let’s go get those charmed bracelets we saw last week. You know, the ones that track your mates? If you wander off again, at least we’ll know where to find you.”

“Yeah!” James agrees, eyes gleaming with excitement. “We can’t have you disappearing into bookstores for hours without a trace, can we?”

Harry’s stomach twists at the thought of having his location magically broadcasted to James and Sirius. What if they’d known about his café encounter with Regulus? His awkward staring? But there’s no way out of it, and he knows saying no would just make them more curious. So, Harry forces a smile. “Sure, sounds fun.”

They head toward a small, tucked-away shop on the corner of the alley, its windows displaying all sorts of magical trinkets. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of old wood and parchment, and the shopkeeper—a short, bespectacled wizard with graying hair—greets them with a warm smile.

“Looking for something special, lads?”

James steps forward, full of enthusiasm. “We want those bracelets—the ones that show where your friends are.”

“Ah, yes,” the shopkeeper says knowingly. “A fine choice. They’re linked by magic, showing the location of each wearer at all times. Very useful for keeping tabs on one another.”

Harry feels his stomach twist again, but he follows James and Sirius to the counter, where the shopkeeper places three identical silver bracelets on a velvet cloth. The bands are simple yet elegant, each with a small, polished stone set in the center.

“Now,” the shopkeeper begins, holding one of the bracelets up for inspection, “the charm is quite easy to activate. Just place your wand on the stone and say the name of the person you want to link it to. Once linked, the stone will glow faintly whenever they’re near, and if they’re far away, it’ll show their direction.”

James and Sirius are practically buzzing with excitement, eager to test them out. Harry watches as they go first, tapping their wands to the bracelets and saying each other’s names. Sure enough, the stones in their bracelets glow faintly, and the map shows their exact location.

“Your turn, Harry,” Sirius says, tossing him one of the bracelets.

Harry hesitates, but there’s no backing out now. With a resigned sigh, he taps his wand to the bracelet and mutters, “James Potter.” The stone glows softly, and his location appears next to James and Sirius.

“There you go!” the shopkeeper says cheerfully. “Now, you’ll never lose each other.”

James laughs, clapping Harry on the back. “Perfect! Now we can make sure you don’t vanish into the stacks for hours again.”

Harry forces a smile, though inwardly, he can’t help but feel a little trapped by the bracelet. It’s not that he doesn’t trust James and Sirius—it’s just… well, after today, the idea of having his every move tracked is more than a bit uncomfortable.

Still, there’s no point in dwelling on it now. With their new bracelets securely on their wrists, the three of them head out of the shop and make their way back toward home.

As they walk, James and Sirius chat excitedly about the potential uses of the bracelets—how they could use them to sneak around Hogwarts, to find secret passages, or to avoid Filch. Harry listens with half a mind, his thoughts drifting back to Regulus and the café. He wonders what Sirius would say if he knew his brother had been sitting there, calm and composed, while Harry had made a complete fool of himself.

“Oi, Harry, you listening?” James’ voice cuts through his thoughts.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been thinking an awful lot today. Something on your mind?”

Harry quickly shakes his head. “No, just… tired, I guess.”

James grins. “Well, good thing we’re heading back. We’ve got some serious Quidditch practice to do tomorrow, and we need to stay sharp or we can forget the cup next near.”

Harry forces a laugh. “Sounds like fun.”

But as they walk on, Harry can’t help but glance down at the bracelet on his wrist, wondering just how long he can keep his secrets from them.

Chapter 9: About Healing

Harry sits cross-legged on the floor of the library, completely absorbed in the pages of The Encyclopedia of Medical Spells by Admiranda Whitts. His eyes skim over the neat, cramped handwriting and detailed diagrams, occasionally pausing to imagine himself performing the healing incantations. The book is fascinating, filled with spells for everything from minor cuts to more complex, life-saving magic. Harry hadn’t realized how intricate healing magic could be, and part of him wishes he’d learned some of this sooner—Merlin knows how often he and his friends had ended up in the hospital wing.

The sound of footsteps behind him breaks his concentration, and he looks up to see Euphemia Potter standing in the doorway. She watches him for a moment, her smile warm and maternal. “I see you’ve found yourself an interesting read,” she says, her voice soft and encouraging.

Harry nods, closing the book lightly. “Yeah, it’s really good. I didn’t realize how useful some of these spells could be.”

Euphemia’s smile widens. “I’m glad you think so. You know, I used to be a healer at St. Mungo’s before I retired. I still practice occasionally, if the need arises.”

Harry looks up at her in surprise. “You were a healer? I didn’t know that.”

She chuckles softly and walks further into the room, sitting down beside him. “Yes, for many years. Healing is a calling, really, much like any other profession. There’s something special about helping people recover, about knowing the right spell or potion to ease pain or save a life.”

Harry listens intently, feeling a growing sense of admiration for her. “I’ve always thought healing spells were useful,” he says, glancing down at the book again. “But I never really knew much about them.”

Euphemia reaches over and taps the book with a delicate finger. “That’s a wonderful book you’ve chosen. Admiranda Whitts is brilliant. But reading alone won’t make you a healer. It takes practice and a steady hand.” She pauses, her gaze softening. “Would you like me to teach you a few spells? I think you’d be a quick learner.”

Harry’s eyes widen in surprise, and then a smile breaks across his face. “Really? I’d love that!”

Euphemia chuckles again, clearly pleased by his enthusiasm. “Good. Let’s start with something simple, then. How about Episkey? It’s a basic healing spell that can be used to mend minor injuries—bruises, cuts, that sort of thing.”

Harry immediately sits up straighter, his heart racing with excitement. He’s always wanted to learn more practical magic, and getting to learn healing spells from someone as experienced as Euphemia feels like a rare opportunity. “Yeah, I know of Episkey. Madame Pomfrey used it once when I broke my nose.”

Euphemia raises an eyebrow, amused. “Broke your nose, did you? I hope it wasn’t too painful.”

Harry shrugs with a small grin. “It wasn’t great.”

She laughs and stands, motioning for Harry to join her. “Come on, let’s practice.”

Harry follows her into the middle of the room, where Euphemia waves her wand and conjures a small, harmless cut on the back of her own hand. “Now, watch carefully,” she instructs. “The key to healing magic is intention. You need to want to heal. It’s not just about the words or the wand movement—your heart has to be in it.”

She demonstrates the spell, moving her wand in a precise flick and murmuring, “Episkey.” The cut on her hand glows for a moment, and then it seals up perfectly, leaving no trace behind.

Harry watches, fascinated. “That’s incredible.”

“It’s simple once you’ve practiced a few times,” Euphemia says, encouraging him. “Now you try. Focus on the spell and the intention behind it.”

She conjures a small, shallow cut on Harry’s arm—nothing painful, just enough for him to practice on. Harry grips his wand, feeling a rush of nerves but also a deep determination to get it right. He takes a deep breath, remembering Euphemia’s words about intention.

“Episkey,” he says, flicking his wand.

A faint glow surrounds the cut, but it doesn’t quite heal. Harry frowns, disappointed, but Euphemia smiles at him gently. “Not bad for your first try. You’ve got the movement down, but focus a bit more on the intent. Think about healing, about fixing what’s broken.”

Harry nods, takes a deep breath, and tries again. This time, he clears his mind, focusing entirely on healing the cut. He flicks his wand, and when he says “Episkey,” the glow is brighter, more confident. The cut closes up completely.

“I did it!” Harry exclaims, his face lighting up with excitement.

Euphemia’s eyes sparkle with pride. “You did. Well done, Harry. You’ve got a natural gift for this.”

Harry beams, his heart swelling with pride. He hadn’t realized how fulfilling healing magic could be, and Euphemia’s praise makes him feel even more confident. “Can we try another one?”

“Of course,” Euphemia says, her tone warm and encouraging. “There’s plenty more to learn. Healing magic is vast, and the more you practice, the better you’ll get.”

They spend the next hour going over more basic healing spells, with Euphemia patiently guiding Harry through each one. Her calm, supportive presence makes him feel at ease, and though some spells are trickier than others, Harry feels like he’s learning something meaningful. Every successful spell fills him with a quiet joy, a sense that he’s becoming more capable and independent.

By the end of their practice, Harry is exhausted but happy. His mind is buzzing with everything he’s learned, and he’s grateful to Euphemia for taking the time to teach him.

“You did wonderfully,” she tells him as they sit back down. “With more practice, you’ll be able to heal just about anything.”

Harry smiles, feeling both tired and content. “Thanks for teaching me. I didn’t think I’d be able to do half of this stuff.”

Euphemia places a hand on his shoulder, her touch gentle. “You’re more capable than you think, Harry. You just need the right guidance.”

As Harry closes the Encyclopedia of Medical Spells and stretches his sore muscles, feeling a strange satisfaction from the afternoon of learning, the quiet peace of the library is suddenly interrupted by a loud commotion.

"Oi, Harry!" James’ voice booms through the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of Sirius barreling in after him.

"Boys! No running in the house!" Euphemia scolds from where she sits, her voice firm, though there's a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

But her warning falls on deaf ears as the two burst into the library, all wild energy and mischief. Sirius is grinning from ear to ear, and James looks practically giddy. Harry barely has time to react before they’re both on him.

“Come on, mate! Time to put down the books!” James says, pulling Harry to his feet with an overzealous yank.

Sirius crosses his arms, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "We’re kidnapping you for something far more important."

Harry glances at Euphemia, half-expecting her to rescue him from whatever chaotic adventure the two Marauders have in store. But she only shakes her head in amusement, still sitting in her chair. “Go on, Harry. But don’t let them cause too much trouble.”

He barely has time to reply before James and Sirius practically drag him out of the library. “What’s going on?” Harry asks, trying to keep pace with their excited strides.

“You’ll see,” James says cryptically, sharing a conspiratorial grin with Sirius.

They lead Harry out to the backyard, where the familiar sight of the sprawling Quidditch pitch comes into view. To his surprise, there are already people waiting. Remus is standing near the edge of the pitch, broom in hand, while Cepheus and Elena are both leaning against their own brooms, clearly ready for a game. Dorea sits off to the side on the grass, a small smile playing on her lips as she watches over little Carina, who is bouncing on the spot in excitement.

“There he is!” Remus calls out, waving as Harry and the others approach.

James gives Harry an exaggerated pat on the back. “You didn’t think we were going to leave you out of a Quidditch match, did you? We need six people. Three-a-side.”

Harry can’t help but laugh, feeling the adrenaline start to bubble in his veins. “You could’ve just asked, you know. No need to kidnap me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Sirius says with a wink, already mounting his broom.

Harry grins, glancing over at the others. Cepheus and Elena give him encouraging nods, and for the first time in a while, Harry feels like part of something. Not just an outsider looking in, but truly part of this makeshift family.

“Alright,” Harry says, rolling his shoulders as he picks up one of the spare brooms. “What are the teams?”

“James, Sirius, and me,” Remus says with a sly smile, “versus you, Cepheus, and Elena. Two Chasers, one Keeper each.”

“Perfect.” Harry mounts his broom, the familiar weight and balance of it instantly bringing back memories of past games at Hogwarts. He throws a look at James and Sirius, who are already bickering over strategy. “Ready to lose?”

James scoffs, tossing the Quaffle between his hands. “You wish, little cousin.”

Harry’s heart stutters at the term—cousin—but he doesn’t let it show. He grins instead, positioning himself in the air, feeling the thrill of competition build inside him.

Once everyone is airborne, Cepheus calls out, “Alright, let’s keep it friendly…ish. No hexing the Quaffle or tampering with brooms.”

Sirius winks from his position, clearly poised to break as many of those unspoken rules as possible.

With a toss of the Quaffle, the game is on. Harry shoots forward with a surge of adrenaline, darting after the Quaffle as it flies through the air. James grabs it first, of course, with that signature Potter agility, but Cepheus is quick on his tail, forcing him into a tight dive. Harry keeps pace with them, eyes locked on the ball as he races through the air.

Sirius, as Keeper, guards the makeshift goal with a gleeful intensity, while Remus moves smoothly through the air, playing the role of second Chaser with a quiet competence that contrasts James’ flashy style.

Harry catches the Quaffle as it rebounds off a poorly-aimed throw from James and passes it smoothly to Cepheus, who’s darting in from the right. “Nice one!” Cepheus calls, before zooming toward Sirius, who’s waiting by the goal with a wicked grin.

The game is fast-paced and full of laughter. Sirius constantly tries to taunt Harry, but Harry gives as good as he gets, diving and weaving through the air with the ease that comes from years of experience. Elena is a brilliant keeper, catching almost everything thrown at her.

At one point, Harry feints to the left before throwing the Quaffle to Cepheus, who scores an unexpected goal against Sirius, much to the latter’s dramatic groaning. “I let you have that one!” Sirius calls, laughing as he watches the Quaffle sail through the goal.

“Sure you did,” Cepheus smirks, circling around to retrieve the ball for the next play.

Harry’s heart is light, the thrill of Quidditch pulling him fully into the moment. He hasn’t felt this carefree in a long time—no worries about Voldemort, no weight of the past pressing down on him. Just him, his broom, and the joy of flying.

By the time they call for a break, everyone is breathless and laughing. They hover mid-air for a moment, exchanging jokes and playful jabs.

“I have to say, Harry, you’re not bad for someone who’s not been playing in a while,” James says with a teasing grin, though there’s admiration in his voice.

Harry wipes sweat from his forehead, grinning back. “I could say the same to you. But don’t get too comfortable—next round’s ours.”

Before they can dive back into the game, the sound of a bell rings from the house. Euphemia steps out onto the patio, waving them down. “Dinner’s ready! And I expect all of you to wash up before eating!” she calls, her voice carrying across the field.

James groans dramatically, while Sirius zooms ahead toward the house. “Last one there does the dishes!”

Harry trails behind the rest, still catching his breath as they make their way toward the house. The late afternoon sun bathes the garden in a golden glow, and the faint scent of dinner wafts from the kitchen, making his stomach growl. He feels a sense of belonging that is both comforting and strange—this newfound family dynamic still feels surreal.

As they reach the back door, James is already pulling it open with a grin. "Better hurry, Harry, or you really will be stuck with dishes."

Sirius laughs as he elbows James. "Not that we’d mind at all."

"Get inside, both of you," Remus says, rolling his eyes at their antics.

The boys burst into the kitchen, where Fleamont, Dorea, and Cepheus are already seated, looking relaxed. Carina is sitting in her high chair, babbling happily at Elena, who spoons some mashed potatoes onto her daughter’s plate.

Euphemia, overseeing the final preparations at the stove, narrows her eyes at the three sweaty boys. "You didn’t wash up, did you?"

James freezes mid-step, trying to look innocent. "Of course we—"

"No, you didn’t." Euphemia crosses her arms, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Out. Go wash up, all of you."

Harry snickers as James and Sirius groan dramatically but follow her orders, with Harry close behind. As they head toward the washroom, Sirius grins at him. "She’s scarier than McGonagall when she’s in ‘mum’ mode, isn’t she?"

"If you say so," Harry agrees, though there’s a warmth in his chest. Mum mode. He wonders briefly what it would’ve been like to have someone like Euphemia growing up—stern but caring, protective but kind.

After they’ve washed up and returned to the dining room, they all take their seats. The table is packed with food—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, peas, and freshly baked bread, all giving off a mouth-watering aroma.

"Ah, finally!" James exclaims as he grabs a roll of bread. "I’m starving."

“You’re always starving,” Cepheus teases from across the table, making everyone chuckle.

Harry takes a seat between Remus and Elena, feeling the warmth of the room settle over him. Dorea is sitting beside Charlus, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she watches the boys serve themselves. The casualness of it all—the easy laughter, the quiet conversations—feels like a balm to Harry’s soul.

"So, how did the game go?" Fleamont asks, looking at the group of sweaty, windblown boys with a raised eyebrow.

"We let James, Sirius and Remus win," Harry says with a grin, earning a groan from Sirius.

"You did no such thing! That was all skill!" James protests, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth.

Harry, between bites of chicken, snorts. "Sure, cousin, whatever helps you sleep at night."

Notes:

Next chapter: Train ride to Hogwarts and Harry's sorting.

Chapter 10: Slytherin

The Hogwarts Express lets out a shrill whistle as it steams ahead, the countryside flashing by in a blur of green and gold. Harry sits near the window, watching the scenery roll by, the familiar hum of the train bringing back a wave of memories. His heart aches a little as he thinks about the last time he boarded this train, with Ron and Hermione by his side. But this time is different—this time he’s going back to a Hogwarts from the past, a place where no one knows who he really is.

After saying goodbye to the Potters at Platform 9¾, James had practically dragged him into their compartment. At first, the atmosphere was light and easy. Sirius sprawled across one of the seats, his legs propped up, already joking about their plans for the upcoming year. Remus sat more quietly, a book in hand but listening intently to the conversation. Peter Pettigrew had followed them in, glancing nervously around like he always did.

Harry had settled in, thinking maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But as the conversation drifted, it took a turn that made his stomach clench.

"So, I heard you ran into Regulus during our last trip to Gambol and Japes. Is he still being a slimy snake?" James says casually, throwing his arm over the back of the seat as he grins at Sirius. "What’s the latest? Still kissing up to dear old Mum and Dad?"

Sirius snorts. "Yeah, Reg’s fully embraced the family creed. It’s pathetic, really."

"All Slytherins are the same," Peter chimes in, his voice oily. "Always sucking up to the Dark Arts, thinking they’re better than everyone else."

Harry feels a knot of discomfort form in his chest. He remembers Regulus—how poised and quiet he had been when they met at the café. He may have been from a family of pureblood fanatics, but Regulus didn’t seem like the cold, evil person they’re making him out to be. But Harry keeps his mouth shut, not wanting to start anything. And then, inevitably, the conversation shifts to Snape.

"And then there’s Snivellus," James says with a laugh. "Bet he’s already plotting ways to cheat on his exams this year. That slimy git—"

Harry’s fingers grip the edge of the seat. He knows that Snape wasn’t the easiest person to like, but hearing James talk about him like that brings up feelings of unease. They don’t know anything yet. They don’t know how it all turns out.

He sneaks a glance at Peter and feels bile rise in his throat. Knowing what Pettigrew will become—knowing the betrayal he’s capable of—makes it almost unbearable to sit in the same compartment. But Harry bites his tongue. If he says anything, no one will believe him.

"All Slytherins are the same," James says, shaking his head. "Can’t trust a single one of them."

Harry's discomfort deepens. He can't let them go on like this. Trying to steer the conversation in a safer direction, he forces a smile and says, "So... what about Quidditch this year? I don’t think I have seen you actually practicing. Every time I checked you were just fooling around with Sirius!"

Sirius perks up at the mention of Quidditch and his name, and Harry feels a small wave of relief. "Don’t be mean! Of course we practiced. James has been dragging me out for extra practices all summer. Says we need to beat Slytherin by a mile this year."

James grins, his eyes lighting up. "Of course we do! We’ll wipe the floor with them. No way I’m letting them take the Cup from us again."

For a few moments, the tension in the air eases as the conversation turns to Quidditch. Harry listens as James and Sirius discuss plays and strategy, and for a brief moment, he almost feels like things are normal.

But then, James brings up the House Cup.

"And when we take the House Cup this year," James says confidently, "it’s going to be because we’ve got you on our team, Harry. You’ll make a great Gryffindor."

Harry freezes. The knot in his stomach tightens as James looks at him with such certainty. He tries to smile, but it feels forced. "I haven’t been sorted yet, you know."

James waves it off, as if the idea is absurd. "All Potters are sorted into Gryffindor. You’ll be right there with us."

Sirius nods, smirking. "Yeah, it’s in the blood. "

Something sharp twists in Harry's chest at that. Before he can stop himself, he blurts, "Like all Blacks are sorted into Slytherin?"

The moment the words are out, Harry regrets it. He can see Sirius bristle, the easy grin slipping from his face.

Sirius narrows his eyes, looking slightly insulted. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"I didn’t mean it like that," Harry says quickly, holding up his hands. "I just—"

Before he can dig himself deeper, Harry takes a deep breath and looks at James. "What happens if I get sorted into... another house?"

The question lingers in the air for a moment, making James pause. He glances at Sirius, then back at Harry, and shrugs. "Well, if you get into Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, no big deal. You’ll be in another house, sure, but we’ll still hang out. We won’t be on the same Quidditch team, but we’ll make it work."

Harry feels the unspoken part of the answer weighing down the conversation—What if he gets sorted into Slytherin? James doesn’t even mention it, and Harry doesn’t press the issue. He doesn’t want to know what they’d say if the Sorting Hat put him there.

The train rumbles along, and for a while, the conversation dies down. Harry stares out the window, lost in thought. The weight of the Sorting feels heavier now, with James and Sirius’ expectations hanging over him. He feels caught between two worlds—between who he used to be and who he’s pretending to be. And though he’s surrounded by people who seem to care about him, there’s a sense of loneliness gnawing at him, like he’s a stranger in his own life.

As they approach Hogwarts, the grand castle looming in the distance, Harry’s heart races. The Sorting is just ahead, and with it, the question of where he truly belongs in this world.

The thestrals pull the carriages through the misty night, their bony wings beating steadily against the cold September air. Harry sits in silence, his thoughts spinning as the carriage rocks gently beneath him. The other three — James, Sirius, and Remus — chat animatedly, oblivious to the storm brewing inside Harry. He watches them, the laughter they share so effortlessly, and he feels like an outsider. An imposter.

The Sorting looms over him like a dark cloud, heavy and suffocating. He glances at the creatures pulling them, their skeletal forms visible only to those who have seen death. He remembers when he first saw them—how horrifying and surreal it had felt. Now, they seem almost... fitting. The shadows of things lost.

“Oi, Harry, you alright?” Sirius asks suddenly, nudging him with an elbow. “You’ve been awfully quiet since we got on the train.”

Harry forces a smile, nodding, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, just thinking.”

James grins. “Thinking about Gryffindor, I bet! Don’t worry, mate, the Hat won’t have a second thought. You’re one of us.”

His heart clenches painfully at that. One of us. But what if he isn’t? What if this new life, this world of the Potters and the Marauders, wasn’t meant for him? His hands tighten in his lap as doubt crawls through him like a slow poison.

By the time they reach the castle, Harry’s nerves are frayed. As they step out of the carriages and approach the castle’s towering doors, the weight of it all crashes down on him. James and Sirius head off toward the Great Hall with an excited wave, leaving Harry behind with Professor McGonagall.

He stands beside her in front of the doors, waiting for the first years to finish their Sorting. The hall buzzes with life, the sound of students chatting, the clatter of plates, and the occasional laughter drifting out toward them. It’s comforting and yet utterly terrifying. McGonagall’s stern face doesn’t betray much emotion, though there’s a faint kindness in her eyes as she looks down at Harry.

"You’ll be up shortly, Mr. Potter," she says quietly. "Stay calm. The Hat knows best."

Harry nods, his throat too dry to speak. He watches the line of first years as they file into the hall, the anticipation on their faces so innocent and eager. How he wishes he could feel that same lightness. Instead, his chest feels tight, every breath strained.

The Sorting drags on, each name called out and each House applauding or groaning with approval or disappointment. Finally, it’s his turn. McGonagall gently places a hand on his shoulder, guiding him through the double doors and toward the Hat.

The hall falls silent as Harry steps forward, all eyes on him. He can feel James and Sirius staring, waiting, expecting. His palms are clammy as he sits on the stool, the weight of the Sorting Hat settling over his head, almost too large for him.

“Ah... interesting,” the Hat whispers in his ear, its voice slow and thoughtful. “Very interesting indeed. Not where you’re supposed to be, are you?”

Harry swallows hard. Please, Gryffindor, he thinks desperately. Put me in Gryffindor.

The Hat hums thoughtfully. “You’d do well there, yes. But you’ve got something else inside you... something that belongs elsewhere. You have ambition, cunning, a thirst to prove yourself.”

No, Harry pleads silently. Please, not Slytherin. Anywhere but Slytherin.

The Hat chuckles softly, as if amused by his desperation. “You may wish for Gryffindor, but you don’t truly belong there.”

Before Harry can protest further, the Hat calls out its verdict, loud and clear for the entire hall to hear: “SLYTHERIN!”

The word echoes in the silence, and for a moment, Harry feels like the world has stopped. His heart sinks, his breath caught in his throat. He stares down at his lap, his mind reeling. Slytherin.

As he removes the Hat and stands, the hall erupts into applause from the Slytherin table, though it’s far from enthusiastic. The Gryffindor table, meanwhile, falls into a stunned hush. He forces himself to glance toward James and Sirius, and the look on their faces feels like a physical blow.

Betrayal.

James looks like someone’s just hit him in the gut, while Sirius’ mouth is set in a tight line, his eyes cold. Remus shifts uncomfortably in his seat, not meeting Harry’s gaze. Harry feels his heart twist painfully at their reactions. He had known they wouldn’t be pleased, but this... this is worse than he imagined. It’s like he’s suddenly a stranger to them.

He swallows down the knot in his throat and turns toward the Slytherin table, walking as if in a dream. The jeers and sneers from the other students sting, but Harry barely registers them. He’s too busy trying to keep his emotions in check. Don’t cry. Don’t let them see.

As he approaches the table, his eyes land on Regulus. To his surprise, Regulus doesn’t sneer or mock him like the others. Instead, he offers a slight nod, his face calm and composed.

“Harry,” Regulus says, his voice smooth and polite. “Come sit.”

Harry hesitates, then nods, relieved to have a familiar face to turn to. He slips into the seat next to Regulus, his heart still pounding. The rest of the Slytherins around them don’t seem pleased by his presence, their gazes filled with suspicion and disdain.

“This is Ellis Mulciber, Franklin Greengrass, Walter Flint, and Alvin Rosier,” Regulus introduces calmly, gesturing to the boys around them. They nod stiffly, though their expressions remain guarded.

“Welcome to Slytherin,” Rosier mutters, though it’s clear he isn’t particularly happy about it. None of them are.

Harry glances around, feeling like an intruder. He forces a weak smile, unsure of what to say. The weight of the room’s attention presses down on him, and the emotions swirling inside him threaten to overwhelm him. His eyes drift back to the Gryffindor table, where James and Sirius are still looking at him—James with disbelief, Sirius with something colder, more bitter.

And for the first time since he’s been in this strange new world, Harry feels truly, utterly alone.

***

The dormitory is eerily silent, the only sound being the occasional rustle of sheets or the low whistle of wind outside the castle walls. Harry lies still in his bed, his body rigid beneath the heavy green and silver blankets, but his mind is anything but calm. The events of the day swirl violently in his thoughts, but as sleep pulls him under, something darker takes hold.

The Triwizard Maze stretches out before him, dark and twisted, its hedges towering high and oppressive. Harry is running, his lungs burning, his heart racing as Cedric’s figure comes into view. Cedric, standing there, his face lit up in triumph. But it all changes in an instant—Voldemort's cold, high voice rings out, and the light in Cedric’s eyes fades, replaced by nothing but lifeless emptiness.

“Kill the spare.”

The words reverberate in Harry’s mind like a bell tolling for doom, and then Cedric is crumpling to the ground, his body hitting the dirt with a sickening thud. His wide, unseeing eyes stare up at Harry, who stands frozen, helpless, his wand slipping from his grasp.

It’s all his fault. All his fault.

Harry jolts awake with a strangled gasp, his breath coming in ragged bursts. His heart is hammering against his ribcage, and his skin is slick with cold sweat. The room around him is still cloaked in darkness, the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains barely illuminating the shadowed walls. His pulse pounds in his ears, the nightmare's hold on him still strong, refusing to let go.

"Harry," a voice calls softly from beside him.

He startles, eyes wide, as he turns to see Regulus standing by his bed, his brows furrowed with concern. The other boys are also awake, their faces etched with irritation and grogginess, muttering angrily from their own beds.

"Can't you have nightmares a little quieter, Potter?" Mulciber grumbles, his voice thick with sleep. "Some of us actually need to rest."

Flint echoes the sentiment with a disgruntled snort, pulling the covers over his head.

But Regulus remains standing, ignoring the complaints from the others. His posture is tense, uncertain. He looks at Harry with an intensity that makes Harry want to shrink back into the mattress, even though Regulus doesn't seem hostile—just... curious.

“You alright?” Regulus asks, his voice low, almost hesitant. “It sounded bad.”

Harry swallows hard, still trying to shake off the lingering terror from the dream. His throat is dry, his hands trembling as he wipes the cold sweat from his brow. "Yeah, just—just a nightmare."

Regulus’ gaze doesn’t waver. "You said a name. Cedric. Who is he?"

The question makes Harry's chest tighten. The image of Cedric's lifeless eyes flashes before him, more vivid than ever. He doesn’t want to talk about it—about any of it—but Regulus’ tone isn’t demanding, just softly probing.

“Cedric was... a friend,” Harry finally manages, his voice barely a whisper. He shifts uncomfortably under Regulus’ watchful gaze. “He was killed. A year and a half ago. Because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Regulus doesn’t press for more details, his face impassive, though there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of understanding, maybe, or sympathy. It’s hard to tell. Harry forces a tight, shaky breath through his lungs and quickly swings his legs over the side of the bed.

“I—I need to go,” Harry mutters, his voice cracking. “I need to clear my head.”

Without waiting for Regulus to respond, Harry rises and heads toward the bathroom. The cool stone floor bites at his bare feet as he stumbles toward the shower, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he turns on the tap. The water comes down in a frigid spray at first, shocking him, but it feels good—cleansing, in a way. Anything to wash away the remnants of the nightmare.

He stands there for what feels like an eternity, letting the cold water run over him, the sound of it drowning out the echoes of Cedric's death in his mind. His body begins to relax, but the tight knot in his chest doesn’t unravel. He can’t stop thinking about the look on James' and Sirius’ faces when the Sorting Hat had called out “Slytherin.” The disappointment. The betrayal.

And now, here he is—stuck in a dormitory with strangers who don’t want him here, trying to hide from a past that feels too heavy to carry alone.

After drying off and dressing, Harry doesn't return to the dormitory. Instead, he slips quietly out to the common room. The snake-themed décor wraps around him like a suffocating reminder of where he is, where the Sorting Hat decided he belongs. A large portrait of a snake on the wall watches him, its eyes narrowed in a cruel, calculating manner.

"Ill-bred half-blood bastard," the snake hisses in Parseltongue, its voice slithering through the room. "You don't belong here. Why don’t you crawl back to where you came from?"

Harry’s stomach twists, but he doesn’t respond, keeping his face impassive. He’s heard worse. He’s dealt with worse. But the portrait keeps going, taunting him with venomous words, each one striking at the raw emotions bubbling beneath the surface.

“Ignorant fool, sullying the House.”

He clenches his jaw, willing himself to stay silent. The snake’s voice continues to coil around him, trying to squeeze a reaction out of him.

After what feels like hours, the portrait finally falls silent, but Harry can still feel the sting of its words lingering. He sinks into a chair near the fireplace, staring into the crackling flames. The warmth does little to thaw the cold ache in his chest.

He doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night. Instead, he sits there in the quiet, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on him—the Potters, the Marauders, Cedric, Regulus, this unfamiliar house, and his own festering sense of isolation. The flames flicker softly in the dark room, but no warmth reaches his heart.

Notes:

Next chapter: Dumbledore’s true face

Chapter 11: Dumbledore’s true face

Harry makes his way back to the castle from the Owlery, the cold morning air biting at his skin as he walks through the winding corridors. He feels a little better after sending his letters home, though the ache from his restless night still weighs on him. It’s comforting to know that someone out there still cares. But deep down, the sting of the Sorting and the Marauders’ reactions hasn’t faded. Their betrayed looks, the way James and Sirius couldn’t even meet his eyes when the hat called out "Slytherin" — it lingers with a heaviness that refuses to lift.

As Harry approaches a flight of stairs, lost in his thoughts, something strange happens. He feels a sudden tug at his feet, the rug beneath him shifting unnaturally. His heart leaps into his throat as the ground gives way beneath him, and before he can catch himself, he’s falling.

He tumbles down the stone steps, pain exploding in his body as he crashes against the hard surface, his bones snapping under the impact. His arm twists awkwardly beneath him, and he feels a sharp crack in his ribs as his vision blurs. Distantly, through the haze of pain, he hears laughter—familiar, cruel laughter.

James’ laugh. Sirius. Pettigrew.

For a moment, Harry’s mind reels. It can’t be. But then, the laughter grows louder, unmistakable now. He knows that laugh anywhere—it’s burned into his memory from the Marauders’ antics, back when he thought of them as friends. But now, it’s twisted, mocking.

"Nice one, Prongs!" a voice—Sirius, no doubt—cackles from somewhere close by, though Harry can’t see them. Invisibility cloak, his mind supplies bitterly. Of course.

His body throbs with pain, every breath sending fresh waves of agony through his chest, but Harry forces himself to stay conscious. He can’t let them see how much it hurts. He won’t give them the satisfaction. His vision darkens, the world spinning around him as he fights to hold on, but his strength falters.

And then, everything goes black.

***

When Harry wakes, the sterile smell of the hospital wing is the first thing he registers. His body is stiff and sore, pain still radiating from his ribs and his arm. He blinks groggily, disoriented, and slowly realizes that Madam Pomfrey is standing over him, her face pinched with concern as she works to heal his injuries.

"Mr. Potter, you're awake," she mutters, not unkindly. "You've taken quite the fall. Several broken bones, not to mention a mild concussion. Lucky you weren’t hurt worse."

Harry doesn’t feel lucky. His body aches all over, and his mind is clouded with the memory of what happened. The Marauders. They did this to him. He tries to sit up, wincing at the sharp pain in his side, and Pomfrey places a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder.

"Stay still for a moment longer," she instructs. "Your bones are healing, but you’ll be sore for a while. What were you doing, falling down the stairs like that?"

Before Harry can respond, the door to the hospital wing opens, and Dumbledore strides in, his usual air of calm authority surrounding him. His eyes twinkle behind his half-moon glasses as he looks down at Harry, but something about his presence feels wrong. Off.

"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore says warmly, as though greeting a favorite student who’s had a minor mishap. "I see you’ve had a bit of an accident. Madam Pomfrey has been telling me all about it."

Harry’s heart pounds in his chest. He wants to tell Dumbledore what really happened, to make him see that this wasn’t just an accident—it was an attack. But the look in Dumbledore’s eyes makes him hesitate. The headmaster seems so… unconcerned.

"It wasn’t an accident," Harry says, his voice strained. "It was James. James and his friends—they tripped me. I think they used magic on the rug. I heard them laughing after I fell."

Dumbledore’s expression doesn’t change. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze soft but somehow distant, as though he’s not fully taking Harry’s words to heart. "Ah, James," he says with a small smile. "I see. Well, boys will be boys, won’t they?"

Harry blinks, feeling like he’s been slapped. "But they—"

Dumbledore raises a hand gently, cutting him off. "I’m sure it was just a harmless prank. James and his friends may be a bit… mischievous at times, but they wouldn’t have meant to cause you any real harm. There’s no need for punishment or point deductions. I daresay you’re exaggerating."

Harry stares at him, disbelief and anger flaring in his chest. Exaggerating? He can feel the pain in his bones, the bruises on his skin, the humiliation of being laughed at as he lay broken on the ground. How can Dumbledore dismiss it so easily?

"Harmless prank?" Harry repeats, his voice shaking with frustration. "They pushed me down the stairs. I could’ve—"

"Harry." Dumbledore’s tone remains gentle, but there’s an undercurrent of finality to it now, a dismissal. "I’ve known James and his friends for many years. They are good boys at heart. They may have misjudged the situation, but it was not done out of malice. You must understand that sometimes these things are… part of growing up."

It feels like a punch to the gut. This isn’t the Dumbledore Harry thought he knew. Or maybe… maybe it is. Maybe he’s just seeing the headmaster clearly for the first time. His mind flashes back to what Sirius had once told him about Snape—how James had humiliated him after their OWLs. How Dumbledore had looked the other way.

Harry’s chest tightens, the sharp edges of betrayal cutting deeper than any physical injury. He had always trusted Dumbledore, always believed in his fairness, his wisdom. But now… now that trust is unraveling, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

He realizes with a sickening certainty that Dumbledore isn’t going to help him. The headmaster isn’t going to protect him from the Marauders—because, in Dumbledore’s eyes, they can do no wrong.

The thought fills him with a cold, hollow emptiness. If Dumbledore won’t stand up for him, if even he is willing to excuse James’ behavior, then who will?

Seeing no other choice, Harry forces himself to nod, though the gesture feels like surrender. "Right. I guess it wasn’t that bad."

Dumbledore’s smile returns, warm and grandfatherly. "That’s the spirit, Harry. Let’s not dwell on such things. Focus on your studies, and everything else will fall into place."

But Harry knows better now. Nothing will fall into place—not on its own.

After Dumbledore leaves, Madam Pomfrey checks over him one last time before declaring him fit to go. "I’ll release you, Potter, but no more reckless behavior, understood?"

Harry mumbles a half-hearted agreement, the words slipping from his lips without much thought. He can hardly focus on her warning; the suffocating atmosphere of the hospital wing weighs heavily on him. He yearns to be free of the sterile smell of potions and the incessant ticking of the clock on the wall. Each second feels like an eternity, and he can’t stand the thought of being trapped there for another moment.

As he strides toward the dungeons, his mind whirls with a tempest of thoughts. The weight of impending dread settles on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. James and his friends aren’t going to stop their relentless teasing, not after this. Dumbledore, ever the enigmatic guardian, will likely turn a blind eye, leaving Harry to deal with it alone. If anything, their confidence will swell with the knowledge that they faced no consequences. A bitter sense of resolve hardens within him: if he wants this to end, he’ll have to take matters into his own hands.

His jaw clenches with determination, and he quickens his pace, his heart racing with a mixture of anger and fear. He doesn’t want to confront the reality of the situation, but he understands it now: he is utterly alone in this struggle.

When he reaches the Slytherin dormitory, he bursts through the door, grabbing his schoolbag with a sense of urgency. His eyes land on the charmed bracelet he once bought with James and Sirius—a token of friendship that now feels like a betrayal. Without a moment's hesitation, he tosses it into the trash.

With a pounding heart, Harry dashes through the stone corridors of the dungeons, each step echoing his racing thoughts. Time seems to slip through his fingers, and despite his frantic pace, he arrives a few minutes after the class has begun. The heavy oak door creaks ominously as he pushes it open, and all eyes turn to him in an instant.

Harry freezes, feeling the weight of their collective gaze pinning him in place. The classroom feels unnaturally silent, the air thick with disapproval. Professor Slughorn stands at the front, his brow furrowed and his expression one of disappointment, interrupting his lecture mid-sentence.

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” Slughorn says, his voice betraying a hint of irritation. “Late, I see.” The words slice through the tension like a blade, leaving Harry feeling exposed and vulnerable, a sudden chill washing over him.

Harry flushes, hating how small he feels under the scrutiny of the room. "Sorry, sir," he says quickly. "I was just released from the hospital wing. You can check with Madam Pomfrey if you—"

Slughorn frowns, his bushy mustache twitching slightly as he considers Harry’s words. "The hospital wing, you say?" His tone is doubtful, and though he doesn’t outright accuse Harry of lying, it’s clear he isn’t convinced.

Harry swallows, feeling a flicker of frustration. He could tell Slughorn the whole story—how James and his friends had attacked him—but what would be the point? Dumbledore had already brushed it off as nothing, and Harry had a sinking feeling Slughorn would do the same. So he says nothing, just waits for the inevitable.

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Slughorn finally waves his hand dismissively. "Very well, Mr. Potter. Take your seat. We’re working on the Draught of Living Death today. You’ll be working with a partner."

Harry’s shoulders relax slightly as the tension eases, but he still feels the weight of the class’s eyes on him as he scans the room for an open spot. His gaze lands on Regulus, who’s seated near the back, waving him over to the empty seat beside him.

Harry makes his way over, grateful for the reprieve. As he sits down, Regulus leans in, his voice quiet but calm. "Slughorn’s been going over the potion’s history. We’re starting the brewing process now. You can copy my notes later."

"Thanks," Harry murmurs, relieved that Regulus is willing to catch him up. He’s still adjusting to the strange new dynamic of being in Slytherin, but Regulus has been... well, not exactly warm, but not hostile either. For that, Harry is grateful.

As Slughorn finishes his lecture, the class moves to collect their ingredients. Harry and Regulus work together seamlessly, gathering everything they need and setting up their cauldron at their table. Harry’s mind flashes back to his sixth year—or rather, the sixth year he remembers—when he brewed this same potion. He can practically hear the Half-Blood Prince’s voice in his head, reminding him of the small tweaks that make all the difference in the Draught of Living Death.

Without thinking, Harry begins following those improved instructions, adjusting the slicing technique for the valerian root, stirring counterclockwise instead of clockwise at one particular step. Regulus watches him with quiet curiosity but doesn’t question it. They work in silence, but it’s a comfortable one, each of them falling into the rhythm of brewing.

As they reach the final stages, Harry feels a surge of satisfaction. The potion in their cauldron is a pale, shimmering lavender—the perfect color for the Draught of Living Death. He knows they’ve nailed it.

Slughorn makes his rounds, inspecting the various cauldrons. When he reaches their table, he peers into the potion with an impressed look. "Ah, very well done!" he exclaims, his gaze shifting to Regulus. "Exceptional work, Mr. Black! This is one of the finest Draughts I’ve seen from a student at your level."

Regulus nods in acknowledgment, his face calm and composed as always. But Harry feels a familiar pang of hurt as Slughorn’s praise washes over him without even a glance in his direction. It’s as though he isn’t even there.

Harry presses his lips together, forcing himself to stay quiet. He knows it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things—he and Regulus will get the same mark, and that’s what counts. But it stings, nonetheless. He had put just as much effort into the potion, had remembered the Half-Blood Prince’s improvements, had worked alongside Regulus to make it perfect. And yet… nothing.

He tells himself it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. But the ache in his chest doesn’t go away.

As Slughorn moves on to the next table, Regulus glances at Harry, his expression unreadable. "Good job," he says quietly, almost as if sensing Harry’s frustration. It’s not much, but the simple acknowledgment helps soothe some of the sting.

"Thanks," Harry mutters, offering a small smile in return. He doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, especially not in front of Regulus. Regulus has been the only one who’s shown him any kind of kindness since he arrived at Hogwarts, and the last thing Harry wants is to lose that. So, he swallows his frustration and focuses on cleaning up their workstation.

The rest of the class passes without incident, and by the time they finish, Harry is feeling a little more at ease. He and Regulus hand in their work and pack up their bags in silence, but it’s a comfortable silence once again. Harry is still processing everything—Dumbledore, James, the Sorting—but at least, for now, he has a small reprieve from the storm raging inside him.

As they leave the classroom, Regulus glances at him again. "You did well today," he says, his tone almost thoughtful.

Harry shrugs, though the compliment means more to him than he lets on. "Thanks. So did you."

They walk side by side down the corridor, the noise of the bustling students around them fading into the background.

Just as they turn a corner, Harry hears footsteps approaching from behind. He glances back and sees a small group of Slytherins catching up to them. Flint, Rosier, and Mulciber, three of Regulus’s dormmates, slow down as they reach them. The three boys exchange a look before falling into step beside Regulus and Harry.

"Regulus," Mulciber greets, his voice low and somewhat rough, but not unfriendly. His sharp eyes flick over Harry briefly, before settling back on Regulus. "So, next is Defense…"

"Yeah," Regulus responds with a curt nod, his tone steady.

Flint, walking on the other side, chuckles. "Hope we get some decent dueling today. Last year has been... disappointing." He says this as though dueling were more a form of entertainment than actual learning. "I wouldn’t mind seeing who’s worth their salt in this class."

Harry catches the edge of the comment but keeps his mouth shut, feeling suddenly out of place in this conversation. He’s used to talking about Defense as a subject to master, not as a means to prove yourself or show off.

Rosier, who has been silent until now, looks at Harry with mild interest, his gaze trailing over him with an unreadable expression. "What about you, Potter? Think you can hold your own in Defense?"

The question takes Harry by surprise, and for a second, he hesitates. Why do they care? They don’t like him, that much is clear. He can see it in their eyes—the guarded glances, the barely concealed sneers from earlier. So why are they asking him anything?

"I guess," Harry replies cautiously, trying to sound neutral. "I’ve had a bit of practice."

Regulus glances at him sideways, a faint smile touching his lips. "He’s good," he says simply, his voice quiet but with a hint of amusement. "Great-Uncle Charlus says he’d pass the NEWTS if he took them now."

That throws Harry for a loop. Regulus, complimenting him? Harry tries not to show his surprise, but it’s hard to mask the flicker of confusion that crosses his face. Why is Regulus vouching for him? And why aren’t the others sneering or making a sarcastic remark?

To his growing bewilderment, none of them say anything negative. Flint just raises an eyebrow, looking Harry up and down, but doesn’t make a comment. Mulciber, meanwhile, seems satisfied with Regulus’s word and shifts the topic back to the upcoming lesson, launching into a conversation about how the last Defense professor was too soft on the Gryffindors.

Harry walks in silence, listening but not contributing. His mind whirls with confusion. Why are they talking to him? They clearly don’t like him, he can feel it. The way they look at him—like he’s an outsider, like they’re measuring him against some unseen standard—it’s familiar in a way that makes his skin crawl. He had experienced this before, during his interactions with people like Draco Malfoy, when people spoke to him out of curiosity or ulterior motives. But here... they seem to be pretending. Including him, but just barely.

What are they playing at?

Harry glances at Regulus, who walks calmly beside him, completely at ease with the conversation and the company. Regulus doesn't seem to notice—or care—that the others are speaking more to him than Harry. But somehow, Regulus’s presence keeps the interaction from becoming outright hostile. Harry wonders what role Regulus plays in their dynamic, that his acceptance of Harry is enough to keep the others in check.

Still, the unease gnaws at him. He has spent years reading people, especially those who don’t have his best interests at heart. The Marauders may be pranksters, but at least they wear their hearts on their sleeves. The Slytherins are different—they hide their thoughts behind carefully constructed facades, and Harry can’t help but feel like he’s being tested, watched.

The group walks into the classroom, and Harry lingers by the door for a moment, watching as Flint, Rosier, and Mulciber settle into seats near the front. Regulus gestures for him to sit beside him again, and Harry follows, though his mind is still buzzing.

As he sits down, he can’t help but think that something is off. He’s no stranger to being an outsider, but the way these boys are treating him—like he’s only included because Regulus has given them the nod—leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. They don’t like him, that much is clear. But for now, they’re pretending. And Harry can’t quite figure out why.

Chapter 12: Isabella McConner

The Great Hall is abuzz with the usual morning energy—clattering of utensils, chatter, and the fluttering wings of owls delivering letters and packages. Harry sits at the Slytherin table, watching the owls swoop down. His gaze follows each one, almost expectantly, as they drop letters into eager hands. But no owl comes for him. His heart sinks a little further with each passing moment. By now, the Potters should have received his letters and written back. Days have passed, and yet there’s nothing. He picks at his breakfast absentmindedly, feeling a strange hollowness.

Around him, the Slytherins engage in their usual conversations, though Harry can’t shake the feeling of being watched. He’s been aware of their strange behavior toward him. They don’t like him, but they haven’t been outwardly hostile either. Instead, they treat him with a cautious sort of distance, as if they’re waiting for something. He’s learned to live with the strange atmosphere, setting up silencing charms around his bed every night so his nightmares don’t wake the others again. It’s an odd existence, one he’s still getting used to.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors of the Great Hall creak open, and the noise quiets just slightly as Dumbledore strides in, followed by Slughorn and a woman Harry doesn’t immediately recognize. She walks with a stiff posture, her eyes sharp and judgmental. Harry feels a strange tug of familiarity, but it isn’t until they draw closer—until he catches sight of her piercing green eyes, the same color as his and Lily’s—that recognition dawns. His blood runs cold.

Isabella McConner.

The woman who drugged Charlus, tried to ensnare him with a love potion, tried to—Harry clenches his jaw, anger bubbling up before he can suppress it. He isn’t surprised when they stop right in front of him.

McConner glares down at him, her face twisted with contempt. "Stop this nonsense, boy. Pack your things. We’re leaving. Now." Her tone is sharp, like she’s addressing a misbehaving child, not a teenager who just moments ago had been minding his own business.

Harry stares at her, his mind reeling, heart pounding. What? He’s too shocked to immediately reply. The audacity of her words leaves him speechless. He doesn't understand—why is she here? And why does she think she has any right to order him around?

McConner takes his silence as defiance. She crosses her arms and huffs. "You’ve caused enough trouble. Running away like a spoiled brat—because of you, we had to delay our return to America. You are coming with us now, and that’s final."

Dorea’s Obliviate mist have really hit her if she now thinks Harry is her son.

Harry’s shock gives way to fury. "I’m not stopping you and your husband from going back to America," he says coldly, voice steady despite the anger brewing inside him. "But I’m not going with you. You can go without me."

McConner's face tightens, her eyes narrowing into slits. Before she can retort, Dumbledore steps forward, his voice uncharacteristically firm. "Harry," he begins, his tone disappointingly paternal. "Isabella and her husband have been worried sick about you. How could you run away from your family like this? Do you not understand the pain you've caused?"

Harry stares at Dumbledore in disbelief. His voice trembles, more from betrayal than fear. "The Potters are my family."

McConner scoffs, cutting in, "How can you call them family? If they cared about you, they’d have written by now, wouldn’t they? But they haven’t. You’ve heard nothing from them."

Her words feel like a slap. A terrible, sickening déjà vu washes over Harry, the familiar knot tightening in his chest. This has happened before. The last time someone stole his letters—when Dobby tried to "protect" him by keeping him isolated. A fire ignites in him, burning through the confusion and the hurt. He rounds on McConner, his voice rising. "Where are my letters?"

McConner blinks, startled by his sudden change in tone. "What are you talking about?"

"You wouldn’t have known about the letters if you hadn’t been the one who took them," Harry accuses, his voice sharp. He can feel everyone at the Slytherin table watching, the weight of their attention pressing down on him, but he doesn’t care. The audacity of this woman—the nerve—after everything she’s done.

McConner’s face flushes with indignation. "I don’t know anything about your letters," she snaps, but the defensive edge to her voice betrays her.

"You’re lying," Harry says, his voice low but steady. He steps back, his body tense, fighting the urge to lash out physically. "Give them back."

McConner’s eyes flicker with frustration. She moves to grab Harry’s shoulder, but he slaps her hand away instinctively. The contact is brief, but it shocks both of them.

"Don’t touch me," Harry warns, his voice shaking with suppressed anger. His chest tightens with the weight of everything—his missing letters, this woman’s intrusion into his life, and the betrayal he feels from Dumbledore, standing there, watching but not intervening.

"You have no right to drag me anywhere," Harry continues, his tone more resolute now. "I’m not going with you. I remember what the Potters told me—I’m staying here. And if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll inform Charlus that you’re trying to kidnap me. And stealing my letters? That won’t go without consequences."

McConner flushes a deeper red, her fury barely contained. Her lips curl in disgust as she turns on her heel and storms out of the Great Hall, her footsteps echoing in the sudden silence.

Dumbledore remains, his expression one of deep disappointment.

Dumbledore remains, his expression one of deep disappointment. "Harry," he begins, his voice tinged with reproach. "There was no need to escalate the situation."

"She tried to kidnap me," Harry mutters, his voice hard. But Dumbledore doesn’t respond, only giving him that same disapproving look that twists Harry’s insides.

Slughorn, who has remained silent throughout the ordeal, still says nothing as he watches Harry. The silence of the Slytherin table hangs in the air, thick and heavy.

Without another word, Harry grabs his things, standing tall as he walks out of the Great Hall. His legs feel like they could give out at any moment, but he refuses to let it show. He won’t give them the satisfaction. He won’t let them see just how deeply this has cut him.

Harry storms up the stairs to the owlery, the letter in his pocket weighing heavily on his mind. His thoughts are a mess, tangled with anger, betrayal, and hurt. The scene with McConner, Dumbledore’s indifference, it’s all swirling around in his head, making it hard to think straight. As he reaches the cold, drafty tower, he pulls out the letter he’s written to the Potters, his hands trembling slightly.

He feels a deep need to tell them everything—about McConner’s attempt to drag him away, about Dumbledore siding with her. He hopes they can make sense of this chaos, hopes they will respond with the warmth and understanding he so desperately needs.

Harry grabs a school owl, tying the letter to its leg with shaky fingers. He pauses just as he’s about to send it off, a wave of uncertainty washing over him. What if it gets intercepted? What if McConner’s people are still watching? What if they take the letter before it reaches the Potters?

He swallows hard, second-guessing himself. After a moment’s hesitation, Harry pulls the letter from the owl’s leg and calls out in a whisper, "Mippy."

There’s a soft pop, and Mippy, the Potters’ house-elf, appears before him, her big eyes lighting up as she sees him. "Master Harry! Mippy is so happy to see you!"

Harry offers a weak smile, his heart easing just a bit at the sight of the familiar elf. "Hey, Mippy. I need you to take this to the Potters. Can you deliver it directly to them?"

Mippy’s eyes widen with excitement. "Yes, Master Harry! Mippy will take it to Master Charlus and Mistress Dorea right away!" She holds out her tiny hand, and Harry carefully places the letter into her palm.

"Thank you," Harry says, his voice soft. "It’s really important."

"Mippy will go now!" she declares with enthusiasm before disappearing with another soft pop.

The owlery feels even colder once Mippy is gone. Harry takes a deep breath, running his hand through his hair as he tries to calm his nerves. He starts making his way back to the dungeons, his thoughts still racing. What if the Potters don’t believe him? He can’t bear the idea that McConner might succeed in driving a wedge between him and the people who have shown him the most kindness in this life.

As he reaches the Slytherin common room, the low murmur of conversation greets him. He pays little attention to it at first, walking toward the dorms, but something catches his ear—a name. His name. He slows down, listening more closely. It’s Regulus’ voice, talking quietly to someone—Rosier, from the sound of it.

"…he's been abused by McConner. That woman… it was bad enough that Harry couldn’t take it anymore. He ran away and took his chances with Charlus Potter instead."

Harry freezes, his heart pounding in his chest. Regulus is talking about him. About his past, his pain—things he never shared with anyone here. It doesn’t matter they’re not true, just a cover made p by the Potters. Regulus had no right! Anger flares hot and sudden in Harry’s chest, searing through the hurt and confusion. How dare he?

Without thinking, Harry strides toward them, his fists clenched at his sides. His voice is sharp when he speaks. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Both Regulus and Rosier look up, startled by Harry’s sudden appearance. Regulus’ face tightens, guilt flickering across his expression, but he quickly masks it with indifference.

"I was just talking—"

"About me!" Harry cuts him off, his voice trembling with barely restrained fury. "You had no right to tell anyone about that. That’s not your story to share!"

Regulus stands up, his calm demeanor faltering under Harry’s intense glare. "I was only telling Alvin because—"

Harry’s voice trembles with fury, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. “I don’t care!” he snaps, the words ripping out of him, raw and bitter. “It wasn’t your business to tell him, or anyone!”

Regulus steps forward, his tone softening as if he’s trying to calm Harry down. “Harry, I didn’t mean any harm,” he begins, his voice low, almost pleading. “I was just—”

“No, Regulus!” Harry cuts him off, his voice cracking with emotion. He feels something fragile inside him shatter, his hurt spilling out uncontrollably. “You don’t get to decide what’s harmless! You don’t get to share something so personal, like it’s just some... some piece of gossip!”

His breath catches, and Harry’s eyes sting with the threat of tears he refuses to let fall. His chest feels tight, the weight of betrayal pressing down on him, suffocating him. The tension between them is almost unbearable, thickening the air as if the walls themselves are closing in.

Rosier, standing nearby, looks down awkwardly, his eyes shifting between Harry and Regulus. He clearly doesn’t want to be part of this, but he doesn’t leave either, and that only makes Harry angrier.

Regulus narrows his eyes, and something shifts in his expression—his previous concern melting into coldness. “I was trying to defend you, Harry,” Regulus says sharply, folding his arms across his chest. “You’ve been through a lot, and people should know the truth. I thought you would understand that.”

“Understand?” Harry’s voice rises, shaking now with disbelief and pain. He feels like he’s been hit, blindsided by the one person he thought might actually get it. “Understand that you’re going behind my back, telling people I barely even know about the worst parts of my life? How is that defending me?”

Regulus exhales sharply, his patience clearly wearing thin. “You’re overreacting,” he says coolly, as if Harry’s outburst is just a minor inconvenience.

Harry’s heart clenches at those words, and the hurt surges up inside him, overwhelming him. “Overreacting?” he echoes, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “Maybe you think this isn’t a big deal because you’ve never had to live like I have. Maybe you don’t understand what it’s like to trust someone only to have them rip your life open and spill it out for everyone to see. But that doesn’t give you the right to talk about something you don’t know! It’s not your story to tell, Regulus!”

His voice cracks at the end, and Harry feels the burning sting of tears in his eyes. He turns his face away, swallowing the lump in his throat. He refuses to let Regulus, or anyone, see how much this is affecting him.

Regulus’ face hardens, and the warmth that was once there, the quiet understanding, is replaced by something colder, more distant. “I was trying to help,” Regulus says quietly, his voice now filled with frustration. “I thought if people knew what you went through, they might actually respect you. I thought you’d appreciate that.”

“Respect me?” Harry lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “You think people will respect me if they hear about how broken I am? Is that what you think?”

Regulus steps closer, his voice lowering to a hiss. “You’re not broken, Harry. Stop acting like you’re some tragic figure.”

Harry’s breath catches, his chest tightening painfully. “You don’t get it,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll never get it. You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything… to lose everyone.”

There’s a long, tense silence. Regulus’ jaw tightens, his expression a mix of frustration and something else Harry can’t quite place—guilt, maybe. But it’s too late for apologies, too late for anything. Harry feels raw, exposed in a way that makes him want to disappear, to shrink into himself and never be seen again.

“I trusted you,” Harry whispers, his voice breaking. “I thought you—”

“You thought what?” Regulus snaps, his frustration finally boiling over. “That I’d never make a mistake? That I’d just sit here and watch you destroy yourself without saying anything? I was trying to help, Harry!”

“Well, you didn’t help!” Harry shouts, his emotions spiraling out of control again. “You made it worse! You took something that wasn’t yours to share and now—”

“Now what?” Regulus cuts him off, his voice sharp. “Now people know you’re not just some random kid who got lucky being raised by the Potters? Now they know you actually have a past, a reason for being here? That you’re not some pampered little—”

“Stop!” Harry yells, his voice shaking with fury. “Stop pretending like you’re doing this for me. You’re not. You’re doing this because you want to control everything around you. Well, I’m not something you can control, Regulus!”

Regulus’ face flushes with anger, and for a moment, neither of them speaks. The common room seems eerily silent, save for the rapid, shallow breaths Harry can’t control.

“I thought we were friends,” Harry says finally, his voice small, pained. “I thought I could trust you.”

The words hang in the air, and Harry sees a flicker of something—regret, maybe—in Regulus’ eyes, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared. Regulus steps back, his expression hardening once again.

“Fine,” Regulus says, his voice cold. “If that’s how you feel.”

Harry stares at him for a moment, feeling the full weight of that final word—fine—like a door being slammed shut in his face. His heart sinks, and the fragile trust he had in Regulus shatters completely, leaving nothing but jagged pieces behind.

Without another word, Harry turns on his heel, his body tense and trembling with a mix of anger and sadness. He walks away, feeling a hollow ache in his chest that doesn’t ease, no matter how many steps he takes.

As he reaches the door, he hears Rosier mutter something under his breath to Regulus, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s too exhausted, too drained to deal with any of this anymore. He just wants to be alone, away from everyone and everything.

He walks out of the common room, the cold air of the dungeons chilling him to the bone, but it’s nothing compared to the coldness he feels inside.

Chapter 13: Scars and blood quills

The next morning, Harry wakes with a start, his heart racing as he realizes the sun is already higher in the sky than it should be. He groans, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as the reality sinks in: he’s overslept.

"Great," he mutters, voice thick with frustration as he throws the blankets off and scrambles to get dressed. His movements are frantic, yanking his robes on while his thoughts swirl with everything that’s been going wrong lately. He can still feel the sting of his fight with Regulus, the weight of his classmates' constant sneers, and the growing pressure of navigating this strange, twisted version of his world.

Once dressed, Harry turns to his desk to grab his quill and ink. But as his hand reaches for them, he pauses. They’re gone. He searches the clutter of parchment and books, pushing things aside, but the inkpot and quill are nowhere to be found.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," he mutters, his pulse quickening with annoyance. He opens his trunk to check inside, even though he knows they weren’t packed there. It’s useless. Someone must have stolen them during the night. His mind flashes to his suitcase. It has anti-theft charms on it. They hadn’t touched it, but he hadn’t thought to protect something as simple as his quill and ink.

Harry curses under his breath, fists clenching at his sides. He doesn’t have time for this. Not now. He’s already running late, and if he doesn’t leave immediately, he’ll be late for Potions, which is the last thing he needs. Slughorn won’t be sympathetic to tardiness, especially not from him.

Pushing down the frustration bubbling inside him, Harry grabs his bag and bolts out of the dormitory, rushing down the dungeon’s winding corridors. His footsteps echo through the cold stone halls, and his mind races, replaying all the things that have gone wrong in the past few days. It feels like everything is slipping out of his control, and no matter how hard he tries to hold on, he keeps falling.

By the time he bursts into the Potions classroom, Harry is panting, his heart pounding in his chest. He looks around, and immediately, his stomach drops. The seat next to Regulus, where he usually sits, is taken by Rosier. The smirk on Rosier's face is unmistakable, a silent taunt that says You’re not welcome here anymore.

Harry stands there for a moment, uncertain, until Slughorn’s irritated voice snaps him out of it. “Mr. Potter, do you plan on standing there all day? Sit down.”

Embarrassment heats Harry’s face as the class turns to look at him. He has no choice but to take the only empty seat — in the front, where every eye in the room feels like it's burning into his back. Sitting down, he grits his teeth, trying to ignore the murmurs behind him.

Slughorn begins his lecture on the Elixir of Euphoria, a potion that causes the drinker to forget their worries for a few hours, and Harry pulls out his supplies. He doesn’t have his own quill or ink, so he can’t write anything down. As he sets up his cauldron and ingredients, he hears the soft, malicious whispers behind him.

“Potter’s fallen far, hasn’t he?”

“He doesn’t belong here. Filthy half-blood.”

Harry tries to focus on brewing the assigned potion, but his Slytherin classmates have other plans. As Slughorn’s back is turned, someone whispers something in the row behind him, followed by snickering. A few minutes later, Harry feels something sharp hit the back of his head. He reaches up, only to find a crumpled piece of parchment that had been thrown at him.

He clenches his fists, staring down at the cauldron in front of him. Don’t react, he tells himself. Just ignore them. But it doesn’t stop. They continue to mutter insults under their breath — “Halfblood bastard," "He’s practically a mudblood," ” — each word hitting him like a slap to the face.

When someone flicks a stinging hex at him, the burning sensation spreads across his skin. He winces, trying to hide it, but his patience is wearing thin. He’s on the edge of snapping, of turning around and hexing the lot of them, but he forces himself to hold back. What would it accomplish? Except losign house points and getting him detention? No one would believe him anyway. Not Slughorn, not Dumbledore, and certainly not McGonagall. He’s seen how Dumbledore dismissed his concerns before, brushing them off as overreactions. And Slughorn? The man looks at him with barely concealed disapproval, especially after the ruined potion that now simmers in front of him.

As Harry stirs the potion, he sees something fly past the corner of his eye. A small object, maybe a beetle or a root, lands in his cauldron, sinking to the bottom. Harry curses silently as his potion begins to bubble and hiss, turning a sickly green color.

Slughorn walks over, frowning deeply as he peers into the cauldron. "What is this, Potter?" he asks, his voice thick with disapproval. “This isn’t anywhere near acceptable.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest, to explain that it wasn’t his fault, that someone sabotaged him. But he can feel the weight of Slughorn’s gaze, the skepticism in the air. Instead, he swallows back the words, his throat tightening with the injustice of it all. “Sorry, sir,” he mutters.

Slughorn shakes his head, clearly disappointed, before moving on to the next table. Harry’s heart sinks as he slumps back in his seat.

When the class finally ends, Harry is the first to pack up and leave, not even bothering to look at Regulus or Rosier as he rushes out. His chest feels tight, like he’s about to explode with all the frustration and anger that’s been building up over the past few days. He heads for the Great Hall for lunch, but halfway there, he changes his mind. He doesn’t want to sit with the Slytherins, endure more of their mocking or their thinly veiled contempt.

Instead, Harry makes his way to the kitchens. As soon as he enters, the warmth and familiar smells of bread and soup greet him, and the house-elves rush over with smiles on their faces.

“Mister Potter! What can we do for you today?” one of them asks, beaming up at him.

“Just some food, please,” Harry says, his voice softer than usual. He’s too tired to muster much else. The exhaustion weighs on him, the constant pressure of keeping it together wearing him down.

The house-elves quickly prepare a plate of food for him, and Harry takes it to a small corner of the kitchen, sitting down at a wooden table. As he eats, the warmth of the food helps soothe the gnawing ache in his stomach, but the weight of everything else doesn’t lift. He feels like a stranger in this world, a foreigner in a place that’s supposed to feel like home.

For the first time in a long while, Harry allows himself to feel the isolation that’s been creeping up on him since the day he arrived. The Potters haven’t written back, the Slytherins have turned against him, and his former friends... James, Sirius, and even Remus feel like enemies now. The sense of abandonment is suffocating, and Harry can’t shake the overwhelming loneliness that settles over him like a cold fog.

Sighing, he puts down his fork and leans back, staring at the stone ceiling of the kitchen. There’s no one here he can truly trust. No one who understands what he’s going through.

***

After dinner, the atmosphere in the Slytherin common room feels heavy and oppressive. Harry feels it the moment he steps inside, the usual dim lighting and cold stone walls only amplifying the unease twisting in his gut. His senses are on high alert—there’s a feeling in the air, something darker, something lurking. Regulus and Rosier are nowhere to be seen, which makes Harry’s stomach churn even more. He feels exposed, vulnerable. Alone.

Just as he starts heading toward the stairs, a group of boys steps into his path, blocking his way. Mulciber and Flint, their faces twisted into cruel smirks, stand in the center, flanked by a few older Slytherins. One of them is Severus Snape, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed, his dark eyes glinting with malice. Harry feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he realizes he’s cornered.

“Well, well, well,” Mulciber sneers, stepping forward. His voice drips with mockery. “If it isn’t the almost-Mudblood himself.”

Flint chuckles darkly, his voice low. “A half-blood, Potter. A bastard half-blood. You’re not even good enough to be here.”

Harry stiffens, trying to keep his expression neutral, but the words sting. He’s heard worse, he tells himself, but that doesn’t stop the anger rising in his chest. His fists clench at his sides, but he doesn’t react. He’s not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him break.

Mulciber steps even closer, his breath hot on Harry’s face. “What’s wrong, Potter? No witty comeback? No clever little retort? Or are you just going to stand there and take it like the good little half-blood you are?”

The others laugh, a cold, cruel sound that echoes off the stone walls. Harry’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing. He keeps his gaze fixed on Mulciber, refusing to be intimidated, even as his pulse quickens.

“You’re nothing,” Flint says, his voice laced with contempt. “A disgrace to the name Potter. They should’ve left you to rot in whatever filthy Muggle hole you crawled out of.”

Harry’s blood boils, but he bites his tongue. The old Harry would have fought back, but he knows that’s what they want. They want to see him lose control, to lash out. Instead, he forces himself to stay silent, his eyes burning with restrained fury.

Mulciber snickers, clearly enjoying Harry’s restraint. “Oh, and speaking of disgraceful,” he says, reaching into his robe. “I heard you’ve been having some... trouble lately. Lost something important, didn’t you?”

Harry’s stomach drops as he watches Mulciber pull something from his pocket. It’s a quill. But not just any quill.

A blood quill.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat as the memories of his time with Umbridge come rushing back—the sharp pain, the words carving themselves into his skin. His heart pounds, but outwardly, he keeps his expression as calm as possible.

“You’ll need this to do your homework, Potter,” Mulciber says with a sickening grin, holding the blood quill out toward him. “Wouldn’t want to fall behind now, would you? After all, we wouldn’t want you to fail your exams at the end of the year. Not that you’re smart enough to pass them on your own.”

The others snicker again, their laughter a harsh sound that grates against Harry’s ears. Snape’s eyes flicker with something dark and unreadable, but he stays silent, watching the scene unfold with a faint, twisted amusement.

Harry stares at the quill, his chest tightening with fury and something deeper—something colder. The last time he used one of these, he had been a scared fifteen-year-old boy, trapped under Umbridge’s sadistic power. But not anymore. He survived her. He can survive this.

“I don’t need your help,” Harry says, his voice cold and steady. He refuses to show any fear, refuses to let them see how much this is affecting him.

“Oh, but you do,” Flint says mockingly, stepping closer. “You’re too stupid to make it through this school without a little... guidance. So, we’re going to help you.”

Harry feels a tremor of anger ripple through him, but he doesn’t flinch. He won’t give them the satisfaction.

“Take the quill, Potter,” Mulciber presses, his voice dangerously soft. “Or we’ll make sure you regret it.”

Harry’s heart pounds in his ears. He  reaches for the quill. He knows what they’re trying to do—break him, humiliate him, make him feel powerless. But he won’t let them. Not this time. Not ever again.

“Do your worst,” Harry says, his voice a quiet challenge.

There’s a moment of tense silence, and for a split second, Mulciber’s smirk falters. He hadn’t expected Harry to stand his ground, hadn’t expected him to refuse so calmly. But then Mulciber’s grin returns, even more vicious than before.

“Oh, we will,” he promises, slipping the blood quill back into his robe with a sinister smile. “You just wait.”

Harry turns on his heel and walks away, his heart still racing. Every fiber of his being wants to lash out, to hex Mulciber and Flint and the others into oblivion, but he knows better. It won’t solve anything. They’re baiting him, trying to get him to react, trying to make him crumble. And as much as the anger burns inside him, Harry won’t give them that satisfaction.

He’s survived worse than this. He survived Voldemort, survived Umbridge, survived every dark force thrown his way. He’ll survive this too. Just watch him.

As he leaves the common room, he hears their laughter echoing behind him, but he doesn’t look back. His jaw is set, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turn white. He may be alone, he may be in enemy territory, but he won’t break. Not for them.

Not for anyone.

***

Harry sits at his desk, staring at the blank piece of parchment. His eyes flicker to the wand in his hand, frustration building in his chest. He’s been trying for hours to transfigure a quill and ink, but every attempt has failed. His desk is littered with misshapen objects—sticks that had turned into something vaguely resembling quills, but nothing usable. The ink, on the other hand, has been impossible. He’s managed small pools of liquid, but they evaporate before he can even attempt to dip the quill in.

The frustration grows with each failed attempt, his hands shaking as he grips his wand tightly. He grits his teeth, willing the transfiguration to work, but once again, the ink he conjures disintegrates into nothing. A quiet curse escapes his lips. The anger and helplessness swirl inside him, thickening with every passing minute. How can something so simple be so impossible?

His eyes flick to the blood quill sitting on his desk, gleaming under the low light. The sight of it makes his stomach churn, but it’s late—too late to try anything else. He’s run out of time.

With a resigned sigh, Harry picks up the blood quill. His hand trembles as he presses it to the parchment, knowing exactly what it will do. The sharp, familiar sting slices through his skin as he writes, the words engraving themselves into the back of his hand with each letter. Pain pulses through him, a cold reminder of the cruelty tied to this cursed quill.

But he doesn’t stop.

The words flow onto the parchment, each stroke of the quill carving deeper into his hand. His jaw clenches, determined not to let the pain show, not even to himself. It’s the same pain he endured under Umbridge’s watchful eye, but this time, it’s somehow worse—because he’s choosing it. Because he has no other choice.

By the time he finishes, his left hand is throbbing, the skin red and raw. He pulls out his wand, casting the color-changing charm Hermione had taught him on the finished homework. His pulse quickens as the ink slowly morphs from blood-red to the standard black. Relief washes over him. At least no one will see the real cost of what he’s done.

As the charm takes effect, Harry slumps back in his chair, exhaustion creeping in. His hand stings like fire, and though he’s learned healing charms from Euphemia, they can only do so much. He mutters one under his breath, watching as the skin on his hand knits together slightly, but the marks are still there—faint, but enough to remind him.

He leans back, his mind spinning. He can’t keep doing this. He won’t. He needs proper supplies. With that thought, he quickly drafts a letter to one of the shops in Hogsmeade, ordering a set of quills and ink with anti-theft charms. He folds the letter, resolving to send it before breakfast tomorrow.

Chapter 14: Salazar Slytherin

A week passes, and Harry’s order never arrives. Every day, he checks with the owls, hoping for the familiar sight of his package, but there’s nothing. No writing supplies. No response from the Potters, either. His frustration mounts with each passing day, the feeling of isolation creeping deeper into his bones.

Is someone still intercepting his mail? Is it McConner, or maybe even Dumbledore? The thought gnaws at him. Every letter, every piece of parchment feels out of reach, like he’s cut off from the world he once trusted.

His left hand aches constantly now, the scars from the blood quill refusing to fade. They’re an ugly reminder of what he’s had to endure, day after day. The healing charms Euphemia taught him help, but they don’t erase the pain or heal it entirely. He winces every time he has to write, but he doesn’t show it. He won’t let anyone see just how much it’s wearing him down.

Weeks go by, and despite his best efforts, Harry still hasn’t mastered the transfiguration of ink. The quill he’s managed, but the ink remains elusive, slipping through his fingers like water. He’s growing desperate, the thought of using the blood quill again filling him with dread.

One afternoon, while passing through the library, he spots a familiar figure sitting in a quiet corner. Remus Lupin. Alone.

For a moment, Harry hesitates, his mind racing. The other Marauders aren’t anywhere in sight. This might be his only chance. His heart pounds as he makes a split-second decision, walking over to where Remus sits, his head buried in a book on human transfiguration.

“Remus?” Harry’s voice is cautious, careful.

Remus looks up, his brow furrowing in mild surprise. “Harry?”

“Could I… could I borrow some ink?” Harry asks, forcing himself to sound casual, like it’s no big deal. “I forgot mine in the dorm.”

There’s a pause, but then Remus shrugs, his expression softening. He gestures to the empty seat across from him, sliding his ink bottle across the table without question. “Sure, no problem.”

Gratitude floods through Harry as he sits down, carefully uncapping the ink and dipping his quill into it. He starts on his homework, focusing on the familiar motions of writing, the relief of using regular ink instead of the cursed quill easing some of the tension in his chest.

For the first time in weeks, Harry allows himself to breathe, the weight of everything momentarily lifting as he works in the quiet company of Remus. But even as he writes, a bitter thought lingers in the back of his mind: how long can he keep up this charade? How long before everything crumbles again?

****

Harry’s mind is trapped in the nightmare again. Darkness surrounds him, the cold, suffocating presence of Voldemort closing in. Harry watches helplessly as Cedric stands before the Dark Lord, his face full of trust and confusion, his wand raised, unaware of what is about to happen.

"Kill the spare."

The words slice through the air like a curse, and before Harry can shout, before he can move, green light erupts from Voldemort's wand, crashing into Cedric. His body crumples, lifeless, his eyes wide open in a hollow, empty stare. Harry’s heart pounds in his chest as he tries to run toward Cedric, but his legs feel like lead, frozen in place as the scene plays out in slow motion.

Suddenly, the scene shifts.

Cedric’s face melts away, warping into someone else’s. His hair darkens, his expression hardens. It’s no longer Cedric lying dead on the cold ground—it's Regulus. His friend, the only person who had been kind to him in Slytherin, even if only for a short while. Harry’s breath catches in his throat as he sees the fear frozen in Regulus’ lifeless eyes, the same green light flickering around him.

"No," Harry whispers, his voice cracking, his body trembling with shock and guilt. "Not him. Please, not him."

But Voldemort turns to face Harry, his cold, high-pitched laugh echoing through the darkness. The Dark Lord’s eyes gleam with malice as he lifts his wand again, aiming straight at Harry.

"Avada Kedavra."

Harry jolts awake with a gasp, his chest heaving, his body drenched in cold sweat. His hands clutch the blanket, his heart racing as though it’s trying to escape from his chest. He sits there for a moment, breathing hard, trying to shake off the lingering tendrils of the nightmare.

Cedric. Regulus. The two faces blur together in his mind, and the weight of helplessness presses down on him like a suffocating blanket. It’s too much—everything is too much.

Glancing around, Harry notices that his silencing charm held, and the rest of the dorm is still asleep, blissfully unaware of his struggle. He lets out a long, shaky breath, grateful that at least he hadn’t disturbed anyone this time. He can’t deal with their questions, not tonight. Not after that.

Harry slides out of bed quietly, his body trembling slightly from the lingering shock of the dream. He grabs his towel and heads for the showers, needing to wash away the cold sweat that clings to his skin, hoping the warm water will soothe the tension in his muscles.

Under the spray, Harry closes his eyes, letting the water cascade over him, but it does little to ease the growing ache in his chest. He scrubs at his skin as though he can cleanse away the images burned into his mind—Cedric's death, Regulus’ lifeless body. Voldemort’s laugh echoes in his ears, and Harry shudders, feeling as though he’s sinking deeper into despair.

He stays under the water longer than usual, reluctant to face the night, but eventually, he dresses and makes his way back to the common room, feeling the weight of exhaustion pull at him. His mind still isn’t fully awake, thoughts muddled with the remnants of the nightmare. The ache in his hand throbs, a constant reminder of everything pressing down on him. Sleep is no longer an option, so he trudges down the dim corridor toward the Slytherin common room, hoping the solitude might help him gather his thoughts.

The moment he steps through the entrance, the portrait of the snake stirs. It’s been an ever-present fixture, one that Harry has come to despise. Since his first night in the Slytherin dormitory, it had mocked him every time he passed, hurling insults that cut deeper than Harry would ever admit.

"Back again, you ignorant half-blood bastard?" the snake hisses, its voice dripping with disdain. "Thinking you belong here, do you? You should have never been allowed within these walls."

Harry stops in his tracks, the weight of the nightmare still fresh in his mind. Normally, he would have ignored it, pressed on, pretending it didn’t get to him. But tonight, he’s too tired. Too raw.

The snake continues its sneering, seemingly sensing Harry’s vulnerability. "How pathetic you are, thinking you could ever be one of them. They’ll never accept you, boy."

Something inside Harry snaps.

"Shut up," he mutters, clenching his fists. The dull pain in his left hand only fuels the growing frustration inside him.

The snake doesn’t stop. "Look at you, thinking you can stand against them. But you’re weak. You’re nothing. Go home."

Harry’s patience shatters like glass. Without thinking, he whirls around to face the portrait, his voice coming out in a furious hiss, the words rolling off his tongue in Parseltongue. "Fucking shut up!"

Silence.

The hissing stops instantly, the room plunging into an eerie quiet. For a brief moment, Harry wonders if he’s shocked the snake into silence. But then something strange happens. The portrait seems to shift, the serpent’s body shimmering before it starts to morph, transforming into a figure that catches Harry off guard.

The snake vanishes, and in its place stands a tall, regal-looking man dressed in ancient robes. His face is sharp and angular, his green eyes piercing as they bore into Harry. The man’s presence fills the room with an overwhelming sense of authority and power.

Harry blinks, his heart racing. The man looks familiar, but it takes a moment for the pieces to fall into place. Then, it hits him. He remembers this face from the Chamber of Secrets—carved into the walls, towering over him as he battled the basilisk.

Salazar Slytherin.

The realization leaves Harry breathless, his mind struggling to comprehend what’s happening. Slytherin’s image stands before him, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny as though he’s judging Harry, evaluating him.

"You," Salazar’s voice is low, filled with a cold curiosity, "speak the language of serpents?" His gaze flickers with interest, as if Harry is a puzzle he’s just begun to figure out. "Who are your parents, boy?"

Harry—tired, sore, and on the verge of collapse—feels his temper flare again. He’s been insulted for weeks, belittled by a painting, of all things. Now, after everything, after enduring nightmares, whispers behind his back, and feeling utterly alone in this house, this portrait has the nerve to interrogate him?

He glares at the figure, refusing to bow to it, even if it’s a portrait of Salazar Slytherin himself. His fists clench at his sides, and his voice comes out harsher than he intended, every bit of frustration spilling out in his words.

"None of your bloody business!" Harry snaps, his emerald eyes blazing with anger. "You’ve spent weeks insulting me, calling me names, and now you want to ask about my parents? Why should I tell you anything?"

Slytherin’s image narrows its eyes, the cold amusement flickering in his expression fading into something more serious, perhaps even offended. But Harry doesn’t care. He’s had enough.

“Who my parents are doesn’t concern you,” Harry snaps, his voice shaking with a mix of fury and exhaustion. “I don’t owe you or anyone here any explanations. So stop pretending like you give a damn.”

The portrait’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, the room is deathly silent. The weight of Slytherin’s gaze is oppressive, pressing down on Harry, but he stands his ground. He’s tired—tired of being judged and scrutinized by everyone around him.

Slytherin’s expression shifts, a flicker of something unfamiliar crossing his face. “You’re my descendant,” he says, surprise edging his usually cold tone.

Harry feels his breath hitch but keeps his voice firm. “I’m aware,” he replies, his frustration barely contained.

Slytherin’s surprise quickly morphs into anger. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands, his voice sharp.

“Why should I?” Harry shoots back, anger flaring. “You’ve made it perfectly clear what you think of me. Why should I share anything with you?”

Slytherin’s fury flickers and fades, his tone becoming more measured, calculating. “That was before. Before I knew you were of my bloodline.”

Harry’s temper flares, the sting of hypocrisy clear as day. “So now that you know, you suddenly care?” he spits. “You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

Slytherin’s expression shifts again, his tone softening slightly as he pivots. “I can tell you where to find my chamber,” he says, a glimmer of eagerness breaking through his composure.

Harry’s heart skips a beat. The Chamber of Secrets. He knows where this conversation is heading, and the fury that simmers within him bubbles over. “You want me to go into the chamber?” he snaps, his voice rising. “I’m not releasing the basilisk.”

Slytherin’s face tightens, but he stays calm. “I had no intention of asking you to release the basilisk,” he says coldly. “There are books in the chamber—important ones—that I want you to read.”

“Books?” Harry repeats, disbelief and contempt cutting through the air. “Why would I be interested in anything you have to offer? You’ve been nothing but an asshole to me since the moment I got here.”

For the first time, Slytherin’s calm cracks. His tone takes on a hint of desperation as he steps forward. “Please,” he says, almost pleading, “just read one of the books. It’s about horcruxes. You might not even know what a horcrux is, but it’s crucial.”

The word “horcrux” hits Harry like a thunderbolt. He freezes, the conversations he’s had with Dumbledore before travelling back in time rushing back to him. How could he have forgotten something so vital? The realization slams into him, his heart pounding with anxiety.

He forces himself to remain composed, even as his mind races. “I already know how to destroy horcruxes,” Harry says, trying to keep his voice steady. He doesn’t want Slytherin to see the turmoil brewing inside him.

Slytherin’s eyes widen in shock, but he recovers quickly. “Then you must know that there’s a ritual in those books,” he continues, his voice now filled with a strange mix of hope and urgency. “A ritual that can return all horcruxes to their creator—mend their soul.”

The word all sends a chill down Harry’s spine. His stomach churns at the thought of Voldemort. Until Riddle nobody made more than one horcrux. Only he split his soul multiple times. Harry’s voice is strained but steady when he speaks. “This is about Voldemort, isn’t it? Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

Slytherin’s face hardens, and he nods. “Yes. I want you to perform the ritual to make Tom’s soul whole again.”

Conflicting emotions rise up inside Harry, swirling in a storm of doubt, anger, and temptation. The thought of ending Voldemort’s terror without having to track down every horcrux is appealing, but working with someone as manipulative and cruel as Slytherin feels like a betrayal. How can he trust anything Slytherin says?

“I don’t want to be involved in this,” Harry says firmly, the weight of his decision settling on his chest. “Ask someone else.”

A flicker of frustration crosses Slytherin’s face, but it’s quickly replaced by an air of desperation. “You are the only one who can perform this ritual,” he says, his voice growing tense. “The ritual is in Parselmagic. Only someone of my bloodline can cast it.”

Harry hesitates. The temptation to refuse is strong, but the thought of skipping the grueling search for horcruxes hangs in the air like a tantalizing promise. He takes a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts.

“What will you give me in return?” he asks quietly, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

Slytherin’s expression shifts once more, pride and anticipation gleaming in his eyes. “I will teach you everything I know,” he says, the words deliberate. “Knowledge that could make you one of the most powerful wizards of your time. Knowledge that could help you understand and control the power you already possess.”

The offer hangs between them like a dangerous thread. Power and knowledge—things Harry desperately needs if he is going to stand any chance of defeating Voldemort. And yet, accepting Slytherin’s help could change the course of his future in ways he can’t predict.

Harry weighs the decision in silence, the room feeling suffocating as the weight of it presses on him. After what feels like an eternity, he gives a small, tense nod. “Fine,” he says, his voice steady, even though his mind is still swirling. “We have a deal.”

Chapter 15: Secrets revealed

It’s late Friday afternoon, and Harry trudges back from the Owlery, weary and bone-deep exhausted. He’s just sent yet another order to Hogsmeade, and the weight of everything—school, secrets, and surviving in Slytherin—bears heavily on him. His body aches, particularly his hand. The healing spells Euphemia has been using are becoming less and less effective with each passing day. The dark magic of the blood quill has left its mark, both literally and figuratively, and no matter how hard he tries, the deep cuts keep reopening.

He’s not sure how much longer he can keep doing this.

The castle feels colder today, the kind of biting chill that seeps into your bones. As Harry reaches the entrance to the Slytherin common room, he murmurs the password only to be met with silence. The stone wall remains closed, unmoving.

"Great," he mutters under his breath. They must have changed the password.

With no other choice, and the castle corridor unnervingly quiet, he leans closer to the stone and whispers, “Open,” in Parseltongue.

To his surprise, the wall slides aside without protest.

The moment he steps into the common room, the familiar tension returns. His hand throbs, and he clutches it tightly. The blood quill. Dark magic is a cruel, relentless force, and no matter what he does, the pain only worsens. The frustration gnaws at him. No matter how hard he tries, Harry still hasn’t been able to transfigure or conjure ink—a simple spell that now feels like an impossible hurdle.

He ignores the hostile glances of the other Slytherins as he crosses the common room. The sneers, the whispered insults—they all blur together, background noise that Harry has learned to tune out. He just wants to get to his dorm and collapse.

The dorm is quiet when he enters, though Harry isn’t alone. Regulus and Rosier sit in the corner at Rosier’s desk, murmuring over their Charms homework, seemingly engrossed in their conversation. At first, Harry barely notices them. What catches his attention are Mulciber and Flint, who follow him into the room, their faces twisted with malice, no doubt looking for another opportunity to taunt him.

Harry doesn’t care. He’s too tired to engage, too tired to feel the sting of their words. Instead, he pulls back the curtains of his bed, fully intending to skip dinner and sleep off the pain, when a soft, threatening hiss stops him cold.

“Don’t come closer.”

Harry blinks, confused. His mind takes a moment to catch up, and then he flings back the blankets. His heart stops as he sees it—a snake, coiled tightly on his mattress, its scales glinting in the dim light.

Before Harry can process it, he stumbles back in shock. His foot catches on the edge of the bed next to his, and he falls, landing hard against the bed frame with a grunt. The snake reacts instantly, its body coiling as it rears up, its eyes fixed on Harry, fangs bared.

Harry’s instincts kick in. He doesn’t think. “Stop!” he hisses in Parseltongue, the words sharp and commanding.

The snake freezes mid-strike, its body lowering slightly as it processes what it just heard. Slowly, its posture relaxes, and to Harry’s surprise, it speaks again. “You… you are a speaker?” it hisses back, its tone shifting from aggression to curiosity.

Harry’s heart is still racing, but he manages a stiff nod. “Yeah,” he replies in Parseltongue, his voice strained. The snake seems thrilled by the discovery, slithering onto Harry’s lap with surprising enthusiasm, its forked tongue flicking in and out as it speaks. “I’ve never met a speaker! You… you will pet me, yes?”

Harry, still in a daze from the encounter, awkwardly reaches out and strokes the snake’s scales. It hums in contentment, coiling around him.

The room has gone eerily silent. Harry can feel the weight of several pairs of eyes on him. Slowly, he looks up to find Regulus, Rosier, Mulciber, and Flint staring at him in abject horror.

Regulus looks pale as a ghost. His voice trembles as he breaks the silence. “Is… is that a Fire Viper?” He swallows hard, his eyes wide with fear. “Why are you keeping a highly-venomous snake in our dorm?”

Harry’s frustration boils over. “I didn’t bring it here!” he snaps, his voice sharp. “It was in my bed!”

But then something clicks. Highly-venomous. The weight of Regulus’s words sinks in, and Harry feels dread settle in his stomach like a lead weight. Someone put this snake in his bed. Someone tried to kill him.

His head spins as he tries to make sense of it all. Still in shock, Harry looks down at the snake and, without thinking, asks, “Who put you there?”

The room tenses, and all four boys flinch as Harry speaks again in Parseltongue. The snake glances toward Mulciber and Flint, its gaze settling on them with a kind of reptilian indifference. “Those two,” it hisses.

“You’re… you’re a Parselmouth?” Rosier gasps, breaking the stunned silence, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s stomach sinks. Fuck. He’s just outed himself as a Parselmouth, a secret he’s tried desperately to keep.

Thinking quickly, Harry curses under his breath and pulls out his wand. “Colloportus,” he mutters, locking the already closed door with a stronger, more advanced charm. He turns to the snake. “Guard the door. Don’t let anyone leave.”

The snake nods, curling by the entrance obediently. The room feels thick with tension, the air heavy and charged with fear. Harry’s gaze shifts to Mulciber and Flint, both of whom are frozen in place, their faces ashen. Harry takes a step toward them, his voice low and laced with anger.

“You’ve got five minutes,” Harry growls, “to return what you stole from me and convince me not to set the snake on you.”

Mulciber’s face contorts with fear. “My brother… my brother has it,” he stammers. His hands are shaking, and Flint looks no better, his gaze darting toward the door, only to find the snake still coiled there, watching him intently.

“You brought the snake,” Harry says coldly. “You’re not that scared of it, are you?”

Mulciber and Flint exchange frantic glances. “You have no proof!” Flint shouts, though his voice trembles with fear.

Harry sighs, realizing they’re right. There’s no tangible proof, no evidence he could present that would incriminate them. He raises his wand. “Stupefy,” he murmurs, sending both of them crashing to the ground, unconscious.

Without hesitation, Harry points his wand at their still bodies and murmurs, “Obliviate.” The spell hits them both in quick succession, wiping away the memory of his Parseltongue.

Harry turns toward Regulus and Rosier, his heart still pounding in his chest. The weight of what he's just done settles heavily in the air, thick with tension and fear. Rosier, still pale and wide-eyed from the shock, stares at the unconscious bodies of Mulciber and Flint.

“Did you just... wipe their memories?” Rosier asks, his voice trembling. There’s fear in his eyes, but it’s the kind of fear Harry is used to seeing in others—a fear of the unknown, of the dangerous. And right now, Harry is the dangerous one.

Harry doesn’t answer. The truth is clear, and he has no intention of justifying himself. Instead, he tightens his grip on his wand, raising it toward Rosier, intending to cast Obliviate on him next. It’s the safest way. He’s not letting anyone walk away with the knowledge that he’s a Parselmouth.

Before Harry can utter the spell, Regulus steps forward, placing himself between Rosier and the tip of Harry's wand. His face is stern, but his voice is calm, though laced with curiosity and something like betrayal.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Regulus asks, his eyes locking onto Harry’s. His tone is measured, but there’s an intensity there, a burning need to understand. “That you’re a Parselmouth. Why didn’t you say anything?”

The question catches Harry off guard. He lowers his wand slightly but doesn’t let his guard down. His pulse is still racing, his nerves frayed. The frustration, the pain, everything comes crashing down on him, and for a moment, he feels like screaming. Instead, his voice is sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife.

“Why would I tell you?” Harry shoots back, his eyes narrowing. “Why would I tell you anything?”

Regulus flinches slightly at the accusation in Harry’s voice but holds his ground. “You’re not answering my question,” he says, his voice tight but controlled. “You didn’t trust me enough to—”

“To what?” Harry interrupts, the anger bubbling to the surface now. His eyes flash dangerously as he steps forward, wand still in hand. “To entrust you with knowledge that could get me and my entire family killed? You think I owe you that kind of trust?”

Rosier, standing behind Regulus, stays silent, but his eyes dart between the two of them, tension thick in his posture.

Regulus opens his mouth to reply, but Harry’s not finished. He takes another step forward, his voice rising, unable to suppress the bitterness that has been festering for weeks. “Why would I trust you when you couldn’t even keep your mouth shut about my past? You knew things about me, things you shouldn’t know. And you didn’t hesitate to tell the whole bloody house.”

Regulus stiffens at that, his eyes darkening with something that looks like regret. “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he says quietly. “I didn’t—”

Harry stands frozen, the air thick with tension as his voice cracks with frustration and pain. “It doesn’t matter what you meant!” he snaps, his hands trembling, his knuckles white as he grips his wand tighter. “If even one wrong person hears about what I am—about what I can do—it’s over for me. For my family. Do you get that? And you want to know why I didn’t tell you?”

The room feels like it’s closing in on him, suffocating. Regulus doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze dropping to the floor, clearly taken aback. There’s a flicker of something almost apologetic in his eyes, but Harry doesn’t care. He can’t care. He’s too angry, too tired, too hurt.

Regulus looks back up at Harry, disbelief clouding his expression. “Who… who would kill you for being a Parselmouth?” His voice is soft, almost disbelieving, as though the idea is absurd to him.

Harry lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he levels his gaze at both Regulus and Rosier, his voice cold and unyielding. “Choose,” he commands, every syllable dripping with authority he doesn’t feel. “Unbreakable Vow or Obliviate. You pick.”

Rosier swallows hard, looking at Regulus, clearly shaken by the ultimatum. There’s fear in his eyes, but more than that, there’s understanding. They both know Harry’s serious.

Regulus sighs, rubbing a hand over his face as though the weight of the situation is finally sinking in. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice resigned. “The Vow.”

Rosier nods silently in agreement, and Harry watches as the two of them exchange a look. Relief washes over him momentarily. Luckily, there are three of them—the perfect number for an Unbreakable Vow, with each acting as a binder for the other.

But Regulus, still not satisfied, presses the question again. “But who would actually kill you for being a Parselmouth?” His voice is lower now, tinged with something like concern.

Harry hesitates for a moment. They can’t reveal anything now. The weight of the Unbreakable Vow binds them to secrecy, but speaking about it feels dangerous even in the safety of the dorm.

Still, Harry meets Regulus’s eyes, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. “Voldemort.”

Both Regulus and Rosier recoil as though Harry has just slapped them, shock and fear contorting their faces.

“Don’t say the name!” Rosier exclaims, his voice a frantic whisper, as if Voldemort himself would appear in the room just from hearing it.

Harry, tired of the fear, tired of the silence, continues, ignoring Rosier’s outburst. “The taboo only gives him a vague location: Hogwarts. Volde-”

Rosier, still pale, cuts him off. “Stop using the name!” His voice shakes, the fear palpable in the way his body tenses as though expecting something terrible to happen any moment.

Not wanting to argue the point further, Harry continues, his voice steady but sharp. “Fine. Let’s call him Tom Riddle, then.”

There’s a flicker of confusion in both Regulus and Rosier’s faces, their brows knitting together. “Tom… Riddle?” Regulus repeats, as though the name doesn’t make sense.

Harry sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion weighing him down. “Yes. Tom Riddle. That’s his real name.” He waves a hand dismissively, “Dumbledore isn’t afraid of him, and he uses the name freely. Riddle will just blame it on Dumbledore anyway.”

The confusion on their faces doesn’t fade, and Harry, suddenly feeling a little defiant, grins bitterly. “Or, you know what, let’s call him Voldy. That doesn’t trigger the taboo, right?”

Both Regulus and Rosier visibly wince. “Don’t—don’t call him that,” Rosier says, his voice hushed, appalled by the casual disrespect.

Harry shrugs, utterly unbothered by their shock. “He killed my family,” he says flatly. “Or at least, the ones he knew about.”

That shuts them up. The weight of the words settles heavily in the room. Regulus stares at Harry, a strange mixture of horror and understanding on his face, as though trying to process what he’s just heard.

"Wait…" Regulus breathes, his voice shaky. “You’re related to the Dark Lord?”

Harry’s eyes darken, a bitter smile curling at his lips. “Second cousins, once removed.” He says it as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, but the tension in the room spikes. Both Regulus and Rosier stare at him, their shock palpable, their faces white with disbelief.

“That can’t be,” Regulus murmurs, shaking his head. “The Potters aren’t related to Slytherin. I’d know if they were.”

Harry shrugs again. “The Potters aren’t descendants of Slytherin.” He leaves the rest unspoken, watching as Rosier’s eyes widen in realization.

“Then…” Rosier begins, his voice faltering. “You must’ve gotten it from your mother.” He looks thoughtful, his brain working quickly. “Bloodline magic sometimes skips a generation or two. If that’s the case…” He trails off, glancing at Harry with a new understanding. “That would mean your mother… isn’t a Mudblood.”

Harry’s lips twitch into a small, humorless smile. “Technically, she’s a half-blood. But she doesn’t know.”

Rosier nods, taking it all in. “So… your blood isn’t as dirty as we thought—”

“Stop right there,” Harry interrupts sharply, his voice cold and cutting through the room like ice. “I’m still a practically Muggle-raised half-blood bastard. Nothing’s changed.”

“Everything’s changed,” Rosier says quietly, but there’s awe in his voice now, a strange reverence. “You’re the heir of Slytherin.”

Harry snorts, glaring at him. “You’re a fucking hypocrite.” He turns away, done with the conversation, exhaustion crashing over him like a tidal wave. He’s too tired to deal with this anymore. Too tired to deal with Regulus, Rosier, and their backwards, blood-obsessed views.

He’s halfway to his bed when he feels a hand grab his wrist. The sharp pain shoots up his arm, making him hiss. He jerks back instinctively, wincing as the familiar sting of the blood quill wounds flare up.

Regulus immediately pulls his hand back, eyes wide with shock. “Harry—”

But before Harry can stop him, Regulus takes his hand again, this time gentler, pushing up the sleeve of Harry’s robe. His eyes widen in horror as he stares at the raw, angry lines etched into Harry’s skin.

“What… what is this?” Regulus asks, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers hover over the wounds, not daring to touch them. He looks up at Harry, his face pale with concern.

Harry doesn’t answer right away, shame and anger warring within him. He pulls his hand back sharply, yanking his sleeve down. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Regulus insists, his voice trembling slightly. “Who did this to you?”

Chapter 16: Pride of the Blacks

Regulus stares at Harry, wide-eyed, the raw concern in his expression almost foreign. For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence, the tension in the room palpable, Harry's wrist still in Regulus’s grip, his wounds exposed.

“Who forced you to use a blood quill?” Regulus’s voice is quiet but firm, demanding answers without the usual coldness Harry has come to expect from him.

Harry jerks his arm back, though the motion sends a sharp sting through the cuts. He glares, his voice laced with both anger and exhaustion. “It’s none of your business. Why do you care now, all of a sudden?” He’s tired—tired of people acting like they care only when it suits them.

Regulus doesn’t back down. “Someone attacked you—harmed a member of my family,” he says, his voice steady, though his eyes flash with barely-contained fury. “I’m not going to let that slide.”

Harry’s lips curl into a bitter smirk, the words stinging more than he expected. “So it’s about appearances? About your family’s name? Save it.” He steps back, shaking his head in disbelief. “You can fuck off and mind your own business, Regulus. If you really want to help, you can bring me a bowl of murtlap essence. But that’s it.”

Regulus lets out a sigh, frustration crossing his face as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Harry, you don’t understand. A blood quill—it’s not just some cursed object. Whatever you write with it becomes binding. Permanent.”

Harry stares at him, brow furrowing. “You’re making that up.”

Regulus looks genuinely perplexed, unsure how Harry could dismiss something so dangerous. “Why would I lie about something like this? What makes you so sure?”

Harry lets out a short, humorless laugh, deciding to toy with him. “Fine, you want the truth? My name is Mathilda Whool. I’m a first-year Hufflepuff. My favorite color is pink, and since I came to Hogwarts, I’ve only worn pink dresses.”

Regulus blinks at him, confusion deepening in his eyes. “What?”

Harry thrusts his injured hand toward him, the inflamed and scarred skin still raw. “Read it.”

Regulus’s gaze drops to the words etched into Harry’s hand—I must not tell lies—and the color drains from his face. He gasps, horror dawning in his expression as he realizes what the scars mean.

Harry watches him, almost enjoying the shock. “If there was some compulsion to tell the truth,” he says, his voice calm but edged with bitterness, “I would’ve noticed.”

Regulus looks back at him, a mix of disbelief and anger coursing through his features. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words seem stuck, unable to comprehend how Harry has endured something like this without anyone knowing.

“Who did this to you?” Regulus’s voice cracks slightly, the anger from before replaced by something more genuine, something more protective.

But Harry’s face hardens again. “I told you, it’s none of your business.”

Rosier, who has been watching the exchange with sharp, calculating eyes, finally speaks up, his voice soft but laced with curiosity. "Mulciber and Flint stole something from you, didn’t they?" His eyes narrow as he tilts his head, as if piecing together a puzzle. "What did they steal, Potter?"

Harry clenches his jaw, refusing to meet Rosier’s gaze. He doesn’t want to admit what happened—he doesn’t want to give them more leverage. It’s too humiliating.

When Harry doesn't respond, Rosier’s eyes sharpen, and he takes a step closer. “Show me your quill and ink, Potter.”

Harry flinches. The mere mention of it sends a flash of panic through him, a chill crawling down his spine. He takes a step back, instinctively shielding the pocket where he keeps his things.

That slight movement is all it takes for Regulus to snap.

The realization dawns on him with a sickening clarity, his usually composed face twisting into something darker, something far more dangerous. His eyes narrow, and Harry can practically see the fury building behind them. Regulus looks at Harry like he’s just uncovered something truly vile. “It was them,” Regulus whispers, his voice low and deadly. “Ellis Mulciber and Walter Flint.”

Harry doesn’t confirm it, but he doesn’t have to. The truth is already out there, hanging in the tense silence between them.

Regulus steps back, his hands trembling slightly as he runs them through his hair, pushing it back with a frustrated sigh. “Laird Mulciber,” he mutters under his breath. “He must have been involved too. And if they were in on it, I can guess who else…”

Rosier’s face darkens as the list of names forms between them. “Crabbe. Snape,” Rosier adds quietly, his expression thoughtful but cold, calculating.

Harry stiffens, his heart pounding in his chest. “You don’t know that,” he says quickly, his voice shaky but determined. “You don’t know for sure.”

But Regulus doesn’t hear him—or maybe he does, but he doesn’t care. His face is set, his expression stony with the kind of anger Harry’s only ever seen in the most dangerous of enemies. His fists clench tightly at his sides, and when he speaks again, his voice is like steel.

“They need a reminder,” Regulus says, his voice chillingly calm, “of what happens when you anger the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.”

Harry feels a lump form in his throat. There’s something unsettling in the way Regulus says it, in the absolute certainty behind his words. It’s the kind of tone that promises retribution, promises vengeance. The kind of tone that promises things will never be the same after this.

“Regulus—” Harry begins, but Regulus cuts him off, his voice sharper now, laced with frustration.

“No. You don’t understand. They crossed a line. And they won’t get away with it.” Regulus’s eyes burn with cold fury, his usual aloofness gone, replaced by something much more dangerous. “They attacked you—a member of my family. And I won’t stand by and let them get away with it.”

Harry feels conflicted, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like a boulder. His instinct is to deny it, to pull back, to say that Regulus is overreacting. But deep down, a part of him—the part that’s been fighting alone for so long—aches for the kind of protection Regulus is offering. The idea that, for once, someone might actually stand up for him, fight for him, feels both foreign and oddly comforting.

Still, he can’t let this escalate. “You don’t have to do anything,” Harry says, his voice quiet but steady. “I can handle this.”

Regulus turns to him, his eyes softening just a fraction. “You shouldn’t have to,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice catches Harry off guard.

Rosier steps forward, his tone calculated but laced with the same determination as Regulus. “This isn’t just about you, Potter. It’s about politics. The Blacks will lose face if Regulus doesn’t act.”

Harry almost laughs at the irony of that statement. “Fine,” He mutters, his eyes meeting Regulus’s. “But don’t do anything stupid. I don’t need you starting a war.”

Regulus smirks, though the fire in his eyes hasn’t dimmed. “Stupid? No. Effective? Absolutely.”

Harry sighs, knowing this is far from over. Even though part of him still wants to handle things on his own, there’s a strange comfort in knowing that, for once, someone else is willing to fight for him. Even if it’s Regulus Black.

***

The next day, Harry’s awakening is gentle, a soft nudge pulling him from the clutches of a restless sleep. He blinks groggily and sees Regulus standing at his bedside, holding a bowl of murtlap essence. The pale morning light filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow on Regulus’s face. Harry’s heart warms slightly at the unexpected kindness, though a trace of wariness lingers.

"Here," Regulus says, his tone subdued but sincere. "This should help with the pain."

Harry takes the bowl and dips his hand into the soothing liquid. The cool sensation against his inflamed skin brings immediate relief. He watches as the red, angry welts slowly begin to fade, the essence working its healing magic. The pain subsides, and Harry feels a sense of gratitude mixed with lingering frustration. The blood quill’s marks are finally disappearing, but the memory of the cruelty remains fresh.

When he puts the bowl onto his desk to use it again after dinner he is only moderately surprised to see his ink and quills on it. Regulus must have gotten them back for him.

As Harry makes his way to breakfast with Regulus and Rosier, the normal hum of morning chatter fills the air. Greengrass, already seated and sipping his coffee, gives them a nod of acknowledgment. Harry, caught off guard, returns the gesture hesitantly. He tries to piece together why Greengrass would be friendly. He realizes he’s never been one to hurl insults or mock him openly. Perhaps he stands apart from the more ruthless members of Slytherin.

His thoughts, however, are abruptly interrupted as Flint, the Mulciber brothers, Crabbe, and Snape enter the hall. Their faces are contorted into sneers, and they scan the room with an air of superiority. Harry’s stomach churns with anxiety, knowing what is to come.

Almost immediately, the mood at the Slytherin table undergoes a dramatic shift. The once lively and bustling atmosphere grows tense as students begin to subtly rearrange themselves, creating an impromptu blockade. Bags are strategically deposited on adjacent chairs, books are piled high in defiant stacks, and feet are deliberately placed across empty seats. Each movement is a deliberate effort to block Flint, the Mulciber brothers, Crabbe, and Snape from finding a place to sit. Regulus and Rosier contribute to this orchestrated effort with a coordinated ease, their actions purposeful and calculated.

The transformation of the table’s dynamic is striking. Where there had been the usual chattering and casual interactions, there is now a palpable undercurrent of hostility. Laird Mulciber’s face reddens with mounting frustration as he turns to Regulus, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “What is the meaning of this, Regulus?” His demand hangs heavy in the air, a mixture of anger and disbelief.

Regulus, ever the embodiment of the Black family’s icy demeanor, meets Mulciber’s gaze with an unflinching calm. “You’re not welcome here,” he responds, his voice cold and devoid of sympathy. “If you want to eat, you can do so on the floor. Like the pigs you are.”

The harshness of Regulus’s words slices through the tension like a knife, their bluntness making a clear statement. The surrounding Slytherins remain silent, their eyes pointedly avoiding Mulciber and his companions, further isolating them from the rest of the table. Harry watches the scene unfold with a complex swirl of emotions. Relief that someone is standing up for him mingles with discomfort at the sheer forcefulness of Regulus’s actions. This act of revenge is not just a personal matter but a public display of solidarity and retaliation.

As the scene develops, Harry is struck by the display of Regulus’s power. The way the other Slytherins adhere to his lead, the extent of his influence—it’s both awe-inspiring and intimidating. The hierarchy within Slytherin is rigid and unforgiving, and Regulus’s demonstration of authority is a stark reminder of how quickly power dynamics can shift.

Harry tries to focus on his breakfast, but his thoughts are a jumbled mess. The shifting power dynamics within Slytherin are dizzying, and while Regulus’s support is appreciated, it also makes Harry uneasy. The Slytherin house is a battleground of its own, and Harry is acutely aware of how easily he could get caught in the crossfire of its internal conflicts.

In the midst of the chaos, Regulus turns to Harry and announces, “I’ve written home to my grandfather.” His tone is measured but carries an unmistakable firmness. Regulus’s gaze sweeps over the room, briefly flickering with disdain as it lands on the Mulciber brothers and their cronies, who are still standing by the Slytherin table, their frustration palpable.

Harry’s mind races. Lord Black, the name echoes in his thoughts. He knows that Lord Black is by far the most influential figure in wizarding Britain, a power broker whose words could shift the balance of many things. The significance of Regulus’s statement is not lost on him, though he chooses not to voice his thoughts.

The unspoken message hangs heavy in the air. Regulus’s glance at the Mulciber brothers and their companions is enough to convey his intent. The very presence of those who’ve wronged Harry is met with a subtle but unmistakable signal of disapproval. Harry can sense the brewing storm, the silent declaration of retribution that Regulus is orchestrating.

“Some people may be in need of a new job,” Regulus continues, his voice adopting a cold, calculated edge. The words are delivered with an air of finality, a veiled threat concealed beneath the guise of casual conversation.

Harry catches Rosier’s fleeting smirk and the nod of agreement that follows. The atmosphere around the Slytherin table shifts once more, with an undercurrent of anticipation and a flicker of unease among the students who overhear the exchange. The tension is almost palpable, a collective breath held as they await the fallout of Regulus’s declaration.

The Mulciber brothers and their allies remain standing, their faces flushed with a mix of anger and disbelief. They exchange glances, their irritation and apprehension evident. Harry can almost hear the unspoken questions they’re directing toward one another. What will come of this? What does Regulus’s threat mean for them?

The hum of conversations around them continues, but Harry’s focus is drawn back to Regulus. The younger Black’s demeanor is one of calm assurance, a stark contrast to the turmoil he has stirred. Harry can see the resolve in Regulus’s posture, the confidence that comes from wielding influence with precision.

Regulus, having finished his breakfast, turns to Harry with a casual air. “So, Harry, we’ve got Quidditch practice after breakfast. I was thinking we could have a Seeker’s match. What do you say?”

Harry looks up. He isn’t sure how to feel about that invitation. But it has been a while since he last played Quidditch as a seeker, so he agrees. “That sounds interesting. Alright.”

Rosier’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You play Quidditch?” he asks, his tone laced with genuine curiosity. It’s clear that this revelation is as unexpected as it is intriguing. Rosier has always been more focused on academic achievements and less on the extracurricular activities that define much of Slytherin life. Harry's nod is simple, yet it carries a weight of unspoken history and personal passion.

Harry nods, feeling a flicker of satisfaction at the interest. “Yeah, I do,” he confirms, trying to sound casual despite the mix of nerves and excitement churning inside him.

Rosier’s eyebrows knit together in thought. “As a Seeker?” he inquires, his voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. It’s apparent that Rosier, more accustomed to discussions of academic prowess than athletic skill, is fascinated by this new revelation.

Regulus, catching Rosier’s interest, takes the opportunity to bolster Harry’s standing. “Yes, Harry is quite skilled,” he says, his tone carrying an edge of pride. “He’s been playing for years. I’m looking forward to our seeker’s match. It should be fun to see how we match up.”

Rosier chuckles, shaking his head. “I have to admit, this is turning into quite the spectacle,” he says, his tone light.

Harry feels a mixture of excitement and nervousness. “I hope I can live up to the hype,” he says with a smile.

Breakfast continues, the conversation flows more freely now, and the earlier tension seems to dissipate. Harry, still processing the shift in mood, feels a sense of relief. The anticipation of the upcoming match offers a welcome diversion, allowing him to momentarily set aside the weight of recent events.

Regulus’s eyes sparkle with excitement as he looks at Harry. “You ready for it?” he asks, a playful challenge in his voice. “I’ve been practicing, and I’m not going to make it easy for you.”

Harry meets his gaze with a determined smile. “Bring it on,” he replies, feeling a rush of eagerness. “I’m looking forward to the challenge.”

As they finish their breakfast, the atmosphere around them shifts. The lighthearted conversation about Quidditch and the camaraderie between them feels like a breath of fresh air. Harry looks forward to the match with a renewed sense of excitement, grateful for the chance to escape the earlier tension and focus on something he loves.

Chapter 17: Truths and Lies

Later that morning, after breakfast, Regulus pulls Harry aside, glancing meaningfully at Rosier. "We need to take care of something before practice," he says quietly. "The snake."

Harry blinks, his mind taking a moment to catch up. The snake—the one he’d found in his bed, the one that had nearly bitten him before recognizing him as a Parselmouth. It was still in the dorm, likely curled up somewhere hidden.

Rosier frowns, but understanding dawns quickly. “You mean the one from last night? You’re not thinking of keeping it, are you?”

Harry shakes his head. "No, it’s from the Forbidden Forest. It needs to go back."

Regulus nods approvingly. “It’ll be safer there for everyone.”

Together, they quietly return to the dormitory, where the snake is coiled around one of the bedposts, still and content. Harry kneels down, speaking softly to it in Parseltongue. “Time to go home.”

The snake lifts its head, tasting the air with its forked tongue, then slithers lazily onto Harry’s outstretched arm, trusting and calm. Rosier watches with thinly veiled fascination, his eyes widening slightly as he observes the interaction.

“Every time I see you do that, I can’t decide if it’s brilliant or terrifying,” Rosier mutters.

Harry smirks. “Maybe a little bit of both.”

Regulus leads the way as they make their way toward the Forbidden Forest, the castle grounds slowly emptying as students head to classes. The snake rests peacefully against Harry’s arm, its sleek body cool against his skin, as if sensing the journey back to familiar territory.

As they reach the edge of the forest, Harry hesitates for a moment, staring into the thick shadows of the trees. He feels a strange connection to the creature, a bond born from the shared language of Parseltongue, but he knows this is where it belongs. He lowers his arm, gently placing the snake onto the forest floor. It slithers forward, pausing only to look back at him.

“Be safe,” Harry murmurs in Parseltongue, and with that, the snake disappears into the undergrowth, melting back into the wilderness.

Rosier speaks up, breaking the quiet. “You’re lucky it didn’t attack anyone else. Forbidden Forest creatures don’t usually make it out here unless they’re hunting.”

Harry exhales slowly, feeling a tension release from his shoulders he didn’t know he was holding. "I don’t think it was hunting. It was just...used."

Regulus glances at Harry, his expression unreadable for a moment before he speaks. “And now it’s back where it belongs. Let’s get to the Quidditch pitch.”

The three of them turn away from the forest, the weight of the morning lightened ever so slightly by the simple act of returning a creature to its home. As they walk back, Harry feels a quiet resolve settling in him. He doesn’t know where he fits into this strange house, but for now, at least, he’s surrounded by allies—even if those alliances are fragile.

***

The wind rushes past Harry’s face as he dives at full speed toward the ground, his eyes locked on the glimmering golden Snitch. Every instinct tells him he’s falling too fast, that he’ll crash any second now—but he’s been here before. Just a few more feet. His heart pounds in his chest as he holds his breath, fingers outstretched.

At the last possible moment, Harry pulls up, his broom skimming the grass as he snatches the Snitch out of the air with a sharp twist of his wrist. The momentum sends him spinning before he manages to regain control, his feet touching down lightly on the pitch.

Regulus lands beside him a second later, his broom coming to a graceful stop. There’s a gleam in his eyes, not of anger or frustration, but of respect.

The Slytherin team erupts in cheers, clapping their hands and calling out in approval. Some of them are genuinely impressed, while others are just relieved that the practice is over. Harry feels his chest rise and fall rapidly, his lungs burning from the chase, but a small smile tugs at his lips. He won.

"That was incredible," Regulus says, his voice carrying a note of awe. "Not many can pull that off."

Harry shrugs, still catching his breath. "Just something I picked up."

The moment is almost perfect. Almost. Except for Rosier, who strides over, clearly fuming. His eyes are narrowed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The way he’s glaring at Harry makes it seem like he just lost a duel, not a Quidditch training match regulars vs. reserves plus Harry.

"Why didn’t you come to tryouts?" Rosier snaps, his voice harsh, the frustration radiating off him in waves.

Harry’s brow furrows, confusion replacing the brief exhilaration of his win. “What?”

“You heard me,” Rosier bites back, stepping closer, his glare intense. “Why didn’t you come to tryouts if you can play like that?”

For a moment, Harry just stares at him, caught off guard by the accusation in Rosier’s tone. Then something inside him snaps. The confusion, the anger he’s been holding back all week, it all bubbles up to the surface. He meets Rosier’s glare with one of his own.

“Do you want the list alphabetically or chronologically?”

The sarcasm is thick in Harry’s voice, but there’s real frustration beneath it. He folds his arms, waiting for Rosier’s response. But Rosier just continues to glower, unimpressed by the deflection.

“Don’t play games with me, Potter. You know what I’m talking about.”

Harry exhales sharply, his patience wearing thin. The joy of catching the snitch is fading fast, replaced by the gnawing irritation that Rosier’s accusations always seem to stir. “Fine. Let’s start with ‘A’ for ‘absolutely no reason to trust anyone in this house.’ Or ‘B’ for ‘being a halfblood bastard in Slytherin doesn’t exactly win you friends.’”

Rosier doesn’t flinch, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture. His eyes, once filled with anger, flicker with something else now—something Harry can’t quite place. “That’s not the point.”

“Isn’t it?” Harry shoots back, the frustration bubbling beneath his words. “You all made it perfectly clear where I stand. Why would I try out for a team that’s only going to use me as a punching bag?”

The silence between them stretches taut, the tension palpable. Regulus stands beside Harry, watching the exchange without saying a word, his face unreadable. His presence is reassuring, but it does nothing to quell the storm of emotions Harry feels building inside him. His chest feels tight, like he’s teetering on the edge of something—something he can’t control.

Rosier’s voice cuts through the silence, flat and devoid of emotion. “Maybe because you’re good. You could’ve made this team stronger.”

Harry stares at him, momentarily thrown off by the bluntness of the statement. It’s not a compliment, not really. Rosier’s words don’t hold any warmth or admiration, just the cold, undeniable truth. The words linger between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Harry knows it—he could’ve made the team stronger. Everyone standing around them knows it, too. The looks from the other players, the begrudging respect mixed with their usual disdain, is proof of that.

But it’s not that simple. It never is.

Harry exhales sharply, feeling the weight of the unspoken tension pressing down on him. “Be honest with me, Rosier.” His voice is quieter now, but there’s a sharp edge to it. He locks eyes with Rosier, refusing to back down. “If I’d shown up to tryouts... would you have let me try?”

The question hangs in the air, and for the first time, Rosier hesitates. The sharpness in his gaze dulls, just for a moment, and in that silence, Harry gets his answer. The quiet stretches, and Rosier doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to.

Harry’s lips curl into a bitter smile. “Yeah,” he says softly, “I thought so too.”

There’s no satisfaction in being right. Just a cold, sinking feeling deep in his chest. Harry shifts his gaze from Rosier to the rest of the team. The other players avoid his eyes, pretending not to hear, but their expressions give them away. He knows what they’re thinking. He’s always known.

“You wouldn’t have let me try,” Harry continues, his voice growing firmer, more resigned. “You would’ve just sent me away. So why bother?”

The words hit harder than he intended, leaving a raw, open wound in the air. The team stands in an uneasy silence, and Harry can see it in their faces—the truth they’ve all been avoiding. He wasn’t welcome. Not really. They tolerated him at best, despised him at worst.

Harry’s gaze sweeps over the group, and he speaks again, his voice lower but with more weight. “Face it. You don’t think I belong here. You’ve made that clear.”

He can feel the exhaustion creeping in—the kind that goes beyond physical tiredness. It’s the weariness of being constantly on guard, of fighting battles no one else sees, of never quite knowing where he stands. He’s sick of it.

Regulus, who’s remained silent throughout the exchange, finally steps forward, his expression softening as he looks at Harry. “You do belong,” he says gently, his voice carrying a quiet conviction. “You’re part of this house, and if you want to, part of this team.”

Harry meets Regulus’s eyes, and for a moment, he feels a flicker of something—something close to comfort. But it doesn’t last. The doubt creeps back in, wrapping around him like a thick fog, suffocating whatever hope Regulus’s words might’ve sparked.

He sighs, the sound heavy with fatigue. “For how long, Regulus?”

Regulus’s brow furrows, confusion flickering in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“How long until you change your mind again?” Harry’s voice is quieter now, filled with a tired resignation. “How long until you decide I don’t belong here after all?”

The question lingers, filled with the weight of all the uncertainty Harry has carried since the moment he set foot in Slytherin. He’s always been on the outside looking in, never fully a part of anything. He knows that better than anyone. And no matter what Regulus says, he can’t shake the feeling that it’s only a matter of time before everything falls apart again.

Regulus opens his mouth to respond, but Harry cuts him off, shaking his head. “I appreciate what you’ve done,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “But this... it doesn’t change anything.”

The truth of his words sinks in, and for a moment, the weight of everything presses down on him. Harry glances at the ground, trying to hold himself together, trying to keep from letting the hurt show. But it’s there, just beneath the surface.

He looks back up at Regulus, something vulnerable in his gaze. “You don’t have to pretend I’m something I’m not. I know where I stand.”

There’s silence, thick and suffocating, as the team watches, the weight of Harry’s words settling over them. And for the first time, it’s not just the players—it’s Regulus too, caught in the tangled web of expectations and loyalty that Harry can’t seem to escape.

Harry turns his back on them, his steps slow and heavy as he starts to walk away.

As Harry walks back to the castle, the weight of everything presses down on him—Rosier’s words, Regulus’s insistence, the uneasy realization that no matter what happens, he will always be the outsider. His feet move automatically, each step dragging him deeper into his thoughts. The cool air around him feels heavy, stifling, as his mind drifts to Regulus Black.

Regulus. He’s a puzzle Harry can’t quite piece together. He knows so little about him, and what he does know is tainted by the words of someone who isn’t here anymore—Sirius. The mere thought of his godfather makes his chest tighten painfully. Even after all this time, the grief feels raw, the loss too fresh. He remembers Sirius’s sad expression when he spoke of his brother, the grief and the guilt.

Harry exhales, the sound more of a sigh. Regulus had been a Death Eater, that much is undeniable. A follower of Voldemort. The newspapers plastered on Regulus’s walls are proof enough of that. Harry can still picture them—yellowed clippings, all boasting the rise of the Dark Lord. Regulus hadn’t just followed Voldemort; he’d idolized him.

But then, Regulus had done something that no one else had expected. He’d changed his mind.

Why?

No one knows the full story. Not even Sirius had known. By the time Regulus had realized the truth, it had already been too late. Voldemort doesn’t allow his followers to simply walk away. Once you take the Dark Mark, there’s no leaving, no escaping. You’re in for life—or until your life ends. Harry shudders at the thought. The sheer finality of it.

His mind whirls, trying to make sense of it all. What made him turn? There had to have been something—some moment, some revelation that made Regulus see Voldemort for who he truly was. But whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to save him in the end. Regulus had died trying to undo the damage he’d helped cause, but no one really knew how or why. The answers died with him.

And now Harry is here, years before any of that happens. He feels the weight of that realization like a boulder pressing down on his chest. He could do something. He wants to do something. But how? How do you save someone from a fate you can’t even fully understand?

A bitter voice in the back of his mind whispers that maybe Regulus doesn’t deserve to be saved. After all, he’s made his choices. He was a willing Death Eater. He chose that path.

But Harry can’t shake the memory of Regulus trying to help him, standing up for him in front of the Slytherin team, forcing the other students to treat him differently. There’s something in Regulus—something deeper, something conflicted. Harry’s starting to realize that maybe Regulus’s journey isn’t as straightforward as everyone thinks.

His footsteps echo against the stone as he reaches the castle steps, but he barely notices. His mind is racing, filled with questions. How long does he have? How long until Regulus makes the choice that will seal his fate? Sirius never told Harry when Regulus had taken the Dark Mark. Maybe Sirius didn’t know. It’s assumed that Regulus joined the Death Eaters after his NEWTs, but…

Harry’s heart stutters as the thought hits him like a punch. Malfoy was marked at sixteen.

That changes everything. What if Regulus isn’t as far away from that decision as Harry had hoped? What if he’s already being drawn into Voldemort’s orbit? What if the pressure is already building, and Harry has even less time than he thought?

A cold dread settles over him. Regulus is clever—there’s no doubt about that. But Voldemort is persuasive, manipulative. He preys on ambition, fear, and loyalty. What if Regulus is already slipping down that path?

Harry grits his teeth, frustration bubbling up inside him. He wants to save him. He needs to save him. But he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t even know where to start. Regulus is so closed off, so controlled. It’s like trying to navigate through a maze with no clear exit.

The ritual.

The thought strikes him suddenly. The ritual from Slytherin, the one he’s been researching, might hold the key. Maybe, just maybe, if he learns it in time, he can defeat Voldemort before he can dig his claws into Regulus.

Will I learn it in time? The thought gnaws at him. What if it’s too late?

As he climbs the final steps into the castle, Harry feels a sinking sensation in his stomach. He’s running against the clock, and he doesn’t even know how much time he has left.

Chapter 18: Lord Black – Part I

The next morning, Harry, Regulus and Rosier walk into the Great Hall, Harry’s eyes scanning the room with a mix of trepidation and weariness. They head toward the Slytherin table.

Harry’s gaze lingers briefly on the Gryffindor table. James, Sirius, Remus, and Pettigrew sit together, their faces a mixture of bruised pride and simmering resentment. When their eyes catch Harry’s, their sneers are unmistakable. James’s lip curls in a contemptuous grin, Sirius snickers with an air of superiority, while Remus and Pettigrew exchange glances of quiet, vindictive satisfaction. The sight stings Harry more than he cares to admit.

He forces himself to look away, his jaw clenched to keep the hurt from showing. The noise seems to intensify around him, a cacophony that drowns out his turbulent thoughts. He can feel the weight of their disdain, a sharp contrast to the concern and sympathy he received from his own house and family. It feels like a stark reminder of the divide that exists between them.

At the Slytherin table, Regulus takes a seat beside Harry, his usual composed façade now marred by a flicker of frustration. A letter is in his hand, its seal still intact. Harry watches with a mixture of curiosity and concern as Regulus carefully breaks the seal and unfolds the letter.

The moment Regulus's eyes skim the contents, a dark shadow crosses his face. He crumples the letter into a tight fist, his expression darkening. The usual calmness he exudes is replaced by a palpable frustration that he struggles to conceal.

Harry's brow furrows. "Who was that from?" he asks cautiously, trying to keep his tone light despite his growing anxiety.

Regulus’s voice is clipped, though he makes an effort to keep it even. "My mother."

Harry doesn’t press further, respecting Regulus’s apparent need for privacy. However, the brief glimpse of Regulus’s reaction speaks volumes. The frustration etched on his face, the way he tightens his grip on the crumpled letter—whatever Walburga Black had to say, it clearly wasn’t kind.

Later that evening, Harry's curiosity overcomes his desire for privacy. He finds the letter discarded on a table in the common room, a cruel remnant of what had obviously been a painful exchange. As he picks it up, the words “Charlus’ half-blood bastard” leap out at him, causing his stomach to churn with unease.

The letter’s message is stark and clear: “Stay away from him.” Stay away from Harry.

Regulus, it seems, has chosen to disregard his mother’s command. Harry’s heart aches at the thought, a mix of empathy for Regulus and frustration at the venomous intolerance that fuels such words. He replaces the letter, his mind swirling with the implications of what it means for their friendship and the pressures Regulus must be facing from his own family.

***

A few days pass. In Potions class, Slughorn moves around the room, his jovial nature a bit more subdued today. As the lesson ends, Slughorn approaches Harry with a paternal smile, though there’s a certain stiffness behind it.

“Mr. Potter, if I might have a word?”

Harry looks up from packing his potions kit, sensing something unpleasant on the horizon. “Yes, Professor?”

Slughorn steps closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now, I’ve noticed you and young Mr. Black spending quite a bit of time together,” he begins, his tone meant to be genuine, but Harry can hear the undercurrent of disapproval. “A word of advice, lad: you might want to reconsider that friendship.”

Harry stiffens, unsure if he heard correctly. “Why?” His tone is flat, already knowing where this is heading.

Slughorn glances around the room, as if expecting eavesdroppers. “You’re Charlus’ boy, aren’t you? But not... entirely, if you know what I mean.” He waves a hand as though dismissing Harry’s lineage as a mere detail, but the disdain lingers. “It’s not your fault, of course, but—well, Heir Black ought to be associating with proper company. Not... not someone illegitimate.”

Harry’s blood runs cold. “You mean me,” he says, his voice a dangerous whisper.

“Come now, Harry. You know how society works,” Slughorn continues, lowering his voice even more. “A boy like Regulus—his future depends on the company he keeps. His reputation, his family. You’re a fine student, but... someone illegitimate is no good company for a Black. Really, Charlus should have done the responsible thing and—well, not taken you in.”

The words hit Harry like a punch to the gut. The casual cruelty of them stings more than he expected. He grips the strap of his bag tightly, trying to keep his emotions in check.

Before Harry can respond, a voice cuts through the thick silence.

"I would appreciate it," Regulus says icily from the doorway, "if you would stop trying to sabotage my life, Professor." His tone is sharp, colder than Harry’s ever heard it. Regulus strides into the room, his posture rigid, fury blazing in his eyes. "Who I am friends with does not concern you."

Slughorn’s mouth opens in surprise, but Regulus doesn’t give him a chance to speak.

"You think anyone can dictate my friendships? You think you can?" Regulus’s voice is venomous, and the calm facade he usually maintains is gone. "My life is my own, and you would do well to remember that."

The room falls into a tense silence. Slughorn blinks, visibly taken aback by Regulus’s outburst. He clearly hadn’t expected such defiance from a Black, least of all from the obedient, measured Regulus.

“Mr. Black, I—" Slughorn stammers, trying to regain control of the situation. "I was merely offering advice—"

"Unwanted advice," Regulus snaps. "My reputation is just fine. Perhaps you should worry about your own."

With that, Regulus turns on his heel and walks out, his robes billowing behind him. Harry, still reeling from the exchange, quickly follows.

They make their way to their next class—Charms. The hallways are bustling with students, but the silence between Harry and Regulus is thick, almost suffocating. Finally, Regulus breaks it.

"Can you believe him?" he mutters darkly, his hands clenched at his sides. "As if he has any right to tell me who I should be friends with."

Harry stays quiet for a moment, still processing Slughorn’s words. "Why do you care what he thinks?"

Regulus looks at him, his expression softer now but still clouded with frustration. "It’s not about him. It’s about people thinking they have control over my choices. My mother, my professors, my housemates—they all expect me to just follow the path they’ve laid out for me. But I’m not some puppet for them to direct.”

Rosier, who had been walking a few steps behind, catches up and claps a hand on Regulus’s shoulder. "Slughorn’s a pompous arse, Reg," he says, his voice full of derision. "He’s always trying to suck up to whoever he thinks will benefit him. Just because he’s worried about how things look for you doesn’t mean you need to give a fuck."

Regulus nods, but Harry can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands still clench into fists. He’s angry, truly angry, and Harry realizes this is more than just frustration over Slughorn’s words. It’s the weight of expectations, the invisible chains Regulus is constantly fighting against.

"People think they know me," Regulus mutters bitterly. "They think they can predict my choices, that I’ll just follow the path they’ve decided for me. But I’m not... I’m not what they think I am."

Harry listens, feeling a strange sense of connection in Regulus’s words. For all their differences, that feeling of being trapped by expectations, by people’s assumptions, is one Harry understands too well.

They walk in silence for a while longer, the air thick with unspoken thoughts.

The atmosphere in the charms classroom feels noticeably lighter after the tension with Slughorn. But Harry can’t shake the weight of the conversation that just passed. His mind still lingers on Regulus’s anger, the frustration boiling just beneath the surface. There’s a part of Harry that understands all too well—the feeling of not being in control of his own life, of having decisions made for him by people who think they know what’s best.

"Today," Professor Flitwick squeaks from the front of the room, standing on his usual pile of books to see over the desks, "we’re going to delve into a bit of advanced magic. The Patronus Charm!" His eyes twinkle as if he’s announcing the start of a feast. "Now, I don’t expect you all to master it by the end of this lesson—many of you won’t even be able to produce a wisp of light just yet. It’s very advanced magic. But we’ll begin with some theory, and perhaps, some of you might surprise yourselves."

Harry’s heart skips a beat at the mention of the Patronus. It’s a charm he knows well, one that saved him countless times. The thought of casting his stag Patronus, something so tied to his memories and to his father, makes his chest tighten. He hasn’t needed to summon it in this timeline, and the weight of that fact hits him now. He realizes how much he misses it—how much he misses the sense of protection it gives him.

Regulus glances over at Harry, catching the slight shift in his demeanor. “You alright?”

Harry nods quickly, though his thoughts are scattered. “Yeah, I just—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. How could he explain that he’s already mastered the charm? That he learned it when he was barely thirteen to save his life from dementors? It feels too personal, too complicated. So, instead, he falls silent.

Professor Flitwick continues. “The Patronus takes a unique form for every witch and wizard—an animal that reflects some deep aspect of their soul. Most of you will find it difficult to conjure, as it requires a focus on your happiest memory. But today, we’ll be starting with research.”

A collective groan ripples through the room. Harry smiles faintly, almost relieved that they aren’t diving straight into practical work. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to summon his Patronus again, not here, not in front of everyone.

“For your homework,” Flitwick goes on, “I’d like you all to form groups of three. Your task will be to research one famous witch or wizard known for casting a Patronus. Find out when they learned to cast it, what form it takes, and why. Did it change during their lifetime? If so, why do you think it changed?”

The class murmurs as students begin shifting in their seats, looking for partners. Without missing a beat, Regulus turns to Harry. “You’re with me, of course.”

Rosier, sitting on Harry’s other side, smirks and leans back in his chair. “Guess that makes it the three of us, then.”

Harry hesitates. There’s a strange feeling inside him, teaming up with them like this, as if he’s starting to fit into a world that was never supposed to be his. But it’s not unpleasant. In fact, it’s a little reassuring, though he would never admit that out loud.

“Alright,” Harry agrees. “We should pick someone famous. Who’s known for their Patronus?”

Rosier shrugs. “Plenty of options, but I’m guessing Flitwick will want us to avoid the most obvious ones.”

“Dumbledore, maybe?” Harry suggests, surprising himself. His former headmaster is the first name that comes to mind, though the thought of researching him now feels almost painful.

Regulus shakes his head. “Too obvious. And everyone’s probably already thought of it.”

Rosier taps his quill against the desk, eyes narrowing in thought. “What about Gellert Grindelwald? He was said to cast a Patronus once, wasn’t he?”

Harry freezes. “Grindelwald?” He tries to keep his voice steady, but the name sends a chill down his spine. The idea of researching a dark wizard feels unsettling, especially given what he knows of Regulus’s family and their connection to darker magic.

Regulus seems to catch onto Harry’s unease and quickly shakes his head. “Grindelwald’s too... complicated. There’s too much there. We need someone who isn’t as controversial.”

Rosier rolls his eyes. “Fine, if we’re being boring about it, how about someone like Heather Shafiq?”

“Shafiq?” Regulus repeats, clearly surprised by his friend’s suggestion.

“She’s a retired auror, but when she was younger she was famous for learning the patronus during her trainee years. And, most importantly, she’s not afflicted with any side in the war,” Rosier explains, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Her Patronus is a lynx, I think.”

Harry nods, playing along. He doesn’t recognize the name, but isn’t sure if saying so is wise.

“Good choice,” Regulus concedes. “We’ll research her.”

As the lesson progresses, Harry’s mind keeps drifting. He glances at Regulus, watching the way he meticulously takes notes and jots down details. The walls between them feel thinner now—like they’ve started to break down the barriers that kept them distant. But there’s still so much Harry doesn’t know. Regulus is a mystery to him in so many ways, and the questions swirling in his head about his loyalty, his future, and his fate feel more pressing than ever.

Harry wonders what kind of Patronus Regulus might summon. Would it be something noble, something fierce, or something altogether surprising? He knows better than to ask now, but the thought lingers.

At the end of class, as they pack up their books, Rosier cracks a smile. “Who knew we’d be doing homework on Shafiq, of all people? Never thought the day would come.”

Regulus huffs a small laugh, though his eyes are still distant. “Let’s just hope Flitwick’s impressed.”

Harry, for his part, feels the weight of everything unsaid between them. He wonders if Regulus has ever thought about the Patronus Charm—about the need for happiness, about the memories it requires. And as they walk together toward their next class, Harry can’t help but wonder what memories Regulus would hold onto in the end, when everything that’s to come finally catches up to them.

****

The Slytherin common room is quiet, save for the soft murmur of students studying and the occasional crackle from the fire. Harry sits at a table with Regulus and Rosier, poring over books and parchment. The topic of their research, Heather Shafiq, a witch who had mastered the Patronus Charm at the remarkable age of 19, is proving more interesting than Harry had anticipated. Shafiq's lynx Patronus, which she had conjured during a particularly dark time in wizarding history, is both fascinating and inspiring.

"I still can't believe she managed to learn it at 19," Rosier mutters, scribbling notes. "Most wizards never even attempt it, and here she is, barely out of Hogwarts, casting a fully corporeal Patronus."

"Impressive," Regulus agrees, his tone neutral but with an edge of admiration. "Not many have that kind of emotional resilience."

Harry nods, though his thoughts drift. His eyes skim the books in front of him, but his mind is elsewhere—on the Patronus he himself can summon, on everything that Patronus represents for him. He wonders briefly what kind of memory Heather Shafiq had used to conjure her lynx. It must have been something powerful.

Just as Rosier is about to say something else, the door to the common room swings open. The sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, fills the room. Harry glances up, and his heart skips a beat.

Slughorn walks in, but he isn’t alone.

Beside him stands a tall, elegant man with a striking resemblance to Regulus. His posture is impeccable, his expression calm but sharp. There’s a quiet authority about him that makes the air in the room feel heavier. Harry doesn’t need an introduction to know who this is—he recognizes him from the tapestry at Grimmauld Place.

Lord Arcturus Black.

“Regulus, my boy, didn’t I tell you to stay away from Mr. Potter?” Slughorn says, his tone light but carrying a warning edge. He’s trying to maintain his usual charm, but there’s something strained in his voice.

Regulus doesn’t even bother looking up from his book. “Professor Flitwick paired us for the project in Charms,” he says evenly, stretching the truth. “Which we’re working on. You’re not implying I should fail it just because you don’t like Harry, are you?”

Harry feels a sudden pang of gratitude at Regulus’s calm defense. The tension in the room thickens as Slughorn’s face shifts, his smile faltering. The professor clearly hadn’t expected such a composed response.

"Now, Regulus, it's not about failing," Slughorn replies, attempting to recover. "It's about choosing the right company, the right people to associate with—"

"Regulus," Lord Black’s voice interrupts, smooth and authoritative.

The air in the room seems to freeze as the older man’s eyes land on his grandson. The subtle command in his tone is unmistakable. Slughorn falls silent, his attempt at persuasion cut short by the sheer presence of the elder Black.

Regulus finally looks up from his book. His eyes meet Lord Black’s, but his expression remains calm, composed. “Grandfather.”

Arcturus Black’s gaze sweeps over the table, briefly landing on Harry before returning to Regulus. There’s no visible emotion on his face, but Harry can feel the weight of his attention, the scrutiny behind those eyes. It’s as though the man is assessing everything in the room—who Harry is, what this moment means, and what it could mean for his grandson’s future.

Chapter 19: Lord Black – Part II

Harry and Rosier rise from their seats with quiet reverence, bowing respectfully to the imposing figure before them. "Lord Black," they murmur in unison.

Arcturus Black turns his sharp gaze toward them, his expression cool yet not unkind. “Young Rosier,” he acknowledges with a nod, before turning his attention fully to Harry. "And you must be Charlus’ son, Harry?"

"Yes, Lord Black," Harry replies, his voice steady, though his heart pounds in his chest. He's thankful for Dorea’s guidance in such moments, for teaching him the manners and grace to navigate these interactions without embarrassing himself.

Arcturus studies Harry for a moment, a calculating look in his eyes. “You bear a remarkable resemblance to your father," he observes, before a faint smile curls his lips. "Dorea must be very happy about that."

Harry blinks, momentarily caught off guard. He’s unsure how to respond, the words sticking in his throat.

Before Harry can stammer out a reply, Arcturus’s smile deepens, as if sensing the boy’s discomfort. “No need to look at me like that,” he says, his tone surprisingly gentle. "Even if we don’t share blood, my cousin took you in as her own. You are family.”

The room seems to still in that moment. Silence drops over the common room like a heavy blanket as every pair of eyes turns to Harry and Lord Black. The shock is palpable. Slytherins whisper among themselves, exchanging startled glances. Family? Harry? An illegitimate, half-blood Potter, welcomed by the Blacks?

Harry feels the weight of their stares, his skin prickling under the scrutiny. But more than anything, he feels a strange warmth blooming in his chest at Arcturus's words. Family. He’s family, no matter what bloodline runs through his veins.

Even Slughorn seems thrown off by the revelation, his usually jovial expression faltering. “She did?” Slughorn asks, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Charlus didn’t... force her, did he?”

“Salazar, no!” Arcturus laughs, a deep, rich sound that echoes through the common room. “Where did you hear such nonsense?”

"But—" Slughorn stammers, clearly out of his depth. He hesitates, unsure how to reconcile what he’s hearing with his previous assumptions.

Arcturus, still smiling, waves a hand dismissively. “If anyone was forced to take in Harry, it was Charlus,” he begins, his voice laced with amusement. "My cousin Dorea has always wanted more children. When she discovered Harry’s existence, she immediately took him in. In her excitement, she even forgot to inform Charlus."

Harry stares at Lord Black, his heart skipping a beat. It’s the story the Potters agreed on. But even if it isn’t true, an image of Dorea, warm and smiling, welcoming him into her home without a second thought, fills his mind. He can almost hear her laughter now, the softness in her eyes as she made him feel like he truly belonged somewhere.

Arcturus’s smile widens. “I heard when Charlus came home from work that evening, he was quite surprised to find a new family member.”

There’s a ripple of chuckles that spreads through the common room, the unexpected humor catching some students off guard. Harry glances around, startled by the shift in atmosphere. Even Rosier is grinning, his usual cool demeanor melting into amusement.

"Seriously?" Rosier asks, raising an eyebrow as he turns to Regulus.

Regulus smirks, clearly enjoying the moment. "Cepheus told me about it. Apparently, it wasn’t just uncle Charlus that aunt Dorea forgot to inform, but the entire family.”

That’s all it takes for Rosier to burst into laughter. The idea of Dorea, so excited by the thought of taking Harry in that she forgot to tell even her husband, is unexpectedly lighthearted and endearing.

Harry finds himself smiling, though there’s a part of him still reeling from everything that’s just been said. The weight of it all presses down on him, leaving him breathless.

Rosier wipes a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “Merlin, I can only imagine Charlus’s face. Coming home from a long day, and boom—instant son.”

The laughter spreads, and for a brief, surreal moment, Harry feels... included. He’s standing there, in the Slytherin common room, surrounded by people who have spent so long judging and ostracizing him, and yet now they’re laughing with him, not at him.

Regulus glances at Harry, his smirk softening into something more genuine, more thoughtful. It’s as if he understands what this moment means for Harry, the weight of acceptance, even if it’s only for a brief flicker in time.

Lord Black gives Harry one last nod, the kind of nod that feels like a seal of approval, before he turns and makes his way toward the door. The common room falls into a hushed murmur once more as students return to their books and papers, but the air feels lighter now, less tense.

Harry watches Arcturus leave, feeling both dazed and oddly... grounded. Family. The word keeps echoing in his mind, over and over. It’s something he never thought he’d find here, in Slytherin, of all places. But maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to realize that belonging doesn’t always come in the forms he expects.

Regulus nudges Harry with his elbow. “Don’t let it get to your head, Harry,” he mutters, though there’s a flicker of warmth in his voice. "You may be family, but that doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on you in our next Seeker match.”

Harry lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a small, genuine laugh escaping his lips. For the first time in a long while, he feels a little less alone.

***

The crisp October air bites at Harry’s skin, and though he’s cast a warming charm, he still feels the chill creeping in. He sits on one of the stone benches near the lake, soaking in what might be the last rays of sunshine before winter truly sets in. His thoughts wander, drifting between classes, Quidditch, and the complex web of Slytherin politics he’s found himself entangled in.

A shadow falls over him, pulling him from his thoughts. Looking up, Harry sees Jessica Sterling, a fellow fifth-year from Gryffindor, standing awkwardly in front of him. Her hair glints in the sun, and there’s a nervousness in her posture that makes Harry sit up straighter.

“Potter, can I talk to you for a second?” she asks, her voice hesitant, but determined.

“Sure,” he replies, sliding over on the bench to make space for her to sit, though she remains standing, fidgeting with the strap of her bag.

Sterling takes a deep breath. “I was wondering if you could, um… help me with something. I—well, I was hoping you might be able to set up a meeting between me and Alvin Rosier.”

Harry feels his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Of all the things he expected her to say, this wasn’t even on the list. His first instinct is to laugh at the absurdity of the request, but the look on Jessica’s face stops him. She’s serious.

“Sterling,” he begins, choosing his words carefully, “that’s… really not a good idea.”

Her face falls slightly, but she doesn’t give up. “I know what you’re going to say, but I’ve heard him speak in class—about blood status and magic, and he’s really clever. I just thought… maybe if I could talk to him, you know, get him to understand that we’re not so different… I don’t know, maybe it could help?”

Harry sighs, his chest tightening with sympathy. “I get what you’re trying to do, but Rosier… he’s not someone you can just talk into changing his views. Especially about something like that.”

Jessica frowns, looking down at her feet. “But you’re friends with him, right? And Black?”

Harry rubs the back of his neck, feeling the tension mounting. “It’s… complicated. But trust me, Sterling, it’s not safe. Rosier—he’s not going to listen to a Gryffindor, especially not a Muggle-born.”

Before Sterling can protest further, a harsh voice interrupts them.

“Well, look at this, a Gryffindor and a blood traitor, having a nice little chat.” Harry’s heart sinks as Laird Mulciber, flanked by his brother and Flint, saunters up with Crabbe lumbering behind them. Their sneers are cold, cruel, and Harry knows this won’t end well. To Harry’s surprise Snape isn’t with them.

“Got a thing for Mudbloods, Potter?” Flint sneers, his eyes flicking between Harry and Sterling. “Then again, your mother is a Mudblood.”

“Or maybe he’s just desperate,” Laird Mulciber adds, his voice dripping with malice. “It’s not like any self-respecting witch would be interested in him.”

Sterling stiffens beside him, her face paling as the insults land. Harry can feel the anger rising in him, his wand hand twitching at his side. He’s had enough of this. Enough of the hate, the cruelty. His mind races as he thinks of what to say, how to shut them up without making things worse.

Before he can speak, Lily Evans strides forward, her red hair blazing in the afternoon sun like a warning beacon. She’s furious, her green eyes blazing with authority.

“That’s enough!” she snaps, her voice cutting through the insults like a whip. “Five points from each of you for your disgusting behavior, and you’ll all have detention with Mr. Filch.”

The Mulciber brothers, Crabbe and Flint round on her, their faces twisted in rage.

“We don’t take orders from a filthy Mudblood like you,” Laird Mulciber spits, his wand already in hand.

Harry’s heart pounds. He’s reaching for his own wand, ready to defend Lily, when a calm, icy voice cuts through the tension.

“There you are, Harry. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Harry looks up, and there’s Regulus, strolling toward them with casual ease, though his eyes are sharp and cold as they land on the Mulcibers. He stops beside Harry, but his attention is fixed entirely on the others. “Is there a problem?” he asks, his voice low but dangerous.

The tension shifts immediately. Laird Mulciber’s face flushes with barely concealed anger, but he doesn’t dare cross Regulus. “No,” he hisses, lowering his wand. The others follow suit, glaring daggers at Harry and Jessica before storming off in a cloud of resentment.

Regulus sighs as they disappear from view, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Honestly, Harry, would it kill you to let me know where you’re going? I’ve been looking for you for ages.”

“Sorry…” Harry mumbles, though he’s more grateful than anything. Regulus just saved them from a fight that could’ve ended badly.

Regulus, however, turns his sharp gaze on Lily. “And you, Evans, just how stupid can you be? You should’ve gone to get a teacher, not interfered and made things worse. What are they teaching you up in that tower?”

Lily bristles, her face flushing red. “I’m Head Girl. It’s my job to stop—”

“First and foremost, you’re Muggle-born,” Regulus cuts in, his tone cold. “You should know better than to throw yourself into situations like this.”

Harry can see Lily’s anger rising, the way her fists clench at her sides as she prepares to shout back at Regulus. But before she can, Harry steps forward, holding up a hand.

“Evans,” he says quietly, his eyes meeting hers. There’s no challenge in his voice, just calm. “Regulus isn’t insulting you. He’s trying to help. You can’t fight everyone who throws an insult your way.”

Lily blinks, caught off guard by Harry’s words. “What? But—”

“Honestly, what was Dumbledore thinking when he made you Head Girl?” Harry continues, his voice dropping to a softer, almost pleading tone. “Does he want you to get killed?”

The wind is knocked out of her for a moment, her anger dissolving into confusion. “Huh?” she mutters, her gaze shifting between Harry and Regulus, unsure of what to say.

Harry sighs deeply, watching the conflicting emotions play across Lily’s face as she stands there, shaken and pale. Her usual fiery confidence is gone, replaced by a fragility he doesn’t often see in her. Sterling, standing beside her, doesn’t fare any better, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief.

“Look,” Harry begins, his voice softer but firm, “Regulus could’ve worded it a bit nicer, but he’s right. What you just did was both stupid and reckless. You put yourself—and Sterling—into danger. If Regulus hadn’t shown up when he did, things could have ended really badly.”

Lily opens her mouth to argue, but Harry holds up a hand to stop her. “They had their wands drawn, Evans. Could you have dueled all five of them at the same time and won? They were seconds away from hexing you. And I’m not talking about embarrassing, harmless jinxes like what James pulls for fun. I’m talking about curses—lethal curses that cause lasting damage or could even kill you. These are spells you’ve never heard of, things you can’t counter.”

Lily’s face drains of its remaining color, her expression crumbling as reality sinks in. Her hands shake ever so slightly, and she looks away, no longer meeting Harry’s gaze. Sterling swallows hard, clearly overwhelmed by the weight of what Harry is saying.

Harry presses on, the urgency in his tone rising. “If you want to survive in the wizarding world, you need to remember two things. First, there’s a hierarchy. Muggle-borns are at the very bottom. That’s just how it is.” He hesitates, seeing Lily flinch at the brutal truth, but he knows she needs to hear this. “If a pure-blood causes trouble, you either get a teacher, or you let another pure-blood of equal or higher standing deal with them. Understand? It’s not fair, but it’s reality. Make James take points, give out detentions—anything, but don’t get involved yourself. The Potters are one of the most influential families, right on par with the Lestranges and Rosiers, second only to the Blacks. James can handle it. They’d be too afraid of the consequences to go after him.”

Lily looks up, confused but curious. “Consequences?” she echoes, her voice small.

Harry nods. “Attacking James means attacking the Potters. And even if he acts like an immature brat, he’s Heir Potter. If James were to get seriously hurt, Lord Potter wouldn’t just sit back. He’d bury the attackers in lawsuits, ruin them financially—and that’s the best-case scenario. Worst case? He might declare a Blood Feud.”

Lily’s eyes widen in alarm. “A Blood Feud?”

"Do you know what that is?”

Hesitantly, she nods, her face pale. “Severus explained it to me once. It’s… not good.”

“No, it’s not,” Harry confirms. “If someone declares a Blood Feud, they’re essentially saying they’ll go after the entire family of whoever hurt their heir, even kill them if they need to. It’s deadly serious. That’s why no one touches James. They know the risk.”

Lily’s brow furrows, and she looks at him with a mix of confusion and doubt. “Does that mean… they wouldn’t have hurt you?”

Harry shrugs, trying to downplay it. “At least not in any way that would cause lasting harm or could be traced back to them. But I’m protected for different reasons.”

Lily frowns, still trying to piece it all together. “How so?”

“Well, my stepmother, Dorea—she was born a Black. I’m part of the Black family by marriage, and Lord Black himself visited the school a few weeks ago. He publicly declared that he considers me family because of Dorea. So if anyone hurts me, it’s not just an attack on the Potters, it’s an attack on the Blacks as well.”

Harry lets that sink in. “Attacking the Potters is stupid and reckless. Most people will avoid it if they’re sane. But attacking the Blacks? That’s guaranteed suicide.”

Lily’s expression shifts from confusion to dawning realization. She stands there, speechless for a moment, processing everything he’s told her. The weight of what she’s just avoided, thanks to Regulus, is clearly starting to hit her.

Regulus, who had been watching the exchange with an almost bored expression, rolls his eyes. “Why do you even bother explaining all this to them? It’s not like they care. If they did, they would’ve bothered to learn about how things work by now.”

Chapter 20: About Blood and etiquette

Harry shoots Regulus a look but doesn’t argue with him. He knows Regulus has a point, but that doesn’t mean it’s a reason to give up on people.

“They aren’t oblivious by choice, Regulus,” Harry says, his voice quiet but steady. “Dumbledore’s been keeping them this way. He’s making sure none of the Muggle-borns have the opportunity to learn about our world properly.”

Lily, still pale, stares at Harry, her mouth slightly open as if she wants to say something, but nothing comes out. Sterling, who’s been silent this whole time, finally speaks up, her voice trembling. “Why would Dumbledore do that? Why wouldn’t he… teach us?”

Harry hesitates. He can’t exactly tell them what he knows from the future—that Dumbledore kept him in the dark too, kept him ignorant of so many things he should have known –Harry hadn’t known anything until this summer when Dorea, appalled by his lack of knowledge, sat him down and explained everything. Instead, he just shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe he thinks he’s protecting you, or maybe he thinks ignorance is safer. But it’s not. Not here.”

Lily seems to pull herself together, her voice shaky but determined. “Then… what should we do?”

“Learn,” Harry says simply. “Learn everything you can about the world you’re living in. Ask questions, read, pay attention to how people act. And don’t assume Dumbledore—or anyone else—is going to tell you everything you need to know. You’ll have to figure out a lot on your own.”

Lily swallows hard, nodding slowly, while Sterling stands silently beside her, clearly overwhelmed by the harsh reality Harry’s laid out. Harry watches them, a strange mixture of frustration and sympathy building inside him. He wants to protect them, to make sure they understand how dangerous this world can be for people like them—but he can’t always be there to shield them. They need to know how to protect themselves.

Harry takes a deep breath. “Hogwarts school rules ban titles and ranks,” he begins quietly, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of tension. “Every teacher is ‘Professor’ and every student is ‘Mr.’, ‘Miss’, or ‘Mrs.’—if they’re married, that is. Doesn’t matter if they’re an aristocrat or not.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle. “And while it’s a good idea—letting everyone have an equal chance to learn—it also gives Muggle-borns a tainted view of how things really are.”

Lily frowns, her confusion evident, but Harry doesn’t give her a chance to interject. His gaze hardens, and he continues, “Out there, beyond Hogwarts, it’s different. There are families with power, with names that carry weight. Muggle-borns, like you, don’t get taught the real rules. And that ignorance... it’s dangerous.”

Regulus, who had been silently watching, nods in agreement. “They’ll all be in for a rude awakening once they enter our world,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “Hogwarts might shield you, but the second you step into society, you’ll realize it doesn’t care about how well you did in school or if you were Head Girl.”

A heavy silence follows. Sterling quietly slips away, clearly burdened by the weight of the conversation. Nobody stops her.

Lily looks caught between wanting to argue and grappling with the truth they’re laying before her. She bites her lip, her face pale as the realization sets in.

Regulus, breaking the tension, glances at Lily, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Are you and Harry related?” he asks suddenly.

Lily, clearly taken aback, blinks. “What? No... why would you ask that?”

Regulus shrugs lightly, but there’s a hint of curiosity in his gaze. “Your eyes. They’re the same. Exactly the same.” He looks from Lily to Harry, then back to Lily, like he’s putting together pieces of a puzzle that no one else can see.

Harry stiffens, his stomach twisting. He wants to deny it. He knows it would be safer for Lily if the truth never got out—safer for her not to be connected to him, especially now, when everything is hanging by a thread. But at this point, it’s too late. Lily could find out on her own if she dug deep enough, just like Dorea had. There’s no point in lying anymore.

Harry's breath comes slow and steady, but beneath the surface, his heart hammers painfully in his chest. He feels the weight of every stroke of his wand as he writes his name in the sandy ground: Harry Potter. The letters glow faintly, illuminated by the magic, and for a moment, he hesitates and checks their surroundings. They’re alone. Nobody is nearby. The next name is heavier, carries more consequence. He forces himself to continue, his voice caught in his throat as the tip of his wand moves almost reluctantly: Charlus Potter, then next to it, Isabella McConner.

The ground seems to absorb the names as if the earth itself can sense the burden he is revealing. Lily leans in, her brow knitting with concentration, her eyes scanning the names Harry had written. For a heartbeat, Harry can feel her breath against the cool autumn air, can sense the growing confusion in her posture, in the way her lips part in anticipation of an explanation.

But Harry doesn’t give it. Not yet.

He swallows, his mouth dry, and his hand shakes slightly as he continues. Above Isabella McConner, he carefully writes Michael Evans and Alice McConner. His mind flashes through a thousand thoughts—some of them painful, some of them dangerous. He pushes them away and takes a deep breath, forcing his hand to stay steady.

Then comes the name he dreads writing most. Albert Evans.

The reaction is immediate. Lily’s sharp intake of breath slices through the stillness. Her hand flies to her mouth, her fingers trembling as she stares at the name written in the dirt. “That’s… that’s my great-grandfather’s name,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, as if she’s afraid speaking it too loud will shatter something fragile.

Harry nods slowly, feeling his heart tighten as he watches her process the truth. His hand trembles again as he writes one more name—Vanessa Gaunt—next to Albert Evans.

Lily’s wide eyes snap to the new name, her lips parting in stunned silence. She stares at it as though she’s looking at something both familiar and terrifying. “I only knew my great-grandmother’s first name was Vanessa,” she murmurs, her voice faltering. There’s a hint of something fragile in her tone, as if her world is teetering on the edge of an irreversible shift.

Her gaze flicks to Harry’s face, searching, pleading for some kind of explanation that would make sense of this tangled web of names. But Harry can only look back at her, his heart aching with the weight of everything left unsaid.

Beside them, Regulus is just as silent. The usually stoic Slytherin’s expression has cracked, his eyes widening as he stares at the names written in the sand. The shock is clear, but there’s something else in his gaze—recognition. Understanding.

Lily’s whisper cuts through the heavy silence. “Why didn’t you ever contact me?” Her voice trembles, each word laced with emotion. “We’re family. I would have liked to know.”

The guilt strikes Harry like a physical blow. He glances down at the name Vanessa Gaunt and traces a small circle around it with his wand, his heart sinking. “It’s safer if you didn’t know,” he says quietly, his voice raw. There’s a deep sadness in his words, a sorrow that he’s carried for too long. “Do you know anything about the Gaunts?”

Lily shakes her head, her confusion mounting. “No… should I?”

Harry’s voice grows heavier as he explains, “They’re the descendants of Salazar Slytherin.”

Lily freezes, her body going rigid. The name—Slytherin—hangs in the air like a curse. Her eyes widen in shock, and her lips part, but no sound comes out. It’s as if the mere mention of the name has rendered her speechless.

“Slytherin?” she finally manages, her voice weak and filled with disbelief.

Harry nods grimly, watching her as the reality of it sets in. “And in this political climate, with you being a Gryffindor… being a descendant of Slytherin is far more dangerous for you than being Muggle-born.” He speaks softly but firmly, trying to impress the gravity of the situation upon her. “You need to keep this quiet, Lily. At least until things change. If people find out… it’ll make you a target in ways you can’t even imagine.”

Lily’s face pales further. She swallows hard, her throat bobbing as she struggles to grasp what Harry is telling her. “But… why?”

Harry turns back to the ground, continuing the family tree, each name he writes feeling like another weight on his chest. He writes down Vanessa’s parents, then her siblings— Marvolo and Mirella Gaunt. Slowly, methodically, he connects the names Marvolo Gaunt and Mirella, then their other children, Vanessa’s siblings: Morfin and Merope.

Lily stares at the names, her confusion deepening. Harry feels the pressure building in his chest as he draws a line from Merope Gaunt to Tom Riddle Sr., then, finally, writes their son’s name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Her gaze flicks between the names, her lips moving silently as if trying to make sense of it all. Then, with a wave of his wand, Harry slowly rearranges the letters of Tom Marvolo Riddle. As the letters shift, they spell out a different, far more chilling name: I am Lord Voldemort.

The words hang in the air, and Lily gasps, stumbling back a step. Her eyes are wide, her face drained of all color. The truth sinks in like a stone falling into the depths of her mind. Regulus, who had been watching in silence, has gone pale. He, too, seems to feel the gravity of what Harry has just revealed, though he stays silent.

Harry waves his wand again, and the family tree disappears into the dirt. He looks up at them both, his heart heavy with the weight of the secret. “Now you understand why you have to keep it hidden.”

Lily’s nod is slow, her face still ashen. Her hands tremble slightly as she tries to process everything, her mind racing, but she knows now that this is something she can never speak of.

“If you want to,” Harry says quietly, “you can claim me as family. We’re second cousins, after all. But only if you lie and say our Muggle grandparents were siblings. It’s your choice.”

Lily’s eyes move from the erased family tree to Harry, then to Regulus, her uncertainty evident. Her mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. Her eyes silently ask a question she’s too afraid to voice.

Harry, noticing her hesitation, glances at Regulus and offers a brief explanation. “He already knows,” he says, his voice steady but tired. “He’s sworn an Unbreakable Vow not to reveal anything.”

Regulus meets Lily’s gaze, his face unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something almost like regret.

***

That evening, Harry makes his way down the darkened corridors of the castle, heading toward his next lesson with Salazar Slytherin, who is probably already waiting in his second portrait frame down there. The castle is quieter than usual, the students either in their common rooms or in the library, the usual hustle and bustle reduced to a muted hum. But Harry's steps are purposeful, his mind racing with thoughts from earlier that day. The weight of the family secrets he revealed to Lily and Regulus still clings to him, gnawing at the edges of his conscience.

As he walks, he feels a familiar prickling sensation at the back of his neck. He doesn't stop, but his instincts sharpen. Harry’s learned to trust his gut—someone’s following him. He doesn’t need to look back to confirm it; he knows who it is. Regulus.

A smirk plays at the corner of Harry's lips. Regulus, trailing him in secret? The thought amuses him, but it also irritates him. Whatever Regulus is hoping to discover, this isn't the place for it. And if he thinks he can sneak around without Harry noticing, he’s got another thing coming.

"Fine," Harry mutters under his breath, deciding to turn the tables. "Let's see how brave you really are, Regulus."

Instead of confronting him, Harry pretends not to notice and continues walking, leading Regulus to the second floor, into the bathroom of Moaning Myrtle. Luckily the ghost is absent today. His pace is calm, deliberate, as he leads his shadow closer to his destination.

The bathroom is dark and quiet, the air thick with a sense of age and power. As Harry approaches the entrance to the secret passage, he glances around, ensuring no one else is in the vicinity. He feels Regulus’ presence still behind him, the other boy moving with cautious steps.

Perfect.

Harry slides down the passageway, letting the cold stone walls surround him. The deeper he goes, the more the temperature drops. Finally, they reach a secluded corner of the chamber—where Shia, the ancient basilisk, waits. The creature has grown fond of Harry over the last few weeks, recognizing him as a worthy descendant of Salazar. Harry has learned to appreciate her quiet company, though it stings him with guilt every time he remembers what he did to her in the future.

As he steps forward, Shia’s massive form begins to stir. The low hiss she lets out reverberates through the chamber, sending chills down Harry’s spine despite their newfound friendship. He watches her serpentine body coil and rise, her emerald eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

Behind him, there's a sudden intake of breath. A gasp, barely stifled. And then… silence.

Harry turns just in time to see Regulus, standing frozen, his face drained of all color. His grey eyes are wide with terror, fixed on the basilisk. Harry can almost see the exact moment the reality of the situation hits Regulus—he’s not following Harry anymore. He’s trapped, inches away from a basilisk.

Without warning, Regulus' legs give out beneath him, and he crumples to the ground, fainting.

"Shit," Harry hisses, rushing over. His amusement fades as concern takes over. Regulus isn’t exactly the type to be easily scared, but then again, he didn’t exactly plan for him to encounter this.

Pulling out his wand, Harry points it at the unconscious Black and mutters, “Ennervate.”

A flicker of magic washes over Regulus, and almost instantly, his eyes snap open. For a moment, confusion registers on his pale face, but as soon as he remembers where he is, the color drains again. Regulus scrambles to his feet, his wand drawn, shaking as he stammers, “B-b-basilisk!”

Harry can’t help but chuckle, though he feels a pang of guilt for frightening him this much. "Calm down, Regulus," Harry says, trying to keep his voice light. “She’s not going to hurt you. Meet Shia, Slytherin’s pet basilisk.”

Regulus stares at him, utterly speechless. His eyes dart from Harry to the enormous creature looming behind him, and Harry can see the disbelief written all over his face. It’s as if he’s questioning the reality of the situation—wondering how Harry can stand so close to a basilisk without being instantly killed.

And then, to Regulus' further horror, Harry reaches out and pets Shia.

"You're mad," Regulus breathes, his wand still trembling in his grip, eyes wide as saucers. “You’re actually mad, Harry.”

Harry can’t suppress his laughter this time. "I promise she’s friendly. At least with me." He gives the basilisk an affectionate pat before turning back to Regulus, who still hasn’t moved an inch, clearly in shock.

“Come on,” Harry says, still chuckling at the sheer disbelief on Regulus’ face. “I’ve got something else to show you.”

Though Regulus looks like he’d rather run in the opposite direction, he swallows hard and follows Harry through the chamber. They finally stop in front of the old portrait of Salazar Slytherin himself, the founder's piercing eyes watching them from the painted canvas. Salazar's expression softens slightly when he sees Harry and a small smile forms on his face.

“Salazar, this is Regulus Black,” Harry says, his voice carrying a hint of pride as he introduces his friend. “He’s been… curious.”

The portrait of Slytherin tilts its head, eyes flickering from Harry to Regulus. “A Black,” Salazar muses, his voice deep and commanding. “Your bloodline has always held promise.”

Regulus straightens up slightly at the compliment, his wand lowered but still clutched tightly in his hand. He casts a sidelong glance at Harry, as if waiting for some explanation of why Harry is on such good terms with a founder of Hogwarts—or why he’s casually introducing him to a basilisk.

Salazar's eyes gleam with approval as he studies Regulus more closely. “I see potential in you, Regulus Black,” he says with a nod. “Loyalty, ambition, and strength—qualities that will serve you well in the future.”

Regulus blinks, momentarily stunned by the praise, before a flicker of pride appears in his eyes. But still, there’s a question there, something unspoken that lingers in the air between the three of them.

Harry watches Regulus’ internal struggle play out on his face. The Black heir is torn between fear, curiosity, and the need to prove himself. But in this moment, Harry sees the boy’s vulnerability—the weight of expectations on his shoulders, the pressure of the Black family name.

Harry feels a pang of empathy. He knows what it’s like to carry a legacy you didn’t choose, to feel trapped by the weight of the past.

“You’re safe here, Regulus,” Harry says softly. "No one will hurt you."

Regulus glances at Harry, then at the still-imposing form of Shia, and finally at the approving portrait of Slytherin. Slowly, he relaxes his stance, though there’s still a cautious edge in his eyes.

“Alright,” Regulus says, his voice steadier now. “I’ll trust you. But only because I’m not ready to be eaten by a basilisk.”

Harry smirks. “You’ll be fine.”

Chapter 21: A dangerous theory

Harry steps out of the Chamber of Secrets, the ancient stone walls echoing with the weight of history as he makes his way back to the Slytherin common room. His mind is spinning, buzzing with the revelations from his lesson with Salazar Slytherin. He thought he knew the man—thought he understood the infamous founder's prejudices and motivations—but tonight had upended everything he believed.

Slytherin had always been painted as a villain in the tales passed down through Hogwarts' halls. The man who despised Muggleborns, who wanted to exclude them from magical education, who left the school in a bitter fight with the other founders. But now... now it didn’t seem so simple.

Harry had confronted Salazar about his supposed hatred for Muggleborns, fully expecting the founder to defend his bias. But instead, Slytherin's response had been unexpected, almost nonchalant.

“In my time,” Salazar had said, his voice as cold and ancient as the chamber itself, “there were no true Muggleborns. Every child had at least one magical parent. It wasn’t about bloodlines. It was about ensuring they knew the basics—how to read, how to write. How to avoid insulting those they were trying to learn from.”

Harry had been floored. He’d pushed further, asking what the real cause of the rift between Slytherin and the other founders had been. Salazar’s reply had shaken him even more.

“I didn’t want uneducated commoners in the school,” Slytherin had explained, his tone laced with frustration. “They couldn’t read, they couldn’t write, and they didn’t even know basic etiquette. Do you know how often they insulted me, not intentionally, but out of ignorance? I wanted them to learn the essentials first—how to be presentable in society—before coming here to study magic. It wasn’t about favoring purebloods. It was about order, structure, and teaching magic, not basic literacy.”

The image of Salazar Slytherin that Harry had carried for so long had begun to crumble. It wasn't about blood purity for him—at least not in the way history had painted it. The fight with the other founders hadn’t been about excluding Muggleborns because of their blood, but because they weren’t ready for magical education.

The thought gnaws at Harry as he pushes open the door to the common room. The familiar green and silver surroundings should be comforting, but tonight they feel cold, distant. He needs to process everything.

He spots Regulus in a quiet corner, the Black heir sitting with a book in his hands, absorbed in whatever he’s reading. Harry moves toward him, his footsteps slow and heavy, his mind still clouded with confusion and questions. He drops into the seat beside Regulus without a word, lost in his thoughts.

Regulus glances up briefly from his book, nodding in greeting. “Harry,” he acknowledges before turning back to his reading.

Harry doesn’t respond right away. His thoughts are still spinning around Slytherin’s words, the implications of everything he’s learned. Slowly, an idea begins to form in his mind, one that sends a jolt of shock through him. He turns to look at Regulus, his expression serious, his heart pounding with anticipation.

He leans in closer, casting a quick Muffliato charm to ensure no one can overhear their conversation. His voice is low, almost hesitant, when he finally speaks. “Regulus, I need to ask you something. Purebloods... in the 1800s, they stopped killing their Squibs, right? Instead, they started dropping them in the Muggle world?”

Regulus, still focused on his book, hums in confirmation. “Yeah. Too many Squibs were being born, many witches didn’t want to kill their children, but couldn’t risk their families’ reputation by raising squibs. So they dropped them in the muggle orphanages or confounded muggles into believing the children are theirs.”

Harry’s heart races as he continues, carefully choosing his words. “Since the 1900s, the number of Muggleborns entering Hogwarts has been increasing exponentially, hasn’t it?”

Regulus doesn’t look up, but he nods again. “That’s what the statistics show. More and more every year.”

Harry’s eyes narrow, his voice quieter now, filled with a strange mixture of dread and excitement. “What if... there’s a connection between the two?”

The silence that follows is deafening. Regulus freezes, the book slipping from his fingers and landing with a soft thud on the floor. He finally looks up at Harry, his grey eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

“You can’t be serious,” Regulus whispers, his voice barely audible. “Are you saying...?”

Harry quickly raises his hands in a placating gesture. “It’s just a theory. I might be wrong. But think about it, Regulus. How many Muggleborns might actually be descendants of old magical lines through Squibs? I mean... look at me. Look at Lily. We’re both descendants of ancient pureblood families through Squibs who were dropped into the Muggle world. How many others are like us?”

Regulus stares at him, speechless, his mind clearly racing. The idea is absurd, yet... it makes a kind of terrible sense. The increase in Muggleborns, the disappearance of Squibs... could they really be connected?

“No... it can’t be,” Regulus mutters, more to himself than to Harry. His expression shifts between disbelief and cautious consideration, as if he’s trying to reconcile the idea with everything he’s ever been taught.

“What if it is?” Harry presses, his voice more urgent now. “What if there’s no such thing as a true Muggleborn? What if they’re all descendants of Squibs, magical bloodlines hidden in the Muggle world?”

Regulus doesn’t respond right away. He leans back in his chair, staring at nothing, his face pale and drawn. The implications of such a theory are staggering. It would rewrite everything they knew about bloodlines, about magical inheritance, about the entire structure of the wizarding world.

After what feels like an eternity, Regulus finally speaks, his voice quiet and strained. “You would need proof. An ancestry test, at the very least, for multiple Muggleborns.”

Harry lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I know. I don’t have that kind of money, so it’ll have to wait until after I finish Hogwarts. But it’s worth considering, isn’t it?”

Regulus doesn’t answer right away. He seems lost in thought, his mind still grappling with the enormity of the idea. Finally, he nods, albeit slowly. “Yes,” he admits. “It’s worth considering.”

Harry leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, feeling both exhilarated and overwhelmed by the conversation. If his theory is right, it would change everything. Not just for him, but for the entire wizarding world.

But for now, it was only a theory. And like everything else in his life, it would have to wait.

The atmosphere in the Slytherin common room shifts abruptly when the stone wall opens, revealing Professor Slughorn, accompanied by Rosier. The professor’s jovial voice cuts through the murmur of quiet conversations as he strides in, his presence commanding immediate attention.

Harry quickly mutters a spell to deactivate the Muffliato charm.

"Ah, Regulus! Harry!" Slughorn calls cheerfully, his walrus-like mustache twitching as he smiles. "Just the ones I was hoping to find. Why don’t you two join me and Alvin for a nice cup of tea? There are a few school matters we should discuss—nothing too formal, of course."

Regulus, ever the picture of calm and propriety, nods politely. “Of course, Professor. Thank you.”

Harry clenches his jaw, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He’s not in the mood for Slughorn’s overzealous attention or his false camaraderie, but with Regulus already accepting, there’s no graceful way out of it. Resigned, he forces a nod. "Sure, why not."

The three of them follow Slughorn through a discreet entrance that leads directly from the common room into his office. It’s a cozy space, filled with the familiar sight of shelves sagging under the weight of ornate potions bottles, gleaming with rich colors, and a heavy, dark wood desk that seems almost too small for Slughorn's generous size.

With a snap of his fingers, Slughorn summons a house-elf, who promptly pops into view, bowing low. “Tea, if you please, and some of those delightful ginger biscuits,” he orders. The elf nods and vanishes, returning almost instantly with a silver tray laden with teacups, a pot of tea, and an assortment of biscuits.

“Now then,” Slughorn begins, settling comfortably into his chair. He smiles indulgently as the elf pours their tea. “I thought it might be useful to discuss what you three plan to do after your NEWTs. I have some very interesting connections, you know. They could be... most beneficial to you in your future careers.”

Harry’s fingers tighten around the delicate teacup. Slughorn’s words, though meant to be friendly, grate on his nerves. The man’s transparent flattery, his eager attempts to forge alliances with those he deemed important, make Harry’s skin crawl. He had been one of those who initially looked down on Harry, treating him like a nobody. But now that Lord Black had claimed Harry as family, Slughorn’s sudden shift in attitude felt not only insincere but nauseatingly opportunistic.

And Harry’s had enough.

"Why don’t you shove those connections where the sun doesn’t shine?" Harry blurts out before he can stop himself.

A stunned silence follows. The cheerful clinking of teacups halts mid-motion. Regulus glances at Harry, raising an eyebrow, while Rosier almost chokes on his tea, barely managing to stifle a laugh.

Slughorn blinks, his round face frozen in shock, clearly unused to being spoken to with such blatant disrespect. The corners of his mouth twitch, but for once, words fail him.

But Harry’s not done. The anger that’s been simmering within him for months, maybe longer, is finally bubbling over. “I’ve had enough of two-faced hypocrites like you,” he says, his voice low but filled with biting contempt. “You treated me like dirt beneath your shoes until Lord Black publicly acknowledged me. Now, suddenly, you care? Now, suddenly, I’m worth your time? I don’t need your fake interest or your precious connections.”

Rosier, unable to hold back any longer, lets out a sharp snort of laughter. He quickly covers it up by taking a large gulp of tea—just as a large spider descends from the ceiling on a silken thread, landing on the teacup’s edge, right by his fingers.

Rosier’s eyes widen in horror. His face pales, and a second later, he lets out an uncharacteristic shriek, jerking his hand back so violently that he knocks the teacup from his grasp. It shatters on the floor with a resounding crash as he leaps from his chair, his back slamming into one of Slughorn’s overflowing bookcases. A few volumes tumble down, thudding onto the ground.

Without thinking, Harry pulls out his wand, casting a quick spell to trap the spider in a shimmering, translucent dome before banishing it somewhere far away, outside the castle. “It’s gone,” he says, trying to suppress a smile as he watches Rosier shakily catch his breath.

Rosier, still rattled, straightens his robes and mumbles an apology, his face burning red. “Sorry, Professor,” he mutters, clearly embarrassed. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

Slughorn, having recovered from the initial shock of Harry’s outburst, waves his hand in a placating manner. “No harm done, dear boy,” he says, his voice regaining its usual syrupy tone. With a flick of his wand, the shattered teacup repairs itself, and the spilled tea vanishes. “These things happen to the best of us.”

Regulus watches the entire scene unfold with a single raised eyebrow, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

As Rosier gathers up the fallen books to return them to the shelves, a few loose papers slip out from between the pages. He frowns, picking them up, and then—still slightly shaken—reads the words aloud. “Professor, what’s a... Horcrux?”

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. Harry feels the blood drain from his face, his heart slamming against his ribcage as though it’s trying to escape. His hand grips the arm of his chair so tightly his knuckles turn white.

Slughorn freezes, his jovial expression disappearing in an instant, replaced by a look of wide-eyed horror. The color drains from his face.

“Horcrux?” Regulus’s voice breaks the silence, but it’s tight, barely above a whisper, as if he’s trying to convince himself he didn’t hear what he just heard. His usual composed demeanor cracks, his eyes locking onto Rosier with a look of pure, unadulterated fear. “Did you just say… Horcrux?”

Rosier stands there, the confusion deepening on his face, his eyes darting between Harry, Regulus, and Slughorn as if trying to decode some hidden message. His fingers fumble nervously with the papers, still oblivious to the weight of the word he just uttered. "Yeah... what is it? Something important?" he asks again, his voice laced with growing frustration.

Harry's gaze flicks to Regulus, whose face has gone ghostly pale, his normally composed demeanor utterly shattered. Regulus knows. The truth hangs between them like a live wire, sparking with the weight of their shared knowledge. Harry’s breath catches in his throat, panic surging through him.

Without thinking, he grabs Regulus by the shoulder, his grip tight, desperate. "Regulus," Harry’s voice is low, urgent, trembling. "How do you know what a Horcrux is?"

Regulus’s head jerks towards Harry, wide-eyed and horrified. "How do you know?" he gasps, voice barely above a whisper, his shock evident.

Chapter 22: Dangerous knowledge

Before either of them can respond, Rosier cuts in, his frustration mounting. "What’s a Horcrux?" His voice is louder now, cutting through the tension, but there’s a tinge of fear in his words—fear that he’s stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have.

Slughorn’s face has gone white as a sheet, the joviality that once radiated from him completely gone. His eyes dart nervously between the three boys, lingering too long on the papers in Rosier’s hands. His voice trembles when he finally speaks. "That… that is not something you should be asking about, Mr. Rosier," he stammers, his hands trembling slightly as he gestures toward the papers. "Not something any of you should be discussing. Forget you saw those pa—"

Before Slughorn can finish, Regulus cuts him off, his voice sharp and tinged with panic. "A Horcrux," he begins, his words rushed, tumbling out before he can stop himself, "is an object that stores part of someone’s soul. It’s dark magic. Forbidden magic. It’s practically impossible to destroy once it’s created... and it makes the person who made it almost immortal."

Rosier’s eyes widen, fear flickering there now, but his curiosity still pushes him forward. "Immortal?" he repeats, glancing between Harry and Regulus. "Like... forever?"

Harry feels the blood rushing in his ears, his heart pounding against his ribs. His mouth moves before his brain can catch up. "Basilisk venom," he blurts out. "It works. It can destroy Horcruxes."

The moment the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. Slughorn inhales sharply, his wide eyes snapping toward Harry. The tension in the room thickens to the point of suffocation.

Rosier, however, still hasn’t grasped the severity of what he’s uncovered. His brow furrows as he stares at the papers in his hands. "What about... multiple Horcruxes?"

Regulus’s reaction is instant. "Multiple?" he breathes, horror filling his voice as he recoils. "Who would be stupid and insane enough to attempt multiple Horcruxes? Splitting your soul even once is—it's already unthinkable, unnatural! It damages you, it destroys you!" His voice rises, shaking with disbelief.

Rosier's hand trembles now, but he presses on, his curiosity turning into dread. "What about... six?" he whispers, barely able to get the words out.

The room falls silent, a suffocating weight pressing down on everyone. Regulus lets out a strangled cry, his hands shaking as he runs them through his hair, pacing now as if he needs to physically distance himself from the mere idea. "Six? Six? That’s not just suicide—that’s... that's something worse. That’s a fate worse than death. Splitting your soul in half with each Horcrux? That’s... no one can survive that!"

Harry, his mind reeling, starts to do the math, his voice cold and detached despite the growing panic in his chest. "So... someone with six Horcruxes would only have about one and a half percent of their soul left." The words hang in the air, and the reality of what they’re discussing sinks in.

Regulus nods, still pacing, his movements frantic. "Yes! But it’s more than that, Harry. The body... it can’t live with that small amount of soul left. It can’t die either." His voice cracks as he continues, the terror in his eyes mirroring the fear rising in Harry’s chest. "It’s the worst form of existence. Trapped. Neither alive nor dead. Just... a fragment of a person. A broken soul."

Harry’s stomach churns violently, and he can feel the acidic burn of bile rising in his throat. His hand shakes as he rips the papers from Rosier’s frozen fingers. His eyes scan the parchment, his heart pounding in his chest as the words blur before him.

Slughorn’s scrawled handwriting covers most of the papers, shaky and uneven in places, but then Harry’s eyes catch on something else—another handwriting, much more elegant, flowing across the page with unnerving precision. His breath catches in his throat, cold realization flooding through him. He’s seen this handwriting before. His mind flashes back to second year, to the diary. Riddle. The smooth, meticulous script is unmistakable.

Harry's voice comes out barely above a whisper, his words more to himself than anyone else. “So Riddle made six…”

He’s so caught up in his thoughts, in the horror of the revelation, that he forgets, for a split second, where he is. His heart beats faster, his mind racing. “I knew there were at least three... but six...”

The room seems to freeze around him. For a brief, terrifying moment, everything is suspended in silence, the gravity of Harry’s words sinking into the very walls.

Then Slughorn moves.

A sharp flick of his wand.

“Obliv—!”

Harry reacts on pure instinct. His own wand is in his hand before he can think. “Expelliarmus!”

Slughorn’s wand flies out of his hand with a crack, spinning through the air before clattering against the stone floor. The shock in Slughorn’s eyes is mirrored in the expressions of Regulus and Rosier. The professor’s face pales, his hands trembling as he takes a step back, his eyes darting between the three boys like a cornered animal.

For a moment, the room is deadly still. Harry’s breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps as he levels his wand at Slughorn, his heart pounding in his chest. The fear, the panic, the overwhelming sense of betrayal—they all swell inside him like a storm, threatening to drown him. But it’s anger that pushes him forward, that forces the words out of his mouth.

“Don’t you dare try that again,” Harry hisses, his voice low and filled with fury. “If you even think about attacking me or my friends, I swear—” His hand tightens around the wand, his grip trembling with emotion. “I’ll make sure everyone knows it was you who taught Voldemort how to make Horcruxes.”

Slughorn’s eyes widen in pure terror. His lips part as if to deny it, to offer some feeble excuse, but no words come out. He knows it’s the truth. And now, Harry knows too.

Regulus looks like he’s barely breathing, his face still pale and drawn, his eyes flicking between Harry and Slughorn in disbelief. Rosier, for once, is utterly speechless, his eyes wide, his body stiff with fear.

Without wasting another second, Harry grabs both Regulus and Rosier by their arms, pulling them towards the door with a sharp tug. “We’re leaving,” he mutters, his voice tight and shaking with barely controlled rage.

They stumble out of Slughorn’s office, Harry dragging them through the Slytherin common room as though the walls themselves are closing in on him. His mind races, every step filled with dread. The cold realization that Riddle had made six Horcruxes presses down on him like a weight he can’t shake.

The moment they reach the dormitory, Harry slams the door shut behind them. His heart is still pounding, his breath coming out in shallow, uneven gasps. His mind spins, trying to piece together everything that just happened.

Harry paces back and forth across the dorm room, his footsteps heavy and agitated. “Fuck this!” Harry snarls, his voice echoing off the stone walls. He kicks the edge of the bed in frustration, the dull thud reverberating through the room. “Fucking Slughorn! Fucking Voldemort! Fuck all of this!”

Regulus sits stiffly on the edge of his bed, his eyes wide and unnerved, while Rosier stands awkwardly by the window, his face pale, unsure of what to do. He glances between Harry and Regulus, the tension in the air thick and suffocating.

"Potter..." Rosier starts hesitantly, lifting his hand as if to calm him. “You need to calm down. Panicking isn’t going to help anything. We need to—”

“Calm down?” Harry whips around, his face flushed with anger, cutting him off. His voice rises, sharp and laced with panic. “You don’t get it, do you? You have no idea how serious this is!”

Rosier flinches, taken aback by Harry’s intensity, while Regulus stiffens beside him, his jaw tightening.

Harry’s chest heaves as he continues, his anger fueled by the sheer weight of the knowledge they now hold. “Voldemort—”

“Don’t say the name!” Regulus and Rosier shout at the same time, panic flashing in their eyes.

Harry rolls his eyes, frustration boiling over. “Fine! Voldy, then!” He spits the nickname like a curse. “What do you think is going to happen when he figures out we know about the Horcruxes? One glance! One look at us, and he’ll read our minds like a bloody book!”

The room falls into a heavy, suffocating silence. Regulus and Rosier exchange a terrified glance, the full weight of what Harry is saying settling over them like a shroud. The color drains from Rosier’s face, his earlier attempts at calmness evaporating as reality sets in.

“What do you think he’s going to do to us? Huh?” Harry presses on, his voice rising with desperation. “Or to our families? Do you think he’s just going to let us walk away knowing his biggest secret?” He stops pacing and stares at them both, his green eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and fury. “Do you honestly think we’ll survive that?”

The room is thick with tension, the gravity of Harry’s words sinking in. Rosier’s hands shake as he clutches the windowsill, his knuckles turning white. Regulus, normally composed and collected, looks utterly shaken, his face pale as he struggles to find his voice.

Regulus finally breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “What... what do we do, then?” His eyes are wide with desperation, pleading with Harry for an answer. “How do we survive this?”

Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair. The anger that’s been driving him begins to ebb, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. He slumps against the nearest bedpost, his mind racing as he tries to find the right words.

“There’s... there’s a way,” he says quietly. “Salazar’s been teaching me a ritual. It’s Parselmagic, ancient magic that can put his soul back together. If I can do it, he’ll be mortal again.”

Regulus blinks, confusion and hope warring in his expression. “Mortal? You mean, he’d... he’d no longer be invincible?”

Harry nods, though his face remains grim. “Yeah. But here’s the thing—it’s going to take time. The ritual’s complex, and I’ve only just started learning Parselmagic. Salazar says it’ll take four or five more months before I’m ready to cast it properly.”

Rosier lets out a shaky breath, his eyes darting between Harry and Regulus. “Four or five months?” he repeats, his voice trembling. “You mean we have to... to keep this secret from him for that long?”

Harry nods again, his face set in determination. “We don’t have a choice. If Voldy—if he—finds out we know about the Horcruxes before I’m ready...” His voice falters for a moment, the weight of it all pressing down on him again. “We won’t get a second chance.”

Regulus leans forward, his face pale but resolute. “Then we have to be careful. We have to stay off his radar. We can’t slip up, Harry. Not even once.”

Harry’s heart pounds in his chest, but he meets Regulus’s gaze with a fierce determination of his own. “I know. And we’ll make it through this. But we can’t let our guard down. Not for a second.”

Rosier swallows hard, his eyes filled with fear. “And... and what about Slughorn? He tried to Obliviate us. What if he tries again? Or... what if he tells someone?”

Harry’s jaw tightens. “He won’t. I made sure of that.” His voice is hard, laced with cold anger. “Slughorn knows what’s at stake. If he even thinks about betraying us, he knows it’ll be his neck on the line too.”

Regulus nods slowly, his face still pale but calmer now. “Then we just have to hold on. We survive, and we wait until you’re ready.”

Harry exhales slowly, the tension in his chest easing just a fraction. Then he turns to Regulus.

“Regulus,” he says, his voice low but urgent, “you still haven’t told me how you know about Horcruxes.”

Regulus glances up, his eyes still wide with the residual shock of their conversation. “I—I read about them,” he stammers, his voice shaking slightly. “In the Black library. It was a book on dark magic. I didn’t understand all of it at the time, but...”

Harry nods, his mind racing.

Regulus continues, his brow furrowing with curiosity and concern. “But Harry, how do you know so much about Horcruxes? The Potters are a Light family. There is no way they have a book like that in their library.”

Harry swallows hard, the truth a burning weight in his throat. He can’t reveal the real source of his knowledge—not yet. Time travel and the intricacies of his otherworldly experiences are secrets he must keep hidden for their safety.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his racing thoughts. “Salazar told me,” he says finally, choosing his words with care. “He mentioned Horcruxes when he asked me to perform the ritual to make Voldy’s soul whole again.”

Rosier’s eyes narrow slightly, searching for any hint of deception in Harry’s face. “Salazar? As in Salazar Slytherin” he repeats, his tone incredulous. “But... why would he—”

Harry cuts him off, the strain evident in his voice. “It’s complicated. Salazar has been teaching me a lot of things, and Horcruxes came up during our discussions.”

Regulus’s expression shifts from suspicion to understanding, though his eyes remain clouded with concern. “So, Salazar knows about the Horcruxes too? Does he know how many there are?”

Harry hesitates before shrugging. “He knows there are multiple, but I’m not sure about the exact number.”

Rosier looks from Harry to Regulus, his face etched with worry. “And what if Salazar’s ritual isn’t enough? What if—”

Harry’s eyes meet Rosier’s, a steely determination in their depths. “We don’t have the luxury of doubt right now. We have to believe it will work. We have to make sure Voldy doesn’t find out about our plans, or it’s all over.”

The room falls into a heavy silence, each of them grappling with the enormity of their predicament. Harry’s mind races, the fear of Voldemort discovering their secret weighing heavily on him. The enormity of their task looms large, and the stakes have never been higher.

Regulus finally breaks the silence, his voice steady but tinged with resolve. “We can do this. We have to. For ourselves, and for everyone else who’s at risk.”

Harry nods, though his heart is heavy with the knowledge of how precarious their situation is.

As the tension in the room lingers, a sudden thought crosses Harry’s mind. He chuckles humorlessly. “At least you two won’t join him, now.”

Chapter 23: Feelings

After the lesson, Salazar watches Harry with a calculating look, the air between them filled with an odd tension. Harry, still trying to absorb the ancient magic Salazar had just taught him, doesn't notice the shift in the atmosphere. He’s focused, his mind replaying the intricacies of the spell, but something about Salazar’s silence feels heavier than usual.

“Harry,” Salazar begins, his voice smooth yet filled with something almost teasing. Harry glances up, confused by the shift in tone.

“Yes, sir?” Harry responds, his brow furrowing slightly.

Salazar smirks, the edges of his mouth curling in that all-too-familiar, knowing way. “There is something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you. Your feelings for young Regulus Black.”

Harry freezes, heat creeping up his neck. His heart skips a beat as he stares at Salazar in shock. “My... what?”

Salazar raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the reaction. “Your feelings, boy. Do not act so surprised. You may not have spoken of them, but it’s obvious—if you know what to look for.”

Harry can feel his face growing hotter by the second. His mind races, desperately trying to find a response. He’s never breathed a word of this to anyone—least of all Salazar, who has no business knowing something so personal. “I-I don’t... I mean, I never said—”

“You didn’t have to,” Salazar cuts in smoothly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “It’s written all over your face every time you look at him. Your little sighs, the stolen glances when you think no one is watching... It’s quite amusing, actually.”

Harry’s face is burning now, embarrassment and indignation swirling in his chest. “That’s not—I mean, it’s not like that,” he stammers, though even as he says it, he knows it sounds weak.

“Really, now?” Salazar’s smirk deepens, his amusement only growing. “Harry, do not insult my intelligence. I’ve been a portrait for centuries; I know infatuation when I see it.”

Harry’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, completely lost for words. His mind reels, his heart hammering in his chest as he tries to find a way out of this conversation.

Then, as if to twist the knife even deeper, Salazar adds with a casual wave of his hand, “But don’t worry. I approve.”

That stops Harry in his tracks. His eyes snap to Salazar, bewilderment clear on his face. “Approve?”

Salazar chuckles softly. “Yes, approve. Regulus Black is a good catch—far better than most people of your age. Intelligent, resourceful, and, most importantly, loyal. You could do far worse.”

Harry gapes at him, feeling like the ground has just been pulled out from under him. He stares at the ancient wizard, unable to believe what he’s hearing. “I—I didn’t—”

“There aren’t many people I would consider worthy of my descendant,” Salazar continues, as if Harry isn’t sitting there completely mortified. “But Regulus? He has potential. You chose well.”

Harry’s brain short-circuits. He never imagined he’d be having this conversation with Salazar Slytherin, of all people. This ancient wizard, who’s teaching him dark and powerful magic, is now giving him... relationship advice?

“I... this isn’t—” Harry stands abruptly, the need to escape overpowering the embarrassment burning in his chest. “I need to go.”

Salazar’s smirk softens, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Run along, then. But remember what I said, Harry. You’ve found someone worth holding on to.”

Harry doesn’t respond. His face still flushed, he mumbles a hurried “goodnight” and practically bolts out of the chamber, his thoughts a chaotic mess of confusion and embarrassment.

As he steps out into the corridor, he feels the cool air hit his face, doing nothing to alleviate the heat that still lingers on his cheeks. His heart is still pounding in his chest, and the echo of Salazar’s teasing voice rings in his ears. Regulus is a good catch.

He’s too lost in his thoughts to notice the group of boys standing just ahead of him until it’s too late.

Harry stalks through the deserted corridor, his mind spinning with thoughts about the ritual, Regulus, and Salazar’s words still lingering like an ember in his chest. His head’s already a mess, and all he wants is a bit of quiet, a moment to think. But instead, he’s run into the last group of people he wants to deal with.

The Marauders.

“Oi, you slimy snake!” Sirius’s voice cuts through the still air like a shard of glass. Harry tenses instinctively, his heart sinking. He doesn’t want to do this. Not now.

“Look who it is!” James’s tone is mocking, laced with the familiar arrogance that sets Harry’s nerves on edge. “Thought you’d be too ashamed to walk around these parts. What’s wrong? Feeling a bit slimy after all that time with the snakes?”

Harry keeps his head down, his fists clenching. He tells himself to ignore them, to keep walking. He’s learned to endure worse, but that doesn’t stop the words from cutting deep.

“What’s the matter? Did you lose your spine when you crawled into the snake pit?” Sirius’s voice drips with disdain, his footsteps echoing closer.

James snickers, glancing sideways at Pettigrew. “Or maybe he never had one in the first place.”

Harry grits his teeth, feeling a surge of anger flare in his chest. He knows it’s irrational, knows he should walk away. But the weight of their words, of Sirius’s betrayal, hits harder than it should. They’re laughing at him, mocking his choices, and it stirs up an old pain Harry hasn’t fully dealt with. He’s not just a stranger to them—he’s family, at least by blood. Sirius is supposed to be his godfather, but right now, he feels like just another enemy.

He takes a breath, forcing himself to walk on. He can take this. He has to. But before he can even make it a few more steps, the situation escalates.

“Regulus!” The voice is sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Harry’s heart jumps as Regulus and Rosier appear at the end of the corridor. His stomach tightens. The last thing he wants is for them to get involved. He opens his mouth to warn them off, to tell them to go before things get worse, but it’s too late.

Regulus strides forward, his eyes narrowed as he stares at his brother. “Back off, Sirius. Leave him alone.”

Sirius’s sneer deepens, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Well, well, well, look who decided to slither out of the shadows. Coming to the rescue, is he?” He crosses his arms, standing tall, as if daring Regulus to come closer. “Funny, I didn’t think you had it in you, Reggie.”

Regulus doesn’t flinch, his wand slipping into his hand. “You don’t know me, Sirius. You never did.”

“Oh, I know you,” Sirius retorts, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re nothing but a coward. Always have been.”

Rosier, standing just behind Regulus, steps forward now. His eyes flick to Harry briefly before settling on Sirius, his own wand drawn. “Walk away, Black. Now.”

The tension is palpable, thick enough to choke on. Harry feels his pulse pounding in his ears, every nerve on edge as the Marauders exchange sneering glances. He knows what’s coming. He can sense it in the air.

“You think I’m scared of you, Rosier?” Sirius growls, his wand flicking up in a heartbeat.

“Expelliarmus!”

Regulus’s wand is ripped from his hand, flying through the air and landing in James’s outstretched palm. For a second, the world seems to freeze as Regulus looks down at his empty hand, the shock clear on his face.

 But before anyone can react, Sirius’s next spell is already on his lips. “Ebublio!”

Regulus is thrown backward, trapped inside a shimmering bubble of water. His hands slap uselessly against the sides of the bubble, his mouth open in a silent scream. There’s no air inside. Panic floods his eyes as he struggles to find something, anything, to breathe.

Harry’s mind blanks for a second, horror flooding his veins. This isn’t a prank. This isn’t a joke. This is—

“You fucking assholes!” The words tear from his throat, his voice raw with fury as he steps between Regulus and the Marauders. His wand is raised, shaking with the intensity of his anger. “Let him go! Now!”

Sirius doesn’t even blink. He just folds his arms across his chest, smirking. “Why should I? He’s just another snake.”

The laughter that follows from James and Pettigrew is cruel, heartless. It twists something deep inside Harry, something he hasn’t felt in years. This isn’t just schoolyard bullying anymore—it’s cruelty, pure and simple. He can see it in their eyes, the delight they take in Regulus’s suffering.

“I said, let him go!” Harry repeats, his voice shaking with the force of his rage. His wand is still raised, ready to cast something—anything—to stop them. But Sirius doesn’t back down.

James just laughs again, his grip tightening on Regulus’s wand.

In the corner of his eye, Harry sees Regulus’ movements becoming frantic, his breath growing more desperate. There’s no air in the bubble. If the spell isn’t lifted soon, Regulus will drown.

James and Pettigrew are howling with laughter now, delighting in their friend’s cruelty. Lupin, however, is silent. His eyes are fixed on the floor, his posture tense. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look at Harry, but it’s clear he doesn’t approve.

Harry's heart thuds painfully in his chest, his focus laser-sharp on Regulus' struggle. Do something, do something, do something! His mind screams at him.

Then, without warning, Pettigrew flicks his wand again, casting a Cheering Charm at Regulus. It’s overpowered, far too much for a situation like this. The charm hits, and Regulus’ face contorts in a forced laugh, his body shaking as the magic takes hold. It’s wrong. It’s so wrong, seeing someone laughing when they’re fighting for air.

Regulus starts choking on the water that’s entering his lungs.

“Finite!” Harry shouts desperately, aiming his wand at the bubble, but nothing happens. “Finite Incantatem!” The second spell works, and the bubble collapses, drenching everyone in water. But Harry doesn’t care. All he can think about is Regulus, who is now coughing violently, gasping for air.

Harry drops to his knees next to him, hands trembling as he grabs Regulus’ shoulders and moves him onto his side. “Anapneo!” he says, his voice steady even though he’s anything but calm.

The spell works. Regulus stops coughing, his breathing evening out as he takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. His face is pale, his body shaking as he leans heavily into Harry’s grip.

“Are you alright?” Harry whispers, his voice low and filled with concern. He gently helps Regulus into a sitting position, still holding onto him as if afraid to let go.

Regulus nods weakly, too exhausted to speak.

Harry turns to Rosier, his voice tight with fury. “Watch him,” he orders, not even caring how sharp his words sound. “Time to do some pest control.”

Rosier doesn’t hesitate. He kneels beside Regulus, his face dark with concern but silent as he takes the younger Black into his arms.

Once Harry is sure Regulus is in good hands, he stands up, stripping off his soaked school robe and letting it fall to the ground without a second thought. He cleans his glasses with a quick spell, his vision clear now as he turns back to the Marauders. His patience has worn thin.

“Give. Him. The. Wand,” Harry growls, his voice low, dangerous. He doesn’t care that he’s outnumbered. He’s done playing games. “You’ve got 30 seconds to convince me not to turn you lot into flubberworms and haul that rat”—he jerks his chin towards Pettigrew—“to the Aurors for attempted murder.”

James, grinning like this is all just one big joke, twirls Regulus’ wand between his fingers. “I don’t think so,” he says with a smirk and moves as if to snap the wand in two.

Harry doesn’t know if he’s bluffing or not. But it doesn’t matter. His heart clenches painfully, his grip tightening on his own wand. He’s had enough. He’s been holding back, but no more.

“Do that, and I swear to Merlin, I won’t be responsible for what I do next,” Harry warns, his voice deadly calm.

“You’re outnumbered four to one,” Pettigrew sneers, stepping forward. “What are you gonna do?”

“Try me,” Harry hisses, his eyes blazing. He’s faced death eaters, he’s battled Voldemort himself, and he’s survived. There’s no way he’s backing down now. Not to them. Not for anything.

Sirius sneers at Regulus, still coughing weakly in Rosier’s arms. “He deserved it. Slimy little snake.”

And that’s it. Harry’s control snaps.

Chapter 24: Escalation – Part I

Before he can even think, before reason can intervene, his wand is already pointing straight at Sirius. His vision blurs at the edges, fury clouding everything else. “You don’t get to talk about him like that,” Harry growls, his voice low, shaking with barely controlled rage.

Sirius turns, his sneer widening into a smirk. “Oh? Gonna teach me a lesson?” His voice is mocking, but Harry can hear the challenge behind it.

“Shut up!” Harry snarls, his wand flashing with a quick movement. “Furnunculus!”

Sirius doesn’t react fast enough. The curse hits him squarely in the chest, and boils instantly erupt across his skin, bubbling up grotesquely. He howls in pain, stumbling back.

“Prongs!” Sirius shouts through gritted teeth, trying to recover, but Harry’s already moving.

James steps forward, raising his wand, but Harry’s quicker. "Tarantallegra!" The spell hits James before he can cast anything, and his legs jerk uncontrollably, forcing him into an awkward, jittery dance.

“Enough of this!” Remus snaps, finally breaking his silence. His face, usually calm, is twisted in frustration. “Stupefy!”

Harry throws up a shield just in time, the red flash of the Stunning Spell ricocheting off his hastily cast Protego. But Remus’s spell is strong, and the force of it sends Harry skidding back, his feet sliding across the stone floor.

He barely catches himself before responding. “Glacius!” he yells, aiming at the ground beneath Remus’s feet. Ice blooms from Harry’s wand, spreading rapidly, covering the floor in a thin, slick layer of frost. Remus loses his footing, slipping, and in that split second, Harry doesn’t hesitate.

“Stupefy!” This time, Harry overpowers the spell, pouring everything he’s got into it. The red bolt hits Remus dead center, and the werewolf drops like a stone, unconscious before he hits the icy floor.

“One down,” Harry mutters to himself, his chest heaving. “Three more to go.”

But before he can catch his breath, Sirius is back on his feet, his wand raised. “You’ll pay for that! Lumos Maxima!”

A blinding light erupts from Sirius’s wand, filling the corridor with an intense, dazzling brightness. Harry throws an arm over his eyes, staggering backward. His vision swims with white spots, and he barely manages to mutter, “Protego!” as another spell comes hurtling toward him. The shield holds, but only just. He feels the impact of the spell vibrating through his bones.

He needs space. He needs to move.

“Aqua Eructo!” Harry shouts, and a jet of water bursts from his wand, aiming for Sirius. The stream smashes into him, sending him crashing back into the wall. Harry doesn’t stop. “Avis!” A flock of birds shoots from his wand, swarming around Sirius’s head, pecking and flapping, momentarily disorienting him.

But James isn’t down yet. Despite the dancing curse, he manages to get enough control to aim another spell. “Confundo!”

Harry feels the wave of confusion hit him like a tidal force. The world spins, his thoughts scrambling as he struggles to remember where he is, what he’s doing. He blinks, shaking his head violently, trying to clear the fog.

“Harry, behind you!” Rosier shouts, using his first name in the heat of the moment.

Instinct kicks in, cutting through the haze. Harry turns just in time to see Pettigrew raising his wand, a malicious grin on his rat-like face.

“ignis indumentum!” Pettigrew shrieks, and suddenly, Harry’s school uniform catches fire. But it’s a small price to pay for keeping his wits.

He grits his teeth, ignoring the heat and the pain as the fires goes out on its own thanks to his clothing being dripping wet. “Silencio!” he fires back, hitting Pettigrew before the coward can cast another spell. Pettigrew’s voice cuts off mid-laugh, leaving him gaping in silent frustration.

Sirius, finally recovering from the birds, lunges at Harry again. “ignis jet!” Flames burst from Sirius’s wand, roaring toward Harry. He throws up another shield, but the fire licks at the edges, singeing his robes and leaving scorch marks on his skin.

Pain flares up as the heat bites into him, but Harry can’t stop. He won’t stop.

“Expelliarmus!” he shouts, his wand aimed directly at Sirius. The spell slams into him with force, sending Sirius’s wand flying from his hand and into Harry’s. Before Sirius can react, Harry spins on his heel, aiming another Stunning Spell. “Stupefy!” Sirius drops to the ground, unconscious.

Two down.

Harry barely has time to register his small victory before James is on him again, his face red with fury. “Glacius!” James yells, and ice forms beneath Harry’s feet, sending him skidding and stumbling.

Harry falls hard, the ice cracking under him. He groans in pain, feeling sharp edges of the stone corridor biting into his skin. His school uniform is torn, his knees and arms scraped raw, but he pushes through the pain. “conflandum glacies!” he casts at the ice, melting it enough to stand again.

Pettigrew, still silent from Harry’s earlier curse, tries to sneak up on him, but Harry catches him in the corner of his eye. “Stupefy!” The spell hits Pettigrew directly in the chest, sending him crashing into the floor next to Sirius.

Three down. Only James left.

Harry’s heart pounds, adrenaline surging through his veins. His breaths come in ragged gasps as he turns to face James, who stands a few feet away, wand still raised, eyes blazing.

For a moment, neither of them moves. They just stare at each other, the silence between them heavy with years of unspoken tension. Then, without a word, James raises Regulus’s wand in one hand, his own in the other.

“Who did you say was outnumbered?” Harry growls, his voice low, furious. “Expelliarmus!”

The spell shoots out of Harry’s wand before James can react. Both wands—his and Regulus’s—are ripped from his grasp, flying through the air and landing in Harry’s outstretched hand.

The corridor is silent for a moment, the air thick with disbelief. James stands there, frozen, staring at his empty hands, his eyes wide with shock, the smirk wiped clean off his face. For the first time, Harry sees real surprise flicker in James Potter's eyes.

Alvin Rosier, still kneeling beside a recovering Regulus, watches Harry with something bordering on awe. His pale face betrays the disbelief and shock coursing through him. He stares at Harry like he’s looking at someone entirely different. “You just... you just won... against four of them...” He mutters, his voice unsteady.

Regulus, still catching his breath, coughs but manages to rasp out, “Wow.”

Rosier glances at Regulus, then back at Harry, shaking his head as if he still can't quite believe it. “Please remind me to never make you angry,” He says, his voice carrying a nervous laugh, though there's a clear undercurrent of sincerity beneath it.

Harry, still breathing hard from the duel, allows himself a brief grin. “Sure thing, Alvin,” he replies, deliberately emphasizing his first name.

Alvin blinks at the use of his given name but, after a moment, shrugs with acceptance. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t correct Harry or bristle at the informal address. It’s as if something has quietly shifted between them. First names, Harry thinks to himself, a quiet understanding passing between the two boys.

Before anyone can speak again, hurried footsteps echo down the corridor. Professor McGonagall rounds the corner, her robes billowing behind her, her face livid with fury. Her sharp eyes lock onto the scene: the unconscious bodies of Sirius, Remus, and Pettigrew, James standing dumbfounded and wandless, and Harry, Regulus, and Alvin still catching their breath.

“What is the meaning of this?” McGonagall’s voice slices through the tense air, cutting into Harry like a whip. She doesn’t wait for an explanation. “Mr. Potter!” she snaps, her eyes burning with accusation. “You’ve been here not even a full term and already causing chaos. Attacking your fellow students! I should expel you this instant!”

Harry feels his temper bubbling again. He straightens up, squaring his shoulders, his voice cold. “According to school rules, Professor, you’re supposed to summon our parents and the Aurors in situations like this. It’s not up to you to decide who’s at fault without knowing the full story.”

McGonagall’s stern face hardens, her lips thinning into a line. “Don’t you dare speak back to me, Mr. Potter. Thirty points from Slytherin for each of you.” She gestures angrily at Regulus and Alvin. “And two weeks' detention.”

Behind her, James grins, the smug expression creeping back onto his face. The unfairness of the situation burns in Harry’s chest like a lit fuse.

Without a second thought, Harry raises his wand. “Slugulus Eructo!”

James barely has time to react before he doubles over, gagging as slugs start spewing from his mouth, one after the other, their slimy bodies hitting the floor with disgusting splats. The grin vanishes as quickly as the slugs appear, replaced with horror and disgust.

McGonagall’s face turns scarlet with outrage. “Another fifty points from Slytherin!” she shouts, her voice high with anger. “And another two weeks of detention for you, Mr. Potter!” Her voice is trembling now, her fury barely restrained. “You better give me the counter-spell for your cousin right this instant!”

Harry’s hand clenches around his wand. He can feel the anger boiling inside him, raw and unfiltered. The injustice of it all—the fact that no matter what he does, he’s always treated as the villain, always the one to blame.

“You think I care about your points and your detentions?” Harry spits, his voice low but fierce, the frustration he’s been holding back finally breaking free. He steps closer, meeting her glare with one of his own. “You’re a two-faced hypocrite. You defend Gryffindors no matter what they do, but the moment a Slytherin fights back, you’re ready to throw them out. You don’t care about the truth. You’ve no business being a teacher.”

McGonagall’s face goes pale, her eyes wide with shock at Harry’s outburst. For a moment, she seems too stunned to respond, but then her lips press into a thin line. “Another one hundred points from Slytherin,” she says, her voice trembling with barely contained fury. “And five more weeks of detention, Mr. Potter.”

Harry doesn’t flinch. He’s had enough of playing by their rules, enough of being treated like the villain when all he’s done is defend his friends. He’s not going to let McGonagall—or anyone else—get away with it anymore.

Without a second thought he says, loud and clear, “Mippy!”

A small pop echoes through the corridor, and Mippy, the Potter’s loyal house-elf, appears at his side, her large eyes blinking up at him, her presence sending a ripple of shock through the room. McGonagall’s mouth falls open in disbelief.

“Master Harry called Mippy?” the elf asks, bowing low.

“Yeah, Mippy,” Harry says, his voice still tight with anger. “I need you to get my parents. And James’  parents. Now.”

Mippy’s eyes widen, and she nods quickly. “Right away, Master Harry.” With another pop, she vanishes.

The silence in the corridor is deafening. No one moves. No one speaks. McGonagall stands frozen, her eyes darting between Harry and the empty space where Mippy had stood.

“They’re going to be here soon,” Harry says coldly, glaring at McGonagall. “You might want to think about what you’re going to say when they arrive.”

McGonagall’s face is ashen, her authority crumbling in the face of the quiet rebellion Harry has ignited. Even Alvin, still kneeling by Regulus, is watching Harry with newfound respect.

Just as Harry predicted, Mippy reappears with a soft pop, but this time, she’s not alone. Fleamont and Euphemia Potter stand beside Charlus and Dorea Potter, their faces alight with concern the moment they take in the scene before them. The water-drenched corridor, puddles reflecting the dim light, the crumpled, unconscious figures of Sirius, Remus, and Pettigrew sprawled across the floor, and James—slumped on his knees, spewing slugs, drenched and pitiful.

But it’s Harry’s condition that draws their eyes first. He’s battered, bruised, his school uniform torn in several places, blood staining his collar and sleeve. His face is singed, faint burns marking his hands and arms. Behind him, Regulus leans heavily against Alvin Rosier, who seems unharmed but wet, his eyes wide with shock.

Fleamont’s voice, normally warm and kind, trembles with immediate worry. “What in Merlin’s name happened here?”

Euphemia steps forward, her eyes scanning over her son, then Harry. “Someone had better explain,” she demands, a hard edge in her voice that usually only surfaced when she was truly angry. “Professor McGonagall?”

The professor hesitates, her stern demeanor faltering under the weight of the situation. Her lips press into a thin line, but before she can speak, Harry—still breathing hard from both the duel and the adrenaline coursing through him—steps forward.

“They tried to kill him,” Harry says, his voice low and hoarse. His gaze flickers to Regulus, who’s still breathing shallowly beside Alvin. “Pettigrew, James, Sirius... Remus. They all had a part in it, or at least they stood by and did nothing.”

The Potters freeze, the air between them stilling with disbelief.

“Kill?” Dorea Potter echoes, her voice rising in shock as her eyes lock onto Regulus.

James tries to say something, but another slug forces its way from his throat, slithering wetly onto the floor with a sickening sound. He gags, pale and desperate.

Fleamont’s brows furrow deeply as he turns back to McGonagall. “Is this true? My son and his friends... tried to kill another student?”

McGonagall falters. “Lord Potter, I—there’s been a misunderstanding. Mr. Potter – Harry Potter – has clearly misinterpreted the events.”

Before she can say anything further, Alvin steps forward, eyes wide but his voice steady. “No, he hasn’t,” Alvin interrupts, causing McGonagall to snap her gaze toward him. “It wasn’t a misunderstanding. I was there. Regulus and I walked in when James, Sirius, and the others were bullying Harry again, like they have been since the beginning of the year.”

Chapter 25: Escalation – Part II

Euphemia’s face pales visibly at Alvin’s words, her lips parting in disbelief. “Bullying?” She glances back at her son, horror beginning to seep into her expression.

“They’ve been targeting him ever since he was sorted into Slytherin,” Alvin continues, his voice a little stronger now. “It happened again today. Regulus and I tried to stop them—tried to tell them to leave Harry alone—but instead of listening, James and Sirius hexed Regulus. James disarmed him, and Sirius trapped him in a water bubble.”

“Water bubble?” Charlus repeats, his voice thick with disbelief as his eyes dart to the unconscious form of Sirius.

Alvin nods, then looks at Regulus, who’s still catching his breath, his face pale and his hands trembling slightly. “Pettigrew cast an overpowered Cheering Charm on Regulus while he was still trapped inside. He couldn’t control it—he started laughing underwater. He breathed in the water.” Alvin’s voice wavers, and his expression tightens. “If Harry hadn’t been able to break the bubble, or if he hadn’t known that spell—Anapneo—and got the water out of his lungs just in time… Regulus would’ve drowned.”

The corridor falls silent.

The color drains from Euphemia’s face, her hand flying to her mouth in horror. Fleamont looks stricken, staring at Alvin, then at Harry, who stands tall despite his injuries. Charlus and Dorea, too, are frozen in shock, Dorea’s dark eyes wide and disbelieving as she looks between her cousins—one fighting for air, the other lying unconscious on the cold, wet floor.

Alvin steps closer to the Potters, his voice softer now but no less grave, then gestures to their surroundings. “That’s why this place looks like this. Afterward, Harry snapped. This is the result.”

The Potters stand in stunned silence. Fleamont runs a shaky hand through his hair, looking down at his son, at the mess he’s gotten himself into. “Dear Merlin...”

James, still gagging on slugs, tries to choke out words of denial, but it’s useless. His mother doesn’t even glance at him, her eyes fixed on Harry. “Harry...” Euphemia says softly, her voice trembling. “Is this true?”

Harry’s chest heaves with emotion, his fists still clenched. He looks up, meeting her gaze, his eyes blazing. “Yes, it’s true.” His voice cracks slightly, anger and hurt intertwining.

Fleamont rubs his face, trying to comprehend the gravity of the situation. McGonagall, who had been silently watching, steps forward, her voice unsteady. “Mr. Potter, there were... circumstances—”

“Circumstances?” Dorea’s voice, icy and sharp, cuts through the air. “Circumstances in which students were almost killed?” She looks at McGonagall, her expression hard. “You had better start explaining, Minerva.”

Harry steps forward again, the raw emotion finally breaking free. “All year, they’ve tormented me for being in Slytherin. I didn’t want to cause trouble. But today, they crossed the line.”

Dorea Potter’s lips tremble as she stares at Regulus, her youngest cousin, still gasping for air. His pale face is a haunting reminder of what could have happened. Her grey eyes, usually warm and calm, blaze with fury as she snaps her gaze back to McGonagall. Her voice, sharp and cold, cuts through the tension in the air.

"Why weren’t we informed?" she demands, her words trembling with barely suppressed rage.

McGonagall opens her mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. For the first time, she stands at a loss, clearly struggling to find words to explain the situation. It’s as though the full weight of what has transpired finally settles on her, and her authority falters.

Harry, still catching his breath, steps forward, his face twisted with frustration and pain. “I couldn’t write to anyone,” he says, bitterness edging his voice. “Someone’s been stealing my mail.”

A fresh wave of shock and anger washes over the adults. Fleamont’s expression hardens, his brows drawing into a deep frown as he looks at Harry.

"You’re still not receiving your mail? That should have been fixed…" Fleamont repeats, his voice thick with disbelief. "And Dumbledore—surely the headmaster would have intervened...?"

Harry lets out a bitter laugh, one without any real humor. He shakes his head. “Dumbledore? He didn’t care when James and his friends made a rug trip me down the stairs.” He looks up at Fleamont, locking eyes with him. “I broke several ribs that day. Dumbledore just called it a ‘harmless prank’.”

Dorea’s eyes darken with rage at Harry’s words. “And Slughorn?” she asks sharply, her gaze flicking between the professor and Harry. “Surely your Head of House would have—”

“Slughorn?” Harry interrupts, a sneer curling his lips. “He’s too busy kissing up to anyone with a famous name to care about his students. Besides,” Harry’s voice grows colder, “he stood with Dumbledore when they brought McConner to Hogwarts so she could take me to America.”

Charlus, who has remained quiet, suddenly snaps his head toward Harry, his expression one of utter disbelief. “Isabella McConner? She was here? In Hogwarts?” His voice rises, barely containing the shock that ripples through him. “She tried to take you?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, his tone flat. “Obviously, I didn’t go with her.”

Dorea’s eyes widen in horror, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “But... but Dumbledore and Slughorn were present?” she stammers, struggling to comprehend what Harry is telling them. “And they didn’t try to stop her?”

Harry’s jaw clenches, his expression hard. “No. They wanted me to go with McConner.”

That’s the breaking point. Fleamont’s usually composed demeanor shatters as he clenches his fists, his voice vibrating with fury. “That’s enough,” he growls, his patience exhausted. “Dumbledore has crossed the line.” He turns sharply to Dorea, his voice firm and commanding. “Inform your cousin, Lord Black, and the Aurors. Now.”

Dorea nods curtly, her usual grace overshadowed by her anger as she sweeps from the room with purpose. Fleamont, Charlus, and Euphemia turn back to the students, concern and anger mixing in their expressions.

“The students need to be brought to the hospital wing immediately,” Fleamont instructs, his voice clipped. “And kept under constant supervision.”

Within minutes, the unconscious figures of Sirius, Remus, and Pettigrew are levitated by McGonagall toward the hospital wing. Harry walks beside them, Alvin and Regulus trailing close behind. As they enter the sterile room, Euphemia immediately turns to Harry, her motherly instincts taking over.

“Sit,” she orders softly, but with a firmness that leaves no room for argument. Her hands tremble slightly as she performs a diagnosis charm, her face growing paler with every new injury the spell reveals. Harry’s uniform is torn, the burns and cuts on his skin still raw. Without a word, she begins casting healing spells, her movements quick and efficient despite her shaking hands.

“I’m fine, aunt Euphemia,” Harry mumbles, trying to downplay the pain. His voice wavers, but he forces a smile. “I’ve had worse. It doesn’t hurt that much.”

But the words hit Euphemia harder than Harry could have ever intended. She pauses, her wand trembling in her hand, and tears well up in her eyes. She blinks rapidly, trying to keep her emotions in check, but the pain in her heart is too much to hold back. Her shoulders shake, and to Harry’s shock, she begins to cry.

“Mum…” James croaks from his bed, his voice thick with guilt and discomfort, though his words are interrupted by another wet, gurgling slug.

Euphemia shakes her head, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand before she returns her focus to Harry, her voice breaking as she speaks. “You’re just a child,” she whispers, her tears falling freely now. “You shouldn’t have to be strong like this, not here, not at Hogwarts.”

Harry sits frozen, unsure of how to respond. His throat tightens, his anger slowly ebbing away as he watches Euphemia’s tears fall. He isn’t used to this—to someone caring this much. “I’m okay,” he repeats, his voice quieter, less sure. “I’m fine.”

But his words only make her cry harder.

***

A few hours later, the doors of the hospital wing swing open with an ominous creak, drawing the attention of everyone inside. Lord Black strides in, his face a mask of barely restrained fury, his cold grey eyes scanning the room. He is flanked by Dorea and four Aurors, their presence commanding and formal.

By now, everyone has been treated and changed into dry clothes, though the atmosphere remains thick with simmering resentment. James has finally stopped retching slugs after hours of miserable suffering, but there’s no sign of relief in his face—only anger and shame. Sirius sits beside him, arms crossed, his face a storm of conflicting emotions, but he doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Even Remus, the usually calm and thoughtful one, looks cornered, like a wolf caught in a trap. Pettigrew, however, is the worst off—pale and trembling, his face slick with sweat. He knows what’s coming. They all do.

The Potters—Fleamont, Euphemia and Charlus—stand near Harry's bedside. Their anger is palpable, like a growing storm, especially after hearing the extent of what their son and his friends had done. Even McGonagall, who stands by the window with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, looks visibly shaken, though she tries to maintain some semblance of control.

The Aurors waste no time. Their voices are brisk, professional, and unforgiving. “We’ll begin by taking statements,” one of them says, quill already in hand. He glances around the room, and the Marauders exchange uneasy glances, none of them willing to speak first.

After a beat of silence, Pettigrew cracks, his voice shaky and high-pitched. "It was a joke! I didn’t mean—" He swallows hard, unable to finish. His voice is trembling, his eyes wide and pleading as if somehow he can convince the Aurors of his innocence.

“Enough of this!” Lord Black’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife, sharp and cold. He steps forward, his robes swirling dramatically behind him. "Attempted murder is no joke. You knew exactly what you were doing."

The Aurors press for more details, and under the pressure of Lord Black’s steely gaze and the stern faces of the other adults in the room, the Marauders crumble. James speaks, his voice low and strained. “We didn’t mean for it to go that far. It was supposed to be a prank.”

“Prank?” Fleamont’s voice booms, his usually calm demeanor shattered by his fury. “A prank that nearly killed another student?” His hands clench into fists, his knuckles white with anger. “What kind of twisted game are you playing, James?”

James flinches, looking smaller than Harry has ever seen him. His lips part as if to offer some defense, but nothing comes out. His eyes dart to his mother, Euphemia, who stands beside Fleamont, her expression filled with a pain that cuts deeper than any scolding could. “I raised you better than this,” she says quietly, but the weight of her disappointment is deafening.

Sirius, unable to bear the silence, snaps. “It’s not like anyone actually died!” But his voice wavers, betraying the uncertainty behind his bravado.

Euphemia’s gaze turns icy as it lands on Sirius. “No, but they very well could have. That doesn’t excuse what you did. You, all of you, acted like arrogant bullies.”

The word hangs in the air, heavy and damning. Harry watches them all, silent but feeling the storm raging inside. His emotions are a whirlwind—hurt, betrayal, a flicker of satisfaction that justice is finally being served, but it doesn’t erase the sting of their actions. The sneers and disdain they’d thrown his way only hours before flash in his mind, the sharpness of their contempt cutting deep, even though he refuses to show it.

The Aurors move to Pettigrew. “Peter Pettigrew, you’re under arrest for attempted murder,” one of them says sternly, slapping magical restraints onto his trembling wrists. Pettigrew squeals in protest, his face pale, but no one speaks on his behalf.

“Wait,” Harry interjects, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere. The Aurors turn to him, curious. “You should know something else—Pettigrew is an animagus. A rat.”

There’s a brief, stunned silence in the room, and Pettigrew’s face goes white as a sheet. His eyes widen in terror as if realizing the gravity of what Harry just revealed. One of the Aurors raises an eyebrow, jotting down the information. “We’ll check whether he’s registered,” the Auror mutters, casting a suspicious glance at Pettigrew, who looks like he might faint on the spot.

Harry doesn’t elaborate on how he knows this, but the knowledge hangs in the air like an accusation. Pettigrew’s hands tremble as the Aurors step closer, finally placing magical restraints on his wrists.

Peter stammers, his voice shaky, “It was—It was just—”

“Save your excuses,” one of the Aurors snaps, pulling him to his feet.

The other Marauders sit in stunned silence as Pettigrew is taken away, the clang of the restraints echoing in the room like the final nail in a coffin.

Euphemia steps forward, her face carved from stone. “Sit down, James.” Her tone is icy and sharp. “Don’t you dare defend him after everything that’s happened. I raised you better than this.”

James flinches, his face crumbling at her words, but he lowers himself back into his seat, defeated. Sirius, too, looks lost, and for once, no sharp retort comes from him. The weight of what they’ve done is now fully sinking in.

Euphemia’s disappointment deepens as she turns to both James and Sirius. “Your and Sirius’ Hogsmeade privileges are revoked indefinitely. Mippy!” The house-elf appears with a soft pop. “Confiscate their brooms, their Quidditch gear, and any joke items they possess. Everything they don’t need for school.”

Sirius jumps up, his eyes blazing in protest. “You’re not my mother! I’m of age—you can’t—”

“As long as you live under our roof, you follow our rules.” Euphemia’s voice is as unyielding as steel. “But if you prefer, you’re free to return to your parents. I’m sure your mother would be more than happy to have you back.”

Sirius visibly pales, his defiance crumbling at the mention of Walburga Black. He sinks back down into his chair, his fists clenched but silent.

It’s at that moment that Dumbledore steps forward, his hands raised as if to calm the situation. “Now, Euphemia, Fleamont, surely this is all a misunderstanding. They are young boys who—”

“Shut. Your. Mouth.” Fleamont’s voice booms, fury radiating off him in waves. “How dare you stand here and defend them? After all they’ve done? After you’ve allowed this to go on for years?”

Dumbledore raises his hands in placation, but it’s too late. Fleamont’s voice is like a roar now, filling the entire hospital wing with its intensity. “I, Lord Fleamont Potter, declare a blood feud against Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore!” His voice echoes through the room, each word a hammer strike of finality.

Gasps ripple through the room, shock settling over everyone like a heavy weight. Even Dumbledore, whose usual calm demeanor rarely falters, looks momentarily taken aback.

Before anyone can react, Lord Black steps forward, his expression fierce. “And I, Lord Arcturus Black, declare a blood feud against Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore as well.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and ominous, the gravity of their declarations sinking in. Dumbledore’s face pales, his voice barely above a whisper as he repeats, “A blood feud?”

Charlus’s voice cuts through next, cold and sharp as ice. “Yes, Dumbledore. A blood feud.” His gaze shifts to the Aurors. “Someone has been stealing my son’s mail. I expect a full investigation.”

One of the Aurors nods, quill scratching across parchment as they take note of the charge. “We’ll look into it.”

Harry, feeling the weight of all the betrayals and the injustices he’s suffered over the past year, speaks again. “Isabella McConner is involved. Either she’s the one stealing it, or she knows who is.”

Charlus’s eyes darken at Harry’s words. “We’ll press charges. Isabella McConner, for attempted kidnapping, and against Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn for assisting her.”

“And I want a restraining order,” Fleamont adds, his voice steel. “Against McConner, Dumbledore, Slughorn, and McGonagall. They are not to come near Harry or James again. Ever.”

Lord Black steps forward, his tone equally firm. “And I demand the same for Regulus and Sirius. I will not have them near my grandsons.”

Charlus’s voice carries the final blow. “Furthermore, we are pressing charges against Dumbledore and McGonagall—for failing to intervene when students nearly died, for not following the law, and for abuse of authority. We will also be contacting the Board of Governors to have the unjust punishments McGonagall doled out lifted.”

The room falls silent after Charlus’s declaration, the weight of everything finally settling in. Harry stands in the middle of it all, his heart racing, his mind swirling with the enormity of what has just transpired. For the first time in what feels like forever, he feels like things are finally moving in the right direction—like justice is finally being served.

The adults around him—Fleamont, Euphemia, Lord Black, Dorea, Charlus—stand as protectors, warriors ready to fight for the justice Harry has so long been denied. The weight of their fury and their love for him wraps around him like armor, shielding him from the pain and betrayal of the past few months.

Chapter 26: Escalation – Part III

They are released from the hospital wing in time for dinner. As Harry, Alvin, and Regulus make their way to the Great Hall, the air between them is heavy with a mix of quiet relief and lingering tension. They’ve survived the fallout from the day’s events, but Harry’s mind feels like it’s swimming through a fog. The adrenaline that had kept him sharp earlier has ebbed, leaving him exhausted, emotionally drained.

He casts a glance toward the Marauders as they trudge down the corridor ahead of them. James, Sirius, and Remus all look like beaten dogs—heads low, shoulders hunched, the weight of their earlier punishment still hanging over them. Even Sirius, usually so full of bluster, seems subdued. James’s eyes dart around the hallway, but there’s none of the usual cocky swagger. He looks smaller somehow, like the world he built around himself had crumbled in an instant.

“They got off easy,” Alvin comments, his voice low but carrying an edge of frustration. His sharp gaze follows the Marauders, as if he can barely stand to look at them. “If it weren’t for James and Sirius’s family names, they would have had a permanent entry in their criminal records.”

Regulus nods, adding quietly, “It would have ruined their chances at anything important—jobs in the Ministry, becoming Aurors, maybe even teaching positions. They’d be out of luck.”

Harry just nods in agreement, his mind not fully there. His emotions are tangled—a whirlwind of anger, sadness, and something that feels almost like pity for James. But he keeps his face calm, giving nothing away. It still hurts—how quickly everything with James had spiraled out of control. And when he looks at them now, beaten and chastised, it stirs something in him, something uncomfortable. But he can’t dwell on it, not now.

When they enter the Great Hall, it’s abuzz with the usual noise—students laughing, talking, the clatter of silverware against plates. But the moment the three of them step in, Harry feels eyes turn toward them. He stiffens, bracing himself, but before he can process anything, he hears a voice calling his name.

“Harry!”

Lily Evans stands up abruptly from the Gryffindor table, her face a mixture of worry and frustration. She rushes toward him, her eyes scanning him as if she’s searching for visible signs of injury. “What happened? Are you okay?” she asks, her voice urgent. Her hands hover near his arm like she’s resisting the urge to check him over for bruises.

Harry blinks in surprise, taken aback by her concern. He hadn’t expected this—Lily rushing to him like this, ignoring everything else around them. He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, James rushes into the great hall, his face twisted with anger.

“What the fuck, Lily?” James growls, his voice trembling with a mix of hurt and fury. “Are you seriously running to him now? Haven’t you taken enough from me already, Harry? Do you need to steal my girlfriend too?”

The accusation stings, but Harry doesn’t flinch. He’s used to James’s outbursts. But before Harry can even think of a response, Lily acts.

Her hand swings through the air, and the slap echoes across the hall.

James stumbles back, clutching his cheek, his expression one of complete shock. The hall falls silent, every head turning toward them in stunned disbelief. The usual noise dies down as though someone had cast a silencing charm over the entire room.

“You arrogant toerag,” Lily hisses, her voice shaking with anger. “You’ve got the intelligence of a bloody tablespoon, James Potter!” Her green eyes blaze with fury, and she steps toward him, her finger pointed accusingly. “You’re too thick to even ask what’s going on before you start hurling accusations!”

James looks like he’s been hit with a bludger, his mouth opening and closing, but no words come out. He’s still clutching his cheek where Lily slapped him, his wounded pride visible for all to see.

Lily’s voice rises, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. “Harry is my cousin, James!” she shouts, her words hanging in the air like a bombshell. “My cousin! Which you would have known if you had bothered to use your brain or just asked! But no, you had to assume the worst.”

The Great Hall is completely still now, every student watching the unfolding scene with wide eyes. Even the teachers seem to be caught off guard, unsure of whether to intervene.

James is too stunned to reply, his eyes darting from Lily to Harry in disbelief. His hand remains frozen against his reddened cheek, too shocked to process everything she just said.

Harry feels a rush of conflicting emotions. Lily’s defense of him fills him with a warmth he hadn’t expected, but there’s also an undeniable ache. This—everything with James—had once been so different. Once, they were meant to be friends. Yet, here they are now, standing on opposite sides of the battlefield, with James glaring at him as though he’s the enemy. The look on James’s face hurts more than Harry wants to admit, but he swallows it down, not letting any of it show.

Regulus, standing beside Harry, watches the scene unfold with a small smirk. “Well, look at that,” he teases lightly. “Seems you and Evans share the same temper.”

Harry huffs a small, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, must run in the family,” he mutters, though his heart isn’t quite in it.

Alvin, standing on Harry’s other side, glances between Harry and Lily with wide eyes. “Wait—Evans is your cousin? Like, actually?”

Harry nods, still processing the scene that just played out in front of them. “Yeah,” he confirms quietly. “We’re second cousins. Our grandparents were siblings.”

Alvin blinks, clearly trying to wrap his head around it. “Huh. Never would’ve guessed.”

Lily turns back to Harry, her anger at James still simmering, but now her concern for him takes over again. “You’re alright though, right? After...everything?”

“I’m fine,” Harry says softly, offering her a reassuring smile.

Harry, Alvin, and Regulus settle into their usual spots at the Slytherin table. The Slytherins around them glance up, their eyes sharp with curiosity, but no one dares to ask a question outright. The tension is palpable, like they all know something big happened, but nobody is quite sure if it’s their place to bring it up.

Alvin, however, has no such reservations. After loading his plate with food, he leans back in his seat, glancing at Harry with a smirk. “You know,” he begins casually, his tone almost light-hearted, “the way you handled McGonagall? Absolutely brilliant.”

Harry tenses slightly, glancing around as a few more Slytherins perk up at the mention of McGonagall. He feels a faint flush of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. “I wasn’t—” he starts, but before he can finish, someone else speaks up.

“Handled McGonagall?” Greengrass, sitting a few seats down, asks politely but with obvious intrigue. He leans forward slightly, his pale eyes trained on Harry. “What happened?”

Alvin beams as if this is his favorite story to tell. “Oh, Harry here called her a two-faced hypocrite. Right to her face. And got away with it.”

At Alvin’s words, the entire section of the Slytherin table goes deathly quiet. The students nearby, who had been sneaking glances at Harry since they sat down, are now openly staring, their eyes wide with shock. A few forks freeze halfway to mouths, food forgotten as they take in Alvin’s words.

Harry cringes inwardly, feeling the heat of everyone’s attention. “I didn’t really get away with it,” he mutters, clearly uncomfortable. “I mean... she deserved it. The school governors obviously thought so, or they wouldn’t have restored the points she took away or revoked the detentions.”

Greengrass’s eyes widen even further at that. “The governors?” He echoes, astonished.

Harry looks down at his plate, feeling the weight of their surprise. “I was just... angry,” he adds softly, hoping that’ll be the end of it. But Alvin, as always, isn’t done.

“Angry or not,” Alvin says, nudging him playfully, “you’ve got guts. I would’ve been terrified. McGonagall can be scary when she’s angry.”

The other Slytherins nod silently in agreement. McGonagall’s reputation precedes her; even those in other houses know she’s a force to be reckoned with.

Harry shrugs, trying to play it off, but his voice is steady as he responds. “There have been people after me who were a lot scarier than her. McGonagall’s nothing compared to them.”

Alvin raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Scarier? Like who?”

Harry’s gaze hardens slightly as he thinks about the things he’s faced, the battles that have shaped him in ways most of them could never understand. His voice is quiet but firm when he answers. “It’s like comparing a fire viper with a dragon. Both are deadly, sure. But the dragon? That’s a lot scarier.”

Alvin whistles low, clearly impressed. “You’ve got a point,” he concedes, nodding as if to say Harry’s earned his respect even more.

Regulus, however, isn’t as easily swayed. “No,” he says, his tone dry as he looks at Harry. “What Harry has is a complete lack of self-preservation.”

Harry snorts, shaking his head with a small smile. “Not lack,” he corrects, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Selective self-preservation. It kind of... turns off when I’m angry enough.” Or when his friends and family are in danger.

Alvin chuckles, though there’s a note of incredulity in his voice. “Merlin’s beard, Harry, that’s a dangerous way to live. But I guess it’s what makes you a hell of a duelist.”

At that, Regulus smirks, leaning back in his chair as if he’s been waiting to say this. “I did tell you Harry’s a skilled duelist,” he says to Alvin, giving Harry an almost teasing glance. “Though even I didn’t know he was this skilled. You’ve been holding out on us.”

Harry shrugs, but there’s a faint pride in his eyes as he answers. “My father taught me,” he says simply.

Harry’s heart clenches for a moment at the mention of Charlus Potter. He had been a legend in many ways, both a fierce duelist and a man of honor. It feels strange, talking about him like this.

There’s a beat of silence, and Harry can feel the weight of everyone’s attention again. But this time, it doesn’t bother him as much. The Slytherins around him may not know the full story, but for the first time, Harry doesn’t feel so out of place. Regulus, Alvin, even the others—they respect him, not just for his name or his family, but for who he is, for what he’s capable of.

Regulus breaks the silence with a teasing smirk. “Still, you’ve got to work on that self-preservation instinct. I’d rather not have to explain to your parents why you went charging headfirst into some duel without thinking.”

Harry chuckles, the tension easing. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, though both he and Regulus know that’s unlikely.

As the three boys continue eating, the quiet curiosity from the other Slytherins lingers in the air. Harry can feel their eyes on him, their whispers growing more insistent. Finally, Scarlette Rookwood, who’s been listening closely, sets down her fork and leans forward.

“So,” she begins, her tone polite but with clear interest, “just how skilled a duelist are you, Potter?”

Harry looks up from his plate, trying to play it off, but before he can respond, Alvin, ever eager to share, jumps in. “Skilled? You want to know how skilled he is?” Alvin grins as he looks around at the Slytherins gathered near them, ensuring he has their attention. “Harry here just took on James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew—one against four—and he won.”

Rookwood raises her eyebrows, looking genuinely surprised. “You fought all four of them? At the same time?”

Alvin nods enthusiastically, his eyes gleaming with pride on Harry’s behalf. “Yep. And you know what? He didn’t just fight them—he wiped the floor with them.” He gestures to Harry, as if expecting everyone at the table to be as impressed as he is. “James Potter’s no slouch either. He’s supposed to be one of the best duellists in his year. And Sirius Black’s not far behind. Lupin’s decent too. But Harry?” Alvin lets out a low whistle. “He’s something else entirely.”

The murmurs around the table grow louder, disbelief mixing with awe. Even Regulus, who had seen the duel, smirks a little, clearly enjoying the attention Harry is getting.

Rookwood’s gaze flickers over to Harry again, her expression unreadable. “One versus four? And you came out on top?” There’s a hint of skepticism in her voice, but it’s clear she’s impressed.

Harry, feeling the weight of their stares, shrugs, trying not to make a big deal out of it. “I got lucky,” he mutters, though the memory of that duel is still fresh in his mind. The surge of adrenaline, the burning determination—it was more than luck, but he’s not about to boast.

Alvin rolls his eyes at Harry’s attempt to downplay his victory. “Oh, come on, Harry. It wasn’t luck, and you know it. You knew you’d win. What did you say before you hexed boils into Sirius Black’s face? Oh, right—‘Time to do some pest control.’”

The table erupts in a wave of laughter, and Alvin turns back to Rookwood and the others, enjoying the attention. “That doesn’t sound like a lucky win. I’m telling you, it was something to see. Hexes flying everywhere, Potter and Black barely keeping up, and Harry just taking them down one by one.”

Greengrass chuckles, catching onto Alvin’s words. “Did you really call your cousin and his friends ‘pests,’ Potter?” He smirks, eyes filled with amusement. “That's rich. You hex them into oblivion and have the nerve to call it ‘pest control.’ Bold move.”

Rookwood grins, joining in. “Merlin, no wonder Potter’s always so moody around you. Being called a pest by your own family, and then getting your arse handed to you in front of everyone?”

Harry’s face heats up, though he tries to keep his composure. “It wasn’t meant to be literal,” he says, attempting to brush it off. “It was in the heat of the moment.”

Greengrass raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying teasing him. “Oh, sure, just a slip of the tongue. But still—‘pests’? You’re going to have to explain that one next time you see them.”

Rookwood laughs again, shaking her head. “Potter and Black, reduced to pests by their own cousin. You’ve got a way with words.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Despite the teasing, there’s something satisfying about knowing that his words—and actions—have left such an impression. “Maybe I should have said something nicer,” he jokes, though there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Like rodents.”

The table erupts in laughter again, and even Harry can’t help but laugh along, the tension from earlier lifting as they settle into the lighthearted banter.

Chapter 27: Boggart

The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom buzzes with nervous energy as Professor Dearborn announces that since it’s the last lesson before the holiday and they’re unlikely to pay attention if he begins a new topic,  today’s lesson will involve a Boggart again. Harry feels a knot tighten in his stomach. The last time he faced a Boggart, it had been a Dementor—his worst fear.

"Now, who remembers what we learned last time?" Professor Dearborn asks, his voice carrying a playful edge, as if he’s challenging them to impress him.

A few hands shoot up, and the professor nods towards Regulus. "Mr. Black, enlighten the class."

Regulus speaks with his usual calm composure, "A Boggart is a shape-shifter. It transforms into whatever it believes will frighten its victim the most. The spell to counter it is ‘Riddikulus,’ turning the fear into something amusing."

"Very good," Professor Dearborn responds, impressed. "But knowing theory and facing one in practice are two different things, as we all know. Shall we begin?"

The students shift nervously in their seats as the Boggart rattles in the wardrobe at the front of the room. Harry bites his lip, anxiety creeping in. The thought of facing his Boggart here, in front of everyone, unnerves him.

Beside him, Regulus leans closer and whispers, “Can’t cast Riddikulus? If you want, I can teach you after dinner tonight.”

Harry shakes his head hesitantly. "Thanks, but I don’t think you can help." Even though technically, Harry already knows the spell from his time with Lupin in the future. "I know how to cast Riddikulus. It’s just—"

Regulus raises an eyebrow, waiting for Harry to continue.

Harry sighs, feeling the weight of the upcoming moment. “You’ll see.”

The lesson begins, and one by one, the students step forward to face the Boggart.

Regulus is first. He steps up with cool determination, wand at the ready. The wardrobe creaks open, and the figure of Walburga Black emerges.

Regulus raises his wand, his voice calm. “Riddikulus.”

Suddenly, Walburga’s no longer dressed in her usual elegant black robes but in mismatched Muggle clothing—a hideous neon-colored sweater, baggy jeans, and sneakers. Her hair is wild, and her expression is one of utter horror at her own appearance. The class bursts into laughter, and even Regulus, though composed, can’t help but smirk as he steps back.

Alvin Rosier is next. His face hardens as he approaches the Boggart. This time, it shifts into a more terrifying form—a flash of green light, the unmistakable Avada Kedavra curse, strikes Regulus square in the chest. The sight is gut-wrenching.

But Alvin is quick. “Riddikulus!”

The green light fizzles out, and instead of falling lifelessly, Regulus now sparkles from head to toe, his body glowing like a constellation.

Regulus rolls his eyes dramatically as if this is just another inconvenience in his life. The class erupts into laughter once again.

Next is Franklin Greengrass. As he steps forward, the Boggart shifts into the form of his younger sister, pale and lifeless on the ground. A heavy silence falls over the room, the mood sobering instantly. But Greengrass takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “Riddikulus.”

The dead form of his sister transforms into a living one, except she’s now wearing an oversized, comically knitted hat and scarf, looking absolutely ridiculous. She waves cheerily at him. Greengrass smiles faintly, but it’s clear this was a hard test for him.

Ellis Mulciber follows, and the Boggart becomes a shrieking banshee. However, when he casts “Riddikulus,” the Banshee suddenly stops screaming. Instead, she opens her mouth, but no sound comes out, gesticulating wildly like an overdramatic mime. The class laughs again, especially when she tries to shriek silently in a comical fit of frustration.

Freya Fawley steps up next. The Boggart morphs into a fearsome werewolf, its fangs bared, snarling as it inches toward her. But with a steady wave of her wand and a calm, “Riddikulus,” the werewolf shrinks down, losing its menace. It’s now dressed in a Little Red Riding Hood cape, complete with a basket of goodies in its claws. The class bursts out laughing.

“Didn’t know Fawley was a fan of muggle fairytales,” Alvin mutters to Harry with a grin.

Marion Abbott approaches the Boggart, and it turns into a giant snake, coiled and hissing at her. But with a quick “Riddikulus,” it transforms into a ridiculously long knitted scarf, the kind a grandmother would make, winding around the room as the snake-turned-scarf harmlessly flops to the ground. Abbott lets out a relieved chuckle.

Scarlette Rookwood goes last. The Boggart shifts into a gigantic spider, its hairy legs towering above her. But when she casts “Riddikulus,” the spider loses control of its legs and tumbles to the ground, its legs flailing like a wind-up toy gone wrong. It keeps trying to stand but collapses over and over again, drawing howls of laughter from the class.

Harry watches as the others face their fears, feeling a tightness in his chest. It’s almost his turn, and he’s not sure he’s ready.

Regulus, standing beside him, notices his hesitation. “You’ll be fine,” he murmurs, giving Harry a reassuring nod.

The class is still buzzing from the previous Boggart encounters when Professor Dearborn finally calls Harry’s name.

“Mr. Potter,” the professor says, his voice calm but tinged with curiosity. The room quiets as all eyes turn to him.

Harry steps forward, his stomach tightening. He knows what’s coming.

"You might want to step back. And sorry in advance," Harry tells the class, his tone serious but with a hint of resignation. He takes his place in front of the wardrobe, bracing himself for what’s about to come. He’s almost certain it will be a Dementor again. He can already feel the chill creeping into his bones at just the thought.

The air in the room shifts, growing colder with each passing second. The students stop chattering, their attention fully on Harry now. The temperature drops so suddenly that the frost begins to spread across the windows, coating them in delicate icy patterns. The laughter and conversation evaporate, replaced by an uncomfortable silence. The hopeless feeling Harry knows all too well floods the room, and it doesn’t take long for his classmates to sense it too.

A skeletal hand reaches out from the wardrobe, slow and deliberate. The room is so cold that Harry can see his breath fog in front of him.

Gasps ripple through the classroom, and a few girls scream, their voices shrill in the freezing air. Harry stands still, eyes fixed on the figure emerging from the wardrobe.

The Dementor floats forward, hooded and looming, its rotting hand outstretched. The weight of despair presses down on Harry, more intense than any other Boggart the class has faced. His mother’s screams echo faintly in his mind, as clear as the night it happened. He grips his wand tightly, trying to focus.

Harry swallows hard, attempting to cast Riddikulus like he’s supposed to. But no images of anything funny come to mind. How could they, when all he can hear is his mother’s final cries? His body tenses, and for a second, he feels like a helpless child again. But then he remembers what always helps.

I can’t laugh this away, but I can fight it.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Expecto Patronum!” he shouts.

A brilliant silver light bursts from his wand, and to Harry’s surprise, it’s not the familiar stag that charges forward, but a majestic lion. Its roar fills the room, a fierce, defiant sound that shatters the icy grip of fear the Dementor had on him—and on everyone else.

The fake Dementor screeches in terror, recoiling at the sight of the Patronus, then quickly retreats back into the wardrobe.

For a moment, the room is completely silent, save for the soft padding of the lion Patronus as it paces for a few seconds before dissolving into silver mist. Harry exhales, feeling the tension leave his body.

He turns to face the class, feeling the stares of his classmates burning into him. “Sorry,” he says with an awkward shrug. “I know it’s the wrong spell, but I can’t think of anything funny while reliving my worst memories, and this works just as well, so...”

The professor is pale, his lips slightly parted in shock, clearly thrown by what just happened. “Are you alright, Mr. Potter? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”

“I’m fine,” Harry replies, pulling out a chocolate bar from his pocket. He unwraps it and takes a bite, already feeling some warmth returning.

The professor nods, still looking a bit dazed. “Class dismissed,” he calls out, his voice wavering. “Please eat some chocolate before you head to your next class.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he turns to Harry and adds, “That’s worth an O.”

The class begins to disperse, students whispering among themselves about what they just saw. Alvin and Regulus walk up to Harry, both looking deeply curious, if not a bit concerned.

Glad he overheard two Gryffindors talking about their defense lesson yesterday and having packed some, just in case, Harry offers his friends a chocolate each, which they accept. Regulus, still staring at Harry like he’s trying to solve a puzzle, finally speaks up.

"Are you going to explain?" he asks, his voice low but insistent.

“Explain what?” Harry plays dumb, though he knows what’s coming.

Regulus glares at him. "I don’t know, maybe why your Boggart is a Dementor, how you can cast a corporeal Patronus, or why you’re acting so nonchalantly about this?"

Harry sighs, feeling the weight of his friends’ questions. "Have you ever met a Dementor?" he asks, his voice softer now. "They’re terrifying. I don’t know why, but Dementors seem to love me. Every time one gets near, it immediately tries to... well, you know, give me the kiss."

Regulus pales, his usually composed face showing real fear. "They try to kiss you? Every time?"

“Yep.” Harry pops the 'p' casually, though the memory of those encounters still sends a shiver down his spine. “And by the way, you really don’t want to see what’s under the hood.”

Regulus’s face turns an alarming shade of green. “Why aren’t you more affected by this?” he asks, still in disbelief.

Harry shrugs, popping another piece of chocolate into his mouth. “I guess I’m just used to it by now. Besides, a Boggart’s just a cheap copy—it doesn’t even come close to the real thing.”

Regulus lets out a low breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “I take it you won’t be telling me the full story anytime soon, will you?”

Harry hesitates before answering, his voice quieter. “Maybe someday. But not today.” He pauses, then adds more brightly, “Want to learn how to cast a Patronus? I can teach you after dinner. Though, fair warning, it’ll probably take a few weeks.”

Regulus looks at Harry like he’s insane, but there’s a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. “You really are something else,” he mutters, though he doesn’t outright refuse the offer.

Harry just smiles, knowing that, for now, that’s as close to an answer as either of them is going to get.

Regulus arches an eyebrow, a glint of mischief creeping into his expression. “A lion, though? Really? The mascot of Gryffindor? It’s like your Patronus is mocking you.”

Harry’s grin falters slightly, and he straightens up, instantly defensive. “I don’t know why it’s a lion!” He huffs, feeling the heat rise in his face. “It used to be a stag, you know. But—” His words catch in his throat, and he trails off, biting the inside of his cheek. But I know why it changed. He thinks of James, of how much has changed between them. How he doesn’t trust him the way he used to. His Patronus was always a reflection of that trust, that bond. But now...

He doesn’t say it out loud, though. Instead, he pushes the thought aside and finishes lamely, “It’s just a lion now.”

Alvin, who’s been watching the exchange with quiet interest, suddenly interjects. “I’m not so sure it has anything to do with Gryffindor, actually. There’s another lion that’s much more likely.” He glances between Harry and Regulus, his tone casual but his eyes sharp with meaning. “Tell me, Regulus, what’s the meaning of your name?”

At the mention of his name, Regulus stiffens slightly. He crosses his arms over his chest and stays silent, his face betraying nothing. But Harry can sense the tension in him, the way he’s holding himself too still.

Alvin’s eyes gleam with amusement as he continues, “Regulus is the brightest star in the Leo constellation. The lion. So, are either of you going to tell me if there’s something you’d like to share?”

Harry feels the blood rush to his face, a warmth spreading up from his neck to his cheeks. He glances quickly at Regulus and, to his surprise, sees that the usually composed Black is blushing too, his pale skin tinged with pink.

Alvin hums softly, clearly entertained by their reactions. “So that’s how it is, huh?”

Harry opens his mouth to protest, to deny it, but no words come out. Instead, he just stands there, his face burning, while Alvin chuckles softly to himself. Regulus, to his credit, still says nothing, though his blush deepens.

Harry doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know if there’s anything to respond to. But for now, with Alvin’s knowing smirk and Regulus’ silence, it’s enough to leave the question hanging in the air.

Chapter 28: Evan Rosier

After the long train ride, the students rush out of the train, eager to reunite with their families at King’s Cross Station. Harry watches them from his seat, feeling the usual mix of exhaustion and hesitation, but he’s also happy to see his family again and spend some time with them.

Regulus stretches next to him, looking as calm as ever, while Alvin absentmindedly taps his fingers on the seat in front of him. The three of them remain seated for a few more moments, waiting until the mad rush has cleared. Finally, Regulus stands, signaling it’s time.

“Ready?” Regulus asks, his voice steady.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Harry mutters, grabbing his trunk and following the other two boys off the train. The platform is filled with the sounds of excited voices and the sight of students reuniting with their parents. For a moment, Harry is lost in the noise, his eyes scanning the sea of faces, thinking of Charlus and Dorea, who would be waiting for him soon enough.

But then a familiar voice breaks through the chaos.

“Evan!”

Harry turns just in time to see Alvin drop his trunk and rush toward a tall young man standing by the edge of the platform. The man, who looks strikingly like Alvin but older, grins and embraces Alvin with the kind of warmth that makes Harry pause.

For a second, Harry is confused, staring at the two with a frown.

Regulus leans closer to Harry and murmurs quietly, “His older brother. Heir Evan Rosier. He also was in Slytherin, took his NEWTs last year.”

Harry’s mind races. Evan Rosier… why does that name sound so familiar? He racks his brain, trying to place the name, but nothing concrete surfaces. Instead, there’s just a faint tug of recognition, a whisper of something darker.

Meanwhile, Alvin turns back toward them, smiling broadly. “Regulus!” Evan greets, nodding politely, his gaze flicking from Regulus to Harry, lingering there with open curiosity. “And you must be Harry Potter.”

There’s something in the way Evan says his name that makes Harry’s skin prickle. It’s not rude, not overtly hostile, but it’s loaded with a weight Harry can’t quite define. He forces a polite smile, feeling Regulus tense slightly beside him.

“Yes, this is Harry,” Alvin confirms, beaming as he gestures between them. “He’s my friend.”

Evan’s eyebrows raise just a fraction at that, and Harry knows why. It’s not normal for someone like him—an illegitimate half-blood—to be openly acknowledged as a friend by someone of Alvin’s standing. If it weren’t for his family name, most would have dismissed him outright. And even with his name, people still find ways to undermine his place in their world. He’s felt it since he arrived, the subtle disdain.

But Alvin doesn’t seem to care, and Harry appreciates that, even if Evan’s raised eyebrow suggests it’s unusual.

“Nice to meet you,” Evan says, though there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes as he regards Harry. He’s too well-mannered to comment on Harry’s background, so they exchange formal pleasantries, both acutely aware of the tension simmering just beneath the surface.

Before the awkwardness can stretch too far, Alvin jumps in, excitedly talking about the holidays. “I really want you to get to know each other!” he says, looking between Harry and Evan. “You should visit us, Harry. During the holidays. It’ll be brilliant.”

Harry nods along, but his mind is elsewhere. Evan Rosier… Evan Rosier… And then it hits him. The memory of Karkaroff’s trial surges to the surface of his mind, sharp and jarring. Karkaroff, desperate to save his skin, naming names in front of the Council of Magical Law. And there, among the names, was Evan Rosier.

Dead, Harry remembers. Killed by Moody after resisting arrest. One of Voldemort’s followers. His heart stutters in his chest, and for a moment, the world around him tilts. The easy smiles and laughter seem to warp, suddenly feeling out of place.

He can barely keep from cursing aloud.

Taking a deep breath, he forces a smile, though it feels tight, wrong. “Thanks for the offer, Alvin,” Harry says, his voice strained but polite. “But my family probably won’t allow me to visit.”

Alvin looks disappointed but nods in understanding, not pressing the issue. Harry, meanwhile, feels his gaze drawn—almost magnetically—to Evan’s left forearm. The memory of Death Eaters, of the Dark Mark, pounds at the back of his mind. Before he realizes what he’s doing, his eyes lock onto Evan’s arm, searching for any sign of the mark.

It’s only when Evan subtly tugs down the sleeve of his coat that Harry realizes how obvious he’s being. His heart skips a beat, panic flaring as Evan meets his gaze, his face slightly paler than before.

Shit.

Harry’s mind races. What do I do? He knows he should inform the Aurors or at least tell Charlus. It’s the right thing to do. But then he remembers the way Alvin hugged his brother, the warmth, the love that passed between them. His stomach churns. If Evan were taken to Azkaban because of Harry… Alvin would never forgive me.

But then again… How many innocents will Evan kill?

“This is so fucked up,” Harry mutters under his breath, feeling the weight of the decision crush down on him.

Suddenly, before he can second-guess himself, Harry steps forward, invading Evan’s personal space. He grabs Evan’s left forearm, right where the Dark Mark would be, his fingers digging in hard enough to make Evan wince.

“Harry, what the—” Alvin gasps, his voice a mixture of shock and hurt.

Alvin grabs Harry’s shoulder, pulling him around. His eyes are wide, full of confusion and betrayal, and Harry feels his stomach drop. Alvin’s expression is so raw, so wounded, it stops him cold.

For a long moment, Harry just stands there, frozen, holding Evan’s arm as the weight of Alvin’s hurt gaze sinks into him.

“Please,” Harry says softly, releasing Evan’s arm. His voice is tight, almost pleading. “Just don’t make me regret this. Either of you.”

Evan is silent, pale as a ghost, while Alvin stares at Harry, his lips pressed together as if he’s trying to hold back a thousand things he wants to say. But he doesn’t. He just stares at Harry, his trust visibly crumbling away, and Harry hates it.

Harry takes a shaky breath and lets go, stepping back. There’s nothing left to say, but the silence between them feels heavy, suffocating. He can feel Alvin’s hurt radiating off him, and it weighs on him, heavy and unbearable. But there’s nothing left to say, nothing that will make this any easier.

He glances at Alvin one last time, hoping for some sign of understanding, but Alvin’s expression remains conflicted—betrayal and confusion swirling together. Harry turns away, his chest tight with frustration and guilt. What else could I have done?

As he moves through the crowd, he catches sight of the Potters. Charlus and Dorea stand a little further back, waving politely, while Cepheus and Elena eagerly wave their hands. But it’s Carina, darting through the crowd with her purple stuffed dragon clutched tightly to her chest, who catches his attention.

“Uncle Harry!” Carina’s voice is full of excitement as she runs toward him, her small arms wrapping around his waist in a tight hug.

Harry feels a moment of lightness, a fleeting smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looks down at her, her face buried against his robes, the dragon named Draco held firmly in her grip. He still wants to laugh at the name, but he swallows it down, knowing it might hurt her feelings. The last thing he wants is to dampen her excitement.

“Hey, Carina,” he says softly, ruffling her hair as he tries to push away the heaviness that still lingers in his chest. For a moment, her innocence and warmth offer him a brief respite from the weight of everything else.

Regulus approaches more slowly, his expression polite but guarded, and greets the Potters with the formality expected in their world. “Lord Potter, Lady Potter, Aunt Dorea, Uncle Charlus, Cousin Cepheus, Elena, Carina,” he says smoothly, inclining his head with the grace of someone who’s been raised in pureblood traditions.

“Regulus,” Charlus replies with a nod, his voice cordial, though Harry can sense the undercurrent of tension. It’s subtle but unmistakable, the kind of quiet wariness that lingers when trust has been eroded. Dorea greets Regulus warmly, but her eyes flicker briefly toward Evan, standing not far behind them, and Harry knows she’s aware of the rumors, if not more.

Harry’s stomach twists uncomfortably. The Potters, like many in their circle, probably know—or at least suspect—the dark allegations surrounding Evan Rosier. If there were hard proof, Evan would have already been dragged into the Ministry for investigation. But the mere suspicion is enough to set them on edge.

Evan, for his part, remains composed, his face carefully neutral as he nods at the Potters in greeting, though Harry doesn’t miss the flicker of discomfort when Charlus’s gaze lingers on him a little too long.

“Pleasure to see you again, Lord Potter,” Evan says politely, though the words feel stiff. Fleamont responds with equal politeness, but Harry can feel the unsaid words hanging between them, the tension tightening like an invisible thread.

Carina, still clinging to Harry, looks up at him, her eyes bright and unaware of the quiet storm brewing between the adults. “Are you coming home with us now?” she asks eagerly, her small hand tugging at his sleeve. “You promised you’d play with Draco!”

Harry forces a smile, trying to focus on her, trying to let her innocence pull him away from the darker thoughts clouding his mind. “Of course,” he says gently, kneeling to her height. “I wouldn’t break a promise, would I?”

Carina giggles, her grip tightening on her dragon. “Draco’s been waiting for you!” she announces, clearly thrilled at the idea.

Behind her, Dorea watches them closely, her face softening at the sight of Carina’s joy, though her eyes briefly flicker toward Regulus, then to Evan, as if assessing the situation. Harry wonders how much she knows—how much she guesses.

The tension lingers, even as the polite words are exchanged, even as Charlus gives Evan a curt nod before turning to collect his children. It feels like a storm brewing just under the surface, like something is about to give, but not yet. Not here.

As the Potters prepare to leave, Harry can’t help but glance back toward Alvin and Evan. He watches as Alvin stands stiffly beside his brother, the earlier hurt still etched into his features.

This isn’t over, Harry thinks, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what could come. He sighs, forcing himself to focus on the present, on Carina’s happy chatter and the warmth of family that he’s about to return to.

But even as he follows the Potters toward the barrier, the weight of the decision he made back on the platform presses against him, and he knows it’s something he won’t be able to shake. Not for a long time.

***

Later that evening, after the Yule celebration plans are being finalized by the women and Carina has fallen asleep, Harry finds himself sitting with Charlus and Cepheus in the dimly lit study. The warm glow of the fire does little to ease the knot in his stomach as he wonders how to start the conversation that’s been weighing on him.

Charlus sits back in his chair, watching Harry curiously, while Cepheus lounges on the couch, casually flipping through a book, though Harry can tell he’s only half-paying attention.

Clearing his throat, Harry speaks up. “So… let’s say, hypothetically, that I know someone who’s a follower of Voldy.”

The immediate reaction is stark. Both Charlus and Cepheus visibly flinch at the sound of the name. Charlus inhales sharply, and Cepheus, who had been lounging comfortably, jerks upright, his eyes wide with shock.

Charlus interrupts with a frown. “What did you just call him?”

Harry sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I came up with it. Regulus and Alvin didn’t want me saying the full name, even at Hogwarts, but I refuse to call him ‘the Dark Lord’ or ‘You-Know-Who.’ And calling him ‘Riddle’ just feels wrong.” He shrugs, trying to downplay the tension.

For a brief moment, the weight in the room lifts. Charlus chuckles, a dry laugh escaping him, and Cepheus follows suit, his shoulders relaxing as he smirks at Harry.

“Only you, Harry,” Charlus says with a shake of his head. “Only you would come up with a nickname for the darkest wizard of our time.”

Cepheus chuckles. “Voldy. Merlin, that’s brilliant.”

But as quickly as the levity arrives, it vanishes. Charlus leans forward, his expression growing serious again. “Harry, I need you to be careful. Especially around the Rosiers. Alvin’s family—his brother Evan and their father Cathal—are highly suspected of being… followers of him.”

Harry blinks, feeling his chest tighten.

“I didn’t tell you earlier when I visited the school because, well, you had enough going on,” Charlus continues, his voice low, “but you should know the Rosier family is being watched. They have ties to… dangerous people.”

Before Charlus can go any further, Harry jumps to Alvin’s defense, his voice firm. “Alvin isn’t a Death Eater. He won’t ever be one, I’m sure of it.”

Charlus and Cepheus exchange surprised looks, clearly taken aback by the intensity of Harry’s defense.

“Harry,” Charlus says carefully, “how can you be so sure?”

“Because I know him,” Harry insists, his heart racing. “Alvin isn’t like that. He doesn’t believe in what Voldy stands for. I’ve spent months with him, and I know him. He’s… he’s good. He’s decent.”

The room falls silent for a moment as Charlus and Cepheus digest his words. There’s a hesitance in their eyes, a wariness that comes from years of living in a world where trust is a dangerous luxury.

Charlus looks at Harry closely. “What about his brother, Evan? Or their father, Cathal Rosier?”

Harry shakes his head. “I’ve never even heard of Cathal Rosier in my timeline. And Evan—” He swallows, the weight of the memory hitting him hard. “Evan Rosier originally died in 1981. I’m not sure about Alvin, but when Voldy summoned his followers in 1995, he didn’t mention the name Rosier.”

Charlus and Cepheus fall silent at this revelation, the air in the room growing colder. Harry watches their faces, noting the way Charlus’ jaw tightens, the way Cepheus’ gaze shifts, filled with unease.

“Evan Rosier… dead?” Charlus mutters, processing the information.

Harry nods. “Yes.“

The news seems to settle over the two men like a dark cloud. Charlus’ face is pale, his mind clearly racing with implications, while Cepheus looks equally disturbed.

Harry, however, can’t shake the thoughts swirling in his own head. He doesn’t voice it, but the question gnaws at him. If Voldemort didn’t mention Alvin in 1995, does that mean Alvin never joined? Or… did he die before then?

He shakes the thought away, forcing himself to stay focused. “There’s something else,” Harry says, changing the topic slightly. “I know the names of several Death Eaters—at least, the ones who joined by 1995 and 1996.”

Charlus’ eyes widen at that, and he leans forward. “You do? You have names?”

Harry nods, but there’s hesitation in his voice when he asks, “But… what if they haven’t joined yet?”

Cepheus suddenly sits up, his expression thoughtful. “They wouldn’t be marked yet,” he realizes. “And if we investigated them before they’re involved, we could cause more trouble than it’s worth.”

Charlus frowns, his hand rubbing his chin. “Even so, Harry, I need those names. We can’t sit by and do nothing.”

Harry’s heart pounds as he thinks about the people on that list—the ones who haven’t yet made their choices in this timeline. “Even if they’re family?” he asks softly. “Or close friends? What if they haven’t joined yet?”

Charlus meets his gaze, his face grim. “Even then. We can’t afford to let sentiment blind us. If you know something, you have to tell me.”

Harry takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of what he’s about to say. The first name of those he knows haven’t joined Voldemort yet that comes to mind is the hardest one of all. “Regulus Black.”

Both Charlus and Cepheus freeze, their faces draining of color.

“Regulus?” Cepheus breathes in shock.

“Yes,” Harry says, his voice thick with emotion. “He joins sometime after his NEWTs. He gets in too deep, but then… he changes his mind. He tries to get out, but Voldy doesn’t let his followers just leave. Regulus is killed in 1979.”

Charlus’ face turns ashen, his hands gripping the arms of his chair tightly. Cepheus, too, looks horrified, his face pale as the fire crackles in the silence.

Chapter 29: A really bad day – Part I

Alvin is pacing the living room, fuming. His mind spins with anger, confusion, and a sense of betrayal. How could Harry—his friend—just turn on him like that? He had trusted Harry, had even begun to think of him as someone he could rely on. But back at King’s Cross, when Harry grabbed Evan’s arm like that... Alvin’s blood boils at the memory.

He hears Evan’s footsteps behind him, slow and measured, contrasting with the storm in his own chest. His brother, ever the calm, calculating one, speaks in his usual measured tone.

“Alvin,” Evan says, his voice quiet but firm. “Did you mention anything to your friend? Did you say something that made him think I’m a follower of the Dark Lord?”

Alvin whirls around, frustration flashing in his eyes. “Of course not! I’d never—” His voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat, trying to steady himself. “I didn’t say a thing, Evan. I’m certain.”

Evan doesn’t react immediately. His expression is unreadable, the calm surface of a deep, turbulent ocean. “Then how did Potter know?”

Alvin falters. That’s the question, isn’t it? Harry couldn’t have known, not unless someone told him. But who? Alvin knows Harry—he’s smart, observant, but there’s no way he could have pieced that together on his own. Right?

“I don’t know,” Alvin admits, his voice quieter now, a tremor of doubt creeping in.

Evan remains silent for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful. Then, almost as though the idea has just occurred to him, he murmurs, “Your friend… he must really care about you.”

Alvin stops, confusion swirling with his anger. “What? What are you talking about?”

Evan sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. “Think about it, Alvin. He changed his mind back at King’s Cross. He let go. And why do you think that was?” Evan’s eyes are piercing as they meet Alvin’s. “Because of you. He didn’t turn me in for you.”

Alvin stands there, stunned. Harry… changed his mind because of him? The idea twists something deep in his chest, and suddenly Alvin doesn’t know whether to be grateful or angry.

“But…” Alvin struggles for words. “How long will that last? How long before he tells someone?”

Evan’s eyes darken. “That’s why you need to arrange a meeting between us.” His voice is calm, but there’s a hard edge to it now. “I’ll cast an Obliviate. Make him forget whatever it is he’s figured out.”

Alvin’s stomach drops. Obliviate? On Harry? The thought makes his skin crawl. Harry was his friend, and despite the betrayal he felt, despite the fact that Harry had seen something he wasn’t supposed to, Alvin couldn’t bring himself to think of erasing his memories.

He doesn’t know what to feel—anger, fear, guilt—they all mix together in a nauseating churn.

Evan senses his hesitation. “Alvin, it’s the only way,” he says softly. “If Potter talks, we’re all finished. You have to protect yourself.”

Alvin clenches his fists, his nails biting into his palms. His mind is spinning, but before he can say anything, Evan speaks again. “Tell me about him.”

“What?”

“Your friend,” Evan clarifies. “Tell me about him.”

For a moment, Alvin is silent, trying to gather his thoughts. Then, without fully understanding why, he begins to speak. He starts with the obvious things, things Evan probably already knows but need to be said aloud. “Harry’s mother, Isabella McConner, she drugged Charlus Potter with a love potion—an extremely strong one—and well…” Alvin trails off, but the implication is clear. “She kept Harry’s existence a secret from the Potters and moved to America.”

Evan’s brow furrows in surprise, his expression hardening. “She kept him from his father?” His voice is sharp, disgust curling at the edges.

Alvin nods slowly. “Yeah. From what I know, McConner was horrible to him. Harry eventually found out who his father was and—when they came to England for a short trip—decided he’d rather take his chances with Charlus than stay with her. So he ran away.”

Evan’s eyes narrow, anger flaring briefly. “That woman… She deserves Azkaban for what she did. Abusing a magical child? It’s unforgivable.”

Alvin can’t help but agree. “When Harry arrived, Dorea Potter took him in. Did an ancestry test to confirm his identity. She registered him with the British Ministry almost immediately. Regulus told me she was so excited about having another son that she forgot to tell the rest of the family.”

Evan’s stern expression softens slightly, amusement flickering across his features. “Charlus must’ve been in for quite the surprise, then.”

Alvin chuckles despite himself. “Yeah. He came home from work one day to suddenly find he had a second son.”

Evan laughs softly, shaking his head. “Sounds like quite the family drama.”

“Yeah, well, she treats Harry like he’s hers by blood. Even Lord Black acknowledged him as Dorea’s son.”

Evan’s expression shifts as he listens, his eyes thoughtful. “He must be something special, for Dorea to be so protective.”

“He is,” Alvin says quietly, surprising himself with how much he means it. “He’s smart—top grades, actually. Quiet and reserved, though. He doesn’t trust people easily, and for good reason. He didn’t even try out for Quidditch, even though he’s a better Seeker than Regulus.”

Evan raises an eyebrow. “Better than Regulus? That’s impressive.”

Alvin nods. “It took months before he opened up to me.”

“That’s normal,” Evan says, his voice softer now. “For kids who’ve been through what he has… trust is hard.”

Alvin swallows, feeling the heaviness of that truth. “Yeah, well… he’s had a rough time. James—his cousin—and his friends bullied him relentlessly. And Harry never fought back.”

Evan’s expression tightens. “Abused children don’t, not usually. They’re conditioned to take it.”

“But then, one day… he did.” Alvin’s voice picks up, and he can’t help the note of pride creeping in. “James and his friends nearly killed Regulus. And Harry… Harry just snapped. He fought all of them—four on one—and wiped the floor with them. It was brilliant.”

Evan’s eyes widen slightly, impressed. “Really?”

“Yeah. He even called McGonagall a two-faced hypocrite to her face afterward,” Alvin adds, his grin widening. “Then he summoned the Potter’s house elf to the castle and had it bring his and James’ parents.”

Evan lets out a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Merlin… What happened?”

Alvin smirks. “Needless to say, they were furious with James. And half the Hogwarts staff got a tongue-lashing. Dumbledore, McGonagall and Slughorn now have a restraining order against Harry, Regulus, Sirius and James.”

Evan chuckles softly, but there’s something darker beneath his amusement. “Sounds like Potter has a fire in him after all.”

Alvin nods, his earlier anger fading as he thinks about everything Harry’s been through, everything he’s managed to survive. And yet, now, he’s caught between loyalty to his brother and loyalty to his friend.

Cathal Rosier steps into the room, his presence immediately chilling the air. His gaze is sharp, unyielding, and without preamble, he commands, “Get ready.”

Alvin looks up, a frown tugging at his lips. There’s something in his father’s tone, something that sends a wave of unease through him. “Get ready for what?”

Before their father can answer, Evan speaks up, his voice flat but tinged with a gravity that Alvin can’t ignore. “We’ve been invited to dinner with the Dark Lord. Families of trusted followers only. It’s an honor.”

An honor? Alvin’s blood turns cold. Dinner with the Dark Lord? He can’t go. He won’t go. Meeting the Dark Lord face to face? What if he reads his mind? The very thought sends his heart into overdrive. Panic takes hold, fast and fierce.

“I can’t go,” Alvin blurts out, his voice trembling with the rising tide of fear. “You have to tell him I’m sick or something. I can’t… I can’t meet him.”

Evan turns to him, confusion flickering in his eyes. “What are you talking about? You have to come. There’s no excuse good enough for missing this.”

Alvin’s chest tightens. He feels like he’s being smothered by the sheer weight of it all. “No, Evan, you don’t understand!” His voice cracks, desperation seeping into every word. “I really can’t go. If he reads my mind, if he knows—” He breaks off, struggling to explain the fear that’s clawing at him. “You have to believe me. It’s all Slughorn’s fault! I found out something… something I wasn’t supposed to. And it’s bad. Really bad. You can’t ask me what it is because… because if you know, he’ll kill you.”

Evan raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Alvin, it can’t be that bad. You’re being paranoid.”

“No, it is that bad.” Alvin’s voice is almost a whisper now, his mind racing as he imagines the horrors that could unfold if the Dark Lord gets even the slightest glimpse into his thoughts.

Cathal’s patience snaps. His voice cuts through the air, cold and commanding. “Stop acting like a child and get ready. This is not a request, Alvin.”

Alvin’s heart races, panic coursing through him like wildfire. He can’t do it. He can’t face the Dark Lord. “I can’t come!” he shouts, his voice breaking. “You don’t understand. I can’t.”

Cathal’s eyes narrow, anger flickering in their depths. “Get a grip on yourself,” he growls. “What will you do when you join after Hogwarts? Will you run away like a coward?”

Alvin feels the blood drain from his face. His father expects him to join, to pledge himself to the Dark Lord.

“I won’t join,” Alvin whispers, the words barely audible but heavy with finality.

The room falls deathly silent. For a moment, time seems to stop. Then, without warning, Cathal’s wand is out, and the next thing Alvin knows is pain. Blinding, excruciating pain. His body crumples under the force of the Cruciatus Curse, his screams echoing in the room.

Through the haze of agony, he hears Evan’s voice, strained and desperate. “Stop it! Father, stop!”

The curse is lifted, but Alvin is left shaking, his limbs trembling uncontrollably. He gasps for breath, the pain still echoing in his bones.

But Cathal isn’t done. He turns, his wand flicking again, and this time Evan is the one writhing on the floor, screaming in agony as the curse takes hold.

“No!” Alvin’s heart shatters at the sight of his brother in such pain. “Stop! Stop it!” Desperation overtakes him, and without thinking, Alvin raises his own wand, trying to disarm his father. But it’s useless. Cathal turns his cold eyes back to him, fury etched into every line of his face.

The next curse is aimed at Alvin, a dark spell meant to cause more than just pain. But before Alvin can react, Evan throws himself in front of him, taking the full brunt of the curse. The sound of the impact is sickening, and Evan crumples to the ground, blood seeping from the wound.

“Evan!” Alvin drops to his knees beside his brother, hands shaking as he tries to staunch the flow of blood. There’s so much of it, too much, seeping through his fingers and staining the floor. Evan’s breaths are shallow, each one rattling painfully in his chest, and the sight sends a fresh wave of terror through Alvin. His brother is barely hanging on.

“Stay with me, Evan,” Alvin whispers, his voice hoarse with panic. But in the back of his mind, he knows—they can’t stay here. If their father doesn’t finish them off, the Dark Lord will.

They need to escape. But where? His mind races. He thinks of Regulus first, his closest friend, but quickly dismisses the idea. While he trusts Regulus with his life, he can’t trust his parents. Walburga Black, especially, is too close to the Dark Lord, too unpredictable.

Alvin’s thoughts shift, grasping at any other option, and then it hits him—Harry. Harry Potter. He had chosen not to turn Evan in, had spared him because of their friendship. If there’s anyone who might help, it’s Harry. And Potter Manor… surely it’s safe. It has to be far enough from their father’s reach.

Alvin doesn’t have a choice. He hoists Evan’s limp body into his arms, feeling the warmth of his brother’s blood against his skin. His throat tightens, the desperation clawing at his chest, but he forces himself to focus. With a whispered destination, he Disapparates.

The world spins violently, the sensation of being pulled through space making Alvin’s head swim. Then, with a jarring thud, they land at the gates of Potter Manor. The massive wrought-iron gates loom above them, and Alvin’s heart pounds as he glances around, hoping they’re far enough from danger.

Evan stirs weakly in his arms, barely conscious. “What… what are you doing?” His voice is faint, the words slurred with pain.

Alvin swallows, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak. “Something I really hope I won’t regret.”

Before Evan can respond, the large wooden doors of Potter Manor swing open with a creak, revealing Lord Fleamont Potter standing in the doorway. His expression is guarded, eyes sharp as they take in the sight of Alvin and the bloodied figure in his arms.

Alvin’s panic surges. He stumbles forward, his legs barely supporting his weight. “Please… please help us,” he chokes out. The words tumble over one another, incoherent, half-formed. He can’t make sense of what he’s saying, but he doesn’t care. He just needs them to understand. Evan needs help. Now.

Lord Potter doesn’t move, his eyes assessing the situation with a calmness that contrasts with Alvin’s frantic state. For a moment, Alvin’s heart sinks, thinking he’s about to be turned away.

But then, another figure emerges. “Alvin?” It’s Harry, suddenly there, eyes wide with concern. He kneels beside them, his wand already out, casting diagnostic charms over Evan.

Alvin watches, breathless, as Harry’s face tightens in worry. “Bloody hell,” Harry mutters under his breath. “He’s in bad shape.”

The words strike Alvin like a blow, confirming what he already knows but dreads. “Please, Harry, Evan—” His voice cracks, breaking on his brother’s name. He’s too overwhelmed to say anything more.

Harry doesn’t wait for explanations. He flicks his wand, and Evan’s body rises gently off the ground, hovering in the air. “Come on,” Harry says, his voice firm but laced with urgency. “You can tell me what happened later. Healing him comes first.”

Alvin can only nod, his body trembling from exhaustion, panic, and relief all at once. He stumbles after Harry as they make their way into the manor, the grand foyer too far removed from the chaos in his mind for him to process.

As they step inside, Harry raises his voice, calling into the depths of the house. “Aunt Euphemia!”

Alvin’s heart hammers as they move quickly down the hall, the walls of Potter Manor seeming to blur in his peripheral vision. He barely registers the grandeur of the place; all that matters is Evan. The blood loss, the ragged breaths—each second that passes feels like a countdown.

Chapter 30: A really bad day – Part II

Evan is gently levitated into a room that appears to be a mix between a guestroom and hospital room, his blood trailing faintly in the air as Harry lays him onto the bed. Alvin stands frozen near the door, pale as a ghost, his hands still trembling with the remnants of adrenaline. His brother’s shallow breathing is the only sound in the room, aside from Alvin’s own ragged breaths. The sight of Evan lying there, so still, so vulnerable, sends waves of nausea crashing through him.

Euphemia Potter strides into the room moments later, her robes swishing behind her with purpose. She wastes no time, immediately moving to Evan’s side, her sharp eyes narrowing as she takes in the severity of his injuries. “Merlin’s beard,” she mutters under her breath, her voice calm but tinged with concern.

She waves her wand over Evan, a soft golden light emanating from its tip as she performs a more thorough diagnostic charm. The glow reflects off Evan’s pale, sweat-drenched skin, revealing deep cuts and internal damage. Alvin winces, his heart clenching at the sight.

Euphemia doesn’t waste time on questions. “Harry, get the Blood-Replenishing Potion and the essence of Dittany from the cabinet,” she instructs firmly, her hands already moving with precision as she begins healing the wounds.

Harry nods quickly and dashes across the room, pulling open a cabinet filled with an array of vials. Alvin watches numbly, his body unable to move from where he stands near the door. It’s like he’s stuck in a nightmare, everything happening too fast, too brutally.

Euphemia works in silence, her wand movements fluid and efficient. She murmurs healing incantations under her breath, her face set in deep concentration as she closes Evan’s wounds and repairs the damage beneath the surface. The blood disappears slowly, and Evan’s breathing starts to even out, the shallow, rattling sounds fading as the potions Harry hands her take effect.

“Thank you,” Alvin whispers, his voice barely audible, as if any louder and it would shatter the fragile moment. He doesn’t even know if he’s speaking to Euphemia, Harry, or anyone at all. He’s just desperate for Evan to live, for this nightmare to end.

Euphemia, still focused on her work, glances briefly at Alvin, her expression unreadable. “We’re not done yet,” she says softly, but with a reassuring firmness. “He’ll be alright, but he needs rest and time to recover.”

Alvin swallows hard, his throat painfully dry. His mind is a chaotic blur, torn between relief and the weight of everything that’s happened. He’s saved Evan for now, but the danger hasn’t disappeared. Their father, the Dark Lord—it’s all still looming.

Euphemia finishes with Evan, her wand tracing one last line of light over his chest. She steps back, wiping her hands on her robes, and turns to Harry. “He’s stable, but we need to keep an eye on him. Just to be safe… His injuries were extensive.” Her tone softens, a hint of maternal worry creeping in. “I’ve done what I can for now.”

Harry nods, his face tight with concern as he looks from Evan to Alvin.

It’s only then that Euphemia turns her full attention to Alvin, her sharp gaze sweeping over him with the same intensity she had when treating Evan. She steps closer, frowning slightly. “You look pale as a sheet. Sit down.”

Alvin shakes his head weakly, his body trembling with the aftershocks of everything that’s just happened. “I’m fine,” he murmurs, but the words are hollow, unconvincing even to himself.

Euphemia narrows her eyes at him, not believing a word of it. “Sit,” she commands, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument.

Reluctantly, Alvin sinks onto the edge of a chair near the bed, his legs finally giving in to the exhaustion. Euphemia steps closer, her wand raised as she casts a diagnostic charm over him. Her eyes widen, her expression shifting from professional detachment to genuine shock.

“There are traces of the Cruciatus Curse on you,” she says quietly, her voice sharp with disbelief. She exchanges a look with Harry, who frowns deeply, his jaw tightening.

Alvin’s breath catches in his throat. He opens his mouth to say something, to explain, but the words won’t come. All the fight has drained out of him, and all that’s left is bone-deep exhaustion and the lingering echo of pain. His father’s voice rings in his ears, cold and furious, and he shudders involuntarily.

Euphemia doesn’t wait for him to speak. She moves quickly, pulling out a small vial from her robes and handing it to him. “This will help counteract the aftereffects. Take it.”

Alvin stares at the vial for a moment, his hands still shaking as he takes it from her. The liquid inside is a deep, calming blue, and he uncorks it with trembling fingers, swallowing it in one go. The bitter taste coats his throat, but almost instantly, the tension in his muscles begins to ease, the tremors in his hands fading as the potion works its magic.

Euphemia watches him closely, her expression softening just a little. “You’re lucky you weren’t under it any longer. The Cruciatus leaves damage that can’t always be healed.”

Alvin nods, though he barely hears her. His mind is still with Evan, lying motionless on the bed, and with the thought of what waits for them outside these walls.

***

Alvin sits in the guest room, the air heavy with tension and the faint smell of blood lingering in the fabric of his clothing. He stares blankly at the floor, lost in a whirlwind of emotions—fear, guilt, and a gnawing dread that clings to him like a shadow. The world outside seems distant, a mere echo of what he’s just fled from.

Harry approaches, a bundle of clothing in his hands. “Here,” he says softly, his voice a gentle anchor in the chaos. “These are from my closet. You need to get out of those.”

Grateful for the reprieve, Alvin takes the clothes, his hands shaking slightly as he grips the fabric. He hurriedly changes, peeling off the drenched robes that feel like they’re suffocating him, both physically and emotionally. As he strips away the remnants of his brother’s blood, he feels a mix of relief and sorrow, a reminder of what he’s just witnessed.

Not long after, the door opens, and Lord Potter enters, flanked by Charlus Potter, Harry’s father and the head of magical law enforcement. Their presence fills the room, heavy with authority and concern.

“Alvin,” Lord Potter begins, his tone steady yet kind. “I want to give you the chance to explain what happened before we call the Aurors. They’re likely not to listen to you.”

Alvin nods, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him. Lord Potter pulls up the left sleeve of the pajama Lady Potter had transfigured from Evan’s robes, revealing the dark mark etched into the skin. A shudder runs through Alvin at the sight, a visceral reminder of the danger they’re in.

Charlus’s gaze sharpens as he looks at Harry. “You’re not surprised to see that mark, are you? You’ve known.”

Harry shifts slightly, his expression unyielding.

“I won’t ask how I found out,” Charlus continues, his voice laced with a mix of disappointment and concern. “But I want to know why you lied to me earlier. The son of the head of magical law enforcement is hiding a Death Eater? This could cost me my job.”

Alvin’s heart sinks, guilt twisting in his gut. He never wanted to put Harry in this position, never wanted to drag him into a mess that could endanger his family’s reputation. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice cracking.

Harry turns to his father, his resolve hardening. “If you were in my position, knowing what I know, you would have done the same.” His voice carries a weight that silences the room, a plea for understanding that hangs in the air.

For a moment, the silence stretches, palpable and thick. Alvin watches as Harry’s words settle over the adults, the tension transforming into something more complex, layered with fear and uncertainty.

Harry continues, his gaze unwavering. “Alvin and Evan are here because Alvin knows Voldy’s darkest secret.”

A sharp gasp breaks from Evan, who has regained consciousness but still lies pale and shaken on the bed. Alvin glances over, unsure if the reaction stems from the abhorrent nickname Harry has given the Dark Lord or from the revelation of Alvin’s knowledge. He decides to focus on Harry instead, the urgency of the situation pressing down on him.

“How do you know?” Alvin asks, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with disbelief.

Harry shrugs slightly. “You were cursing Slughorn’s name earlier,” he replies, his tone almost light, though the gravity of their conversation hangs heavy.

Alvin frowns, confusion swirling in his mind. “I don’t remember that,” he admits, the memory blurring with everything else that has happened since their father attacked Evan for trying to defend him.

“Do you know Occlumency?” Harry asks, turning his attention to Lord and Charlus Potter, who nod in affirmation.

“Then let’s focus,” Harry says, turning back to Alvin, his expression resolute. “Please, tell us what happened.”

Alvin takes a deep breath, the words tumbling out as he recounts the chaotic events that led them here. “Our father wanted me to join a dinner with the Dark Lord. I couldn’t go—I just couldn’t.” His voice falters, and he feels the weight of his brother’s pain pressing down on him.

“Evan defended me,” he adds, the memory surfacing painfully. “He tried to protect me when our father got angry. That’s when…” Alvin trails off, the anguish flooding back as he remembers the curses and the violence.

Harry exhales, a heavy sigh that carries the burden of their reality. “Slughorn taught Voldy how to create a Horcrux when he was still a student at Hogwarts,” he says, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Brilliant idea, right? Six Horcruxes.”

Lord Potter, his brow furrowing in concern, interrupts. “I’m certain I don’t want to know, but… what is a Horcrux?”

“An object that stores part of someone’s soul,” Harry explains, his voice unwavering. “It makes them practically immortal.”

The room feels like it’s frozen in time as Lord Potter gasps, shock flooding his features. “Soul magic is forbidden!” he exclaims, disbelief coloring his voice.

Charlus, however, seems more focused on the implications. “Wait, you mean to say that You-Know-Who is immortal?”

Harry’s expression hardens, the weight of the truth settling on him like a cloak. “Not for much longer,” he replies, his voice firm.

Charlus, his face pale, leans forward, urgency creeping into his words. “Please tell me you haven’t tried going after those Horcruxes.”

Harry shakes his head. “I haven’t. There’s a better way.”

“Better?” Lord Potter echoes, incredulity flashing in his eyes. “How?”

“Using Parselmagic to put Voldy’s soul back together,” Harry explains, his tone almost casual. “I don’t need to find the Horcruxes—not even one of them. Our blood connection is enough for the ritual to work.”

“Parselmagic,” Lord Potter repeats, his voice filled with disbelief. “That’s been extinct for centuries.”

Harry shrugs, a glimmer of a smile creeping onto his face. “The portrait of Salazar Slytherin is teaching me. And he really likes me, much more than Voldy, since he never taught him.”

Charlus raises an eyebrow, struggling to process the absurdity of the statement. “What’s next? The Chamber of Secrets and Slytherin’s monster?”

“Shia isn’t a monster,” Harry defends, his expression earnest. “It’s mean to call her one.”

“Shia?” Charlus repeats, bewildered.

“Salazar’s pet basilisk,” Harry clarifies, a fondness creeping into his voice. “She’s really nice.”

The Potters stare at him, shock painted across their faces, and Alvin can’t help but feel a twinge of pride at Harry’s unwavering confidence, even in the face of such bizarre revelations.

Evan, still trying to make sense of everything, quietly turns to Alvin. “Is your friend always like that? He’s quite the jokester.”

Alvin nods, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. “Pretty much. But I’m sorry to inform you that everything Harry said so far is the truth.”

Lord Potter’s demeanor shifts back to seriousness as he looks at Evan, the reality of the situation settling heavily in the air. “What should we do with Heir Rosier, considering he’s a Death Eater?”

Harry’s gaze sharpens. “Hide him. At least until the situation calms down. It’s not like he will ever go back to Voldy. He’s as good of a former Death Eater as we’re going to get—at least for one that isn’t dead.”

Evan’s eyes widen, uncertainty flashing across his face. “What makes you so sure of that?”

Harry meets his gaze, unwavering. “Going back would mean Voldy sees your memory of this moment.” His voice drops, heavy with implication. “What do you think he would do if he ever saw that memory?”

Evan flinches, the unspoken fear flickering in his eyes. He opens his mouth, but no words come out, the terror of the truth paralyzing him.

“Correct,” Harry replies, his voice low and unyielding. “He’d hunt you and Alvin down and torture both of you to death.”

Charlus and Lord Potter exchange a solemn glance before leaving the room, their footsteps echoing down the hallway. “Dinner will be brought to you by our house elf,” Lord Potter says, his voice firm yet reassuring. The door clicks shut behind them, and a heavy silence blankets the room.

Harry turns to Alvin, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Do you care about your father?” he asks, probing gently.

Alvin’s heart races at the question, uncertainty gnawing at him. “I… I’m not sure,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why do you ask?”

Harry’s gaze sharpens, an intensity in his eyes that makes Alvin’s skin prickle. “Because you won’t see him alive again. Voldy will kill him tonight.” The words hang in the air, heavy and foreboding. With a final, searching look, Harry steps back, giving the brothers the privacy they need.

As soon as the door closes, the weight of Harry’s revelation settles in, and Alvin’s stomach twists. He turns to Evan, who lies propped against the pillows, his face pale and drawn. “What do you think?” Alvin asks, his voice trembling.

Evan stares at the door for a moment, his expression shifting from shock to apprehension. “Your friend… he’s dangerous. Really dangerous,” he says, his voice low and measured. “He just manipulated the Potters. Left me with no choice but to leave the Dark Lord and go into hiding.”

Alvin feels a pang of worry at Evan’s words. “But he cares about us,” he defends, though a flicker of doubt crosses his mind.

“No, he cares about you,” Evan replies, the tension evident in his voice. “But you mustn’t underestimate Harry Potter, ever. He’s not just some boy—he’s a force to be reckoned with.” His gaze is steady, filled with a mix of fear and respect.

Alvin swallows hard, the gravity of Evan’s warning settling into his bones.

Chapter 31: Vision

Harry’s scar explodes with a sudden, searing pain, sharper than anything he’s felt in months. His hand shoots up to clutch his forehead, his mind spinning as the world around him fractures. The pain drags him downward, pulling him into the abyss of Voldemort’s consciousness, and before he can fight it, he’s no longer in his bed at Potter Manor but somewhere else.

The air is cold and oppressive, heavy with an ancient malevolence. Harry finds himself standing in a dimly lit chamber with stone walls slick with moisture. Flickering torches cast dancing shadows across the floor, throwing everything into a nightmarish half-light. Kneeling before him, trembling, is a man who bears a striking resemblance to Alvin and Evan Rosier. His face is drawn and ashen, streaked with sweat that glistens in the dim light. His breath comes in shallow, panicked gasps.

Their father.

Harry knows it instinctively—Cathal Rosier. His heart constricts in dread, realizing where he is, realizing who is here.

Then, like the crack of a whip, Voldemort’s voice splits the silence.

“Crucio.”

The word is a dagger through the air, sharp and merciless.

Pain. Pain unlike anything Harry has ever known floods his body, every nerve alight with fire. He feels the curse as if it has been cast on him—sharp, relentless, a blinding agony that consumes everything. Harry’s muscles seize, and he gasps for breath, though no sound escapes his throat. His vision blurs, but he can see Rosier collapse in front of him, writhing on the stone floor, his limbs twisting and contorting unnaturally under the force of the curse. His screams echo around the room, sharp and raw, reverberating in the silence.

Harry tries to move, tries to scream, but he’s paralyzed, forced to endure this horror as a silent witness.

Voldemort’s voice slithers through the air again, smooth as silk, dripping with cruelty. “What have you done, Cathal?”

Rosier struggles to speak, choking on his own breath, his voice barely a rasp. “M-my Lord… I—”

Voldemort’s lip curls in disdain as he lifts his hand, releasing the Cruciatus Curse. Rosier collapses, shuddering, his body trembling violently in the aftermath. But the reprieve is brief, a fleeting moment of mercy before the storm. Voldemort steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, like a serpent stalking its prey.

“You should know better than to lie to me, Cathal,” Voldemort murmurs, his voice deceptively soft. Each word is a promise of punishment, a prelude to further suffering. Harry can feel the dark magic pulsating in the air, the suffocating weight of Voldemort’s power pressing down on him, and it’s terrifying. Overwhelming.

Voldemort’s red, snake-like eyes narrow as he studies Rosier, suspicion glinting in their depths. “Your mind, Cathal. I think I’ll see for myself what you’ve been hiding.”

Cold terror races through Harry’s veins, mingling with the phantom pain still radiating through his limbs. He knows what’s coming next. Voldemort lifts his wand, aiming it at Rosier’s cowering form.

“Legilimens.”

Harry is ripped forward, pulled violently into Rosier’s mind alongside Voldemort. A cascade of images blurs past—snippets of conversations, fragments of memories, faces and voices all jumbled together in a whirlwind of thought. Harry can barely process it, his head spinning as he’s dragged deeper and deeper into the chaos of Rosier’s mind.

Then, the torrent of memories slows. A moment sharpens into focus. It’s Alvin, standing pale and desperate, his voice a low, urgent whisper.

" You have to believe me. It’s all Slughorn’s fault! I found out something… something I wasn’t supposed to. And it’s bad. Really bad. You can’t ask me what it is because… because if you know, he’ll kill you."

The words hit Harry like a blow, and the fear, the dread, is palpable. Voldemort’s fury simmers in the air, a boiling cauldron of rage barely contained. His hand tightens on his wand, and for a moment, the room is deathly silent.

Then, the storm breaks.

"That cockroach. How dare he?!" Voldemort’s voice is low, deadly, vibrating with a cold, savage rage.

Rosier’s mouth moves, his voice cracking, pleading. "Please, my Lord, I—I didn’t mean—"

But Voldemort doesn’t care.

“Crucio!”

The scream that tears from Rosier’s throat is agonizing, worse than before. It’s the sound of a man being utterly broken, his soul shredded by the relentless, searing pain. His body convulses on the ground, his limbs jerking violently as the curse drags on, and on, and on.

Harry feels sick, the bile rising in his throat. He tries to tear his gaze away, tries to move, to do something, but he is powerless, trapped in this horrifying nightmare. The edges of his vision blur, and the sound of Rosier’s tortured screams seems to echo endlessly, a never-ending symphony of pain.

Finally, when Rosier’s cries have become pitiful whimpers, Voldemort steps closer. His voice is a hiss in Rosier’s ear, soft and deadly. “You are of no further use to me.”

With a flick of his wand, Voldemort ends the curse, and Rosier’s body goes limp, trembling in the aftermath. But Harry knows this is not the end. The Dark Lord’s face is twisted with cold satisfaction as he raises his wand one final time. His red eyes gleam with cruel delight.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The green light erupts from Voldemort’s wand, filling the room with its unholy glow. The world slows, and Harry watches, helpless, as the curse slams into Cathal Rosier’s chest. There is a brief moment of eerie silence as Rosier’s body stiffens, his eyes wide and lifeless. And then, with a soft thud, his body falls still.

Dead.

***

Harry jerks awake with a gasp, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, his body drenched in sweat. He’s back in his bed at Potter Manor, but the terror hasn’t left him. His scar throbs painfully, his breaths coming in ragged, shallow gulps as his mind tries to process what he’s just seen.

It wasn’t a dream.

It was a vision. The first he’s had since traveling back in time.

Harry staggers out of bed, his breath still ragged from the vision that clings to his mind like a suffocating fog. His scar burns, the pain radiating through his skull, but there’s something worse beneath it—the cold, gnawing dread of knowing what he had just witnessed was real.

Cathal Rosier is dead. Voldemort knows Alvin knows about the existence of his Horcruxes.

Instinctively, Harry moves to the bathroom, his fingers brushing against his forehead where warm, sticky blood has begun to trickle down from his scar. He fumbles for the light, the dim glow illuminating the room in a way that feels harsh against his exhausted eyes. Standing before the mirror, he stares at his reflection—pale, drawn, eyes wide and haunted. A streak of blood is smeared across his brow, mingling with sweat.

Get it together, he tells himself, but his hands tremble as he grips the edge of the sink. He turns the faucet on, splashing cold water onto his face, watching as the crimson trail swirls down the drain. He scrubs at the blood until his skin feels raw, then he gingerly presses his wand to the wound, muttering a healing spell under his breath.

It’s not perfect—he manages to stop the bleeding and reduce the inflamed, angry red around the scar, but the ache remains, a dull throb in the back of his mind. He casts another spell to numb the pain, though he knows it’s only temporary. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.

When the blood is gone and the wound looks somewhat less sinister, Harry returns to his room. His eyes fall on the blood-stained bedsheets. He flicks his wand, muttering another spell to clean them. The sheets are pristine once more, but the events of the night are far from erased. The cold dread remains, curling around his chest, squeezing tighter with each passing second.

Sleep is out of the question now. His mind is too full, too restless, too terrified to close his eyes again. Instead, Harry decides to do what he always does when the world feels like it’s closing in on him—find something, anything, to distract himself.

The house is eerily quiet as he slips out of his room, making his way to the library. Potter Manor’s grand corridors seem too empty, the air too still, as if the house is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

The library greets him with its warm, musty scent—old parchment, leather-bound volumes, and the faintest hint of dust. The shelves stretch endlessly, a sanctuary of knowledge, and Harry feels a small flicker of calm settle over him. He scans the shelves, looking for something, anything to distract him. Nothing catches his eye at first—just the usual array of ancient tomes on potions, curses, and magical theory.

Then, in the corner of one of the towering shelves, something catches his attention—a collection of richly bound books with gold-embossed titles. The Sacred Bloodlines of Wizarding Britain. Harry pulls a volume from the shelf, intrigued.

It’s filled with meticulously detailed family trees of old pureblood families, dating back centuries. He recognizes many of the names—the Blacks, the Malfoys, the Lestranges… the Rosiers.

It sparks a thought—his theory. For weeks now, he’s been toying with the idea that there’s no such thing as a true Muggle-born. They’re all descendants of Squibs, cast out from pureblood families centuries ago.

Eager to find proof, Harry dives into the family trees, looking for patterns, for hidden links. He spends hours poring over the pages, studying the branches of each family line, trying to connect the dots. But the deeper he looks, the more frustrating it becomes.

There are no clear patterns. No direct proof that Muggle-borns are simply Squib descendants. The family trees are convoluted, filled with missing links and dead ends. Harry slams the book shut, a wave of frustration washing over him.

Maybe I was wrong…

But then something else catches his attention.

The pureblood lines—especially the oldest, most “sacred” ones—are full of squibs and childless marriages. The more he reads, the more obvious it becomes. Families that prided themselves on marrying only other purebloods had higher numbers of squibs, failed marriages, or heirs that simply never had children.

On the other hand, those families that allowed half-bloods into their lines seemed to fare better. Their branches were fuller, with more children, fewer squibs, and less of the dead-end marriages that plagued the pureblood fanatics. It’s subtle, but undeniable.

The purer the bloodline, the more it withers.

The realization sends a spark of understanding through Harry, but it also fills him with a cold dread. The old pureblood families were so obsessed with preserving their bloodline that they’d doomed themselves to a slow, inevitable decline. Their desperation for purity was leading them toward extinction.

He feels a bitter taste in his mouth as he closes the book. It’s almost ironic—Voldemort, obsessed with blood purity, is leading the charge of a crumbling ideology.

At dawn, when the first golden light of the morning spills through the tall windows of the Potter library, casting soft shadows across the room, Alvin hesitantly enters the library through the still open door. He raises an amused eyebrow when he spots Harry sprawled out on the carpet, his head resting on his arms, a dozen old tomes with intricate family trees spread out around him

“You look like you’ve been possessed by an ancient scholar,” Alvin says, amusement softening his tone as he steps closer.

Harry glances up, his tired eyes meeting Alvin’s. He rubs his temple where the remnants of the scar’s pain still linger. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters. “Figured I’d put the time to use.” He gestures to the open books, all with yellowed pages and detailed genealogies. “Found something interesting.”

Alvin raises a brow and sinks down onto the carpet beside Harry, curious despite himself. “What, exactly, are you doing? Trying to memorize every family tree in Britain?”

Harry gives a faint chuckle, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not exactly. I was looking for proof of something. You know, about blood purity and how there’s this idea that muggleborns come from squib lines.”

Alvin nods, intrigued. He knows about Harry’s theory. “Find anything?”

“Not what I was hoping for,” Harry admits, his voice low. “The family trees don’t show any obvious connections between muggleborns and squib descendants. But…” He sits up slightly, leaning toward Alvin. “I found something else.”

Alvin leans in, his interest piqued. “What is it?”

Harry picks up one of the open books, flipping through the pages until he finds the line he’s looking for. He taps on a name. “Look at the old families—the Blacks, the Rosiers, the Lestranges. All purebloods, right? The ‘sacred’ twenty-eight. The more pureblood the family, the more you see squibs or childless marriages.”

Alvin’s brow furrows, confusion clouding his face as he follows Harry’s finger across the neatly printed family tree. “What are you saying?”

Harry exhales slowly, knowing this isn’t going to be easy for Alvin to hear. “The purer the blood, the more likely there’s infertility. The more squibs get born. The families that have allowed half-bloods into their lines… they’re doing better. More children. Fewer squibs.”

At first, Alvin’s face registers intrigue. His gaze moves across the pages, tracing the family lines Harry is pointing out, and for a moment, it seems like he’s absorbing the information with the same curiosity that had drawn him in before.

But then his expression hardens.

“I don’t want to hear that, Harry,” Alvin says, his voice suddenly tight, his hands falling away from the book. His jaw clenches, and he pulls back, as if the very idea disgusts him. “You’re saying… that being a pureblood is a disadvantage?”

Harry’s face remains calm, but there’s a deep tiredness in his eyes. “I’m saying that marrying only purebloods is causing problems. The family trees don’t lie, Alvin. The older and purer the line, the more problems there are.”

Alvin opens his mouth to argue, but Harry doesn’t give him the chance. He flips through another book, showing more examples, more family lines dwindling into infertility and childless marriages.

“Look,” Harry says, his tone gentle but firm. “I’m not saying blood purity itself is the problem. I’m saying it’s the obsession with it. It’s not healthy. And the evidence… it’s right here.”

Alvin stares at the pages, the proof laid bare in front of him. For a long moment, he says nothing. The truth is heavy, weighing down on him like a burden he doesn’t want to carry. His family, like all the old pureblood families, has been steeped in these traditions for centuries. The idea that this obsession is leading to their downfall is almost too much to bear.

Finally, he relents. He closes his eyes and exhales a deep, shaky breath. “I don’t like it,” he admits quietly. “But I can’t argue with it. You’re right.”

Harry offers him a small, sympathetic smile. “I didn’t like it either when I figured it out.”

Alvin sits in silence for a while, digesting the information. Then, after a moment, he gives a humorless chuckle and half-jokingly asks, “So, what then? Should I marry a muggleborn to save the family line?”

Harry shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. “If you fall in love with one, why not?” He leans back, his voice growing lighter as he adds, “Jessica Sterling’s in love with you, you know. You could always try dating her.”

Alvin’s brow furrows. “Sterling…?” He pauses, the name not immediately clicking in his memory. But after a moment, recognition dawns. “Oh, her. The Gryffindor in our year, right? Decent marks. She’s on their Quidditch team.”

Harry nods, watching Alvin’s reaction closely.

Alvin considers it, his lips pressing into a thin line. “She doesn’t look too bad,” he admits with a slight smirk. “But she’s… not exactly proper, is she? Doesn’t dress the part. Doesn’t seem all that interested in our traditions.”

Harry shrugs again, more relaxed now. “It’s not that she’s ignoring wizarding culture on purpose. No one’s taught her what’s considered proper. Muggleborns don’t get the same lessons we do. They don’t have parents that teach them and it isn’t taught at Hogwarts. I had the same problem before I moved in with the Potters.” He pauses, a faint warmth entering his voice. “Spent most of the summer in etiquette lessons with Dorea.”

Alvin listens quietly, his amusement fading into a thoughtful expression. “I never thought about it like that,” he admits.

Chapter 32: Right and Wrong

The silence in the library is abruptly shattered by a pained cry, piercing through the walls with such intensity that Harry and Alvin both freeze. The cry is unmistakably from Evan's room, and it’s filled with raw agony. Without a word, they both scramble to their feet, panic already rising like a wave in their chests as they rush down the hallway.

They burst through the door of Evan’s guest room, their hearts pounding. Evan is on the bed, writhing, his body twisting violently against the sheets as though trying to escape an invisible torment. His face is contorted in unbearable pain, and his chest wound, half-healed, has started bleeding again, staining the linens with fresh blood. But the worst is his left forearm, where the Dark Mark burns with a sickening, unnatural glow, the skin around it red and inflamed.

"Merlin..." Alvin breathes, his voice trembling as he watches his brother writhe helplessly.

Harry’s mind races, fear and fury swirling together. It doesn’t take a genius to realize what’s happening. Voldemort is torturing Evan through the Dark Mark, punishing him for his betrayal. But what can they do? For a moment, they stand frozen in helplessness, the cries of pain filling the air, mingling with the heavy thrum of panic in Harry’s chest.

Harry feels sick. His breath catches as he watches Evan thrash, powerless to stop it. He’s seen this kind of suffering before, but witnessing it now—on someone who has already given so much to protect his brother—twists something deep inside of him. Desperation claws at him, but no spell, no curse he knows, can sever that connection between Evan and Voldemort.

And then, through the chaos of his thoughts, Harry hears something. A quiet hiss, barely perceptible, but chilling in its malevolence.

“Hurt traitor, destroy traitor,” it says.

The words slither into his mind, a whisper only he can hear, and Harry's blood runs cold. His breath hitches, and he realizes where the voice is coming from: the Dark Mark itself. The snake in the mark… it’s alive in a way that only he can understand.

"Stop," Harry hisses back instinctively, his voice low and commanding.

The effect is immediate. The room falls deathly silent. Evan’s screams cut off, his body going still as though the curse has been lifted. For a moment, everything freezes in place, and all that’s left is the heavy sound of their breathing. Harry stares at Evan’s trembling form, not quite believing what just happened.

Alvin’s wide eyes dart between his brother and Harry. “What… what did you do?” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper, tinged with disbelief.

But Harry isn’t listening. He steps closer to Evan, his heart pounding in his ears. The mark on Evan’s forearm still glows faintly, but now the snake in the tattoo is different—its eyes are fixed on Harry, watching him with a curious gleam. Harry swallows, his mind racing. It’s listening to him. The snake, born of dark magic, recognizes him—his ability to speak its language, to command it.

But the peace is fragile. He feels it in the air, the impending wave of darkness that’s about to crash over them again. Voldemort isn’t done. His will is a suffocating force, looming just behind the silence. The mark twitches, and Harry knows another order is coming—another command to cause pain.

Voldemort’s malice pulses through the air like a storm building in the distance.

Evan’s body jerks suddenly, a soft whimper escaping his lips as the agony threatens to return. There’s no time.

Harry’s gaze flickers between Evan’s pale, sweat-soaked face and the ominous mark on his forearm. He can stop this. The thought is wild, desperate, but he’s willing to try anything. He doesn’t fully understand how, but the snake in the mark has responded to him, and that’s enough for Harry to act.

He kneels beside the bed, his hands trembling slightly as he hovers over Evan’s arm. Every instinct, every lesson Salazar had drilled into him rushes back in a flood. He focuses, his mind reaching out to the dark magic seeping from the mark, and begins to work.

At first, it’s like pulling at invisible threads—his magic tangling with Voldemort’s. Every attempt he makes to sever the connection is met with resistance, and sweat beads on his brow as he pushes harder, determined. His hand presses down on Evan’s arm, and a faint glow surrounds his fingers, like a soft pulse of magic trying to unravel the darkness in the mark.

The snake hisses again, resisting. Alvin watches in wide-eyed horror, his hands trembling, afraid to speak.

“Come on…” Harry mutters under his breath. Think, Harry. Think! He tries again, pouring more magic into his efforts, drawing on everything he knows, everything Salazar had taught him about dark curses and serpentine magic.

Evan cries out again, the pain surging back in waves. Harry feels the familiar tendrils of dark magic coiling under his skin, a poison spreading from the mark itself.

Then, it clicks. A different approach—he needs to disarm it, not fight it head-on. He shifts his focus, weaving his magic around the mark like a cage, containing it, suffocating it.

He tries again, murmuring in Parseltongue, coaxing the snake within to obey, to yield.

Slowly, agonizingly, the resistance begins to break.

The snake’s eyes flicker. The magic in the mark quivers and then, like a thread snapping under tension, something gives way. Harry feels it, the dark tether to Voldemort weakening, unraveling, until finally—finally—the connection is severed.

The mark vanishes.

Evan gasps sharply, his body going limp as if all the strength has been drained from him. His breathing is shallow, ragged, but the pain is gone.

Harry collapses back, his own breath coming in heavy, exhausted gasps. His heart pounds, and his hands tremble with the aftershocks of the magic he’s just wielded.

For a moment, there’s only silence.

Alvin stares, wide-eyed, his voice hoarse with disbelief. “Harry… you… you did it.” His tone is a mixture of awe and shock, as if he can hardly believe what he’s just witnessed.

Evan, pale and weak, blinks slowly, his gaze finding Harry. “It’s gone… I can’t… feel it anymore,” he whispers, his voice faint, as though speaking takes all the energy he has left.

As Harry leans back, exhausted from the intense magic he’s just performed, he becomes aware of the presence of others in the room. The Potters—Fleamont and Euphemia—must have entered while he was battling the Dark Mark. He glances up at them, their faces a mixture of awe and concern, though there’s a glint of pride in Fleamont’s eyes.

Fleamont steps forward, his voice quiet but filled with admiration. “I never thought I’d ever see Parselmagic in action.” His gaze sweeps over Harry, who is still catching his breath.

Harry doesn’t know how to respond. He’s too tired, and the weight of what he’s just done lingers in his chest like a heavy stone. He’s relieved that it worked, but the enormity of it is starting to sink in. He saved Evan, but at what cost? Did Voldemort feel it? Does he know?

Euphemia, ever the healer, moves with practiced care as she turns her attention to Evan. The reopened injury on his chest has stopped bleeding, but she kneels beside him, gently prodding the wound to assess the damage. “Hold still,” she murmurs, her wand gliding over the gash. “It doesn’t seem too bad. You’ll be fine.”

Evan nods weakly, his body still trembling from the ordeal, but his eyes never leave Harry. There’s a gratitude there that he hasn’t yet found the words to express.

It only takes a few moments for Euphemia to close the wound, her magic steady and sure. Once she’s finished, she steps back, giving Evan a comforting smile before turning to Harry. “And now for you, young man,” she says softly.

Harry tries to wave her off, but she insists, gently lifting his chin to check him over. “He’s fine,” she announces after a moment, relief softening her voice. “Just exhausted.”

Harry breathes a little easier at her words, though his mind is already racing ahead. The adrenaline is fading, and in its place comes a flood of anxious thoughts. He needs to tell them—tell everyone—what might come next.

“I don’t know how much of this Voldy felt,” Harry says suddenly, his voice low and hoarse from the strain. “But… I’m reasonably sure he felt the connection to Evan break.”

The room falls silent. Even Evan, still pale and recovering, looks sharply at Harry. Alvin stands near his brother, his expression tight with worry.

“What does that mean?” Alvin asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry runs a hand through his hair, his mind working fast. “It means he might think Evan’s dead. Or maybe he’ll assume Evan… cut off his arm.” The thought is bitter, but it’s a possibility.

Fleamont frowns, folding his arms across his chest. “But He doesn’t know what you did—doesn’t know how it happened?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. He doesn’t know there are other descendants of Slytherin besides him. And that works in our favor. Voldy is arrogant. He’s so convinced he’s the only one left with these abilities that he won’t even consider the possibility that someone else could sever the connection.”

Euphemia listens carefully, her brow furrowed in thought. “So as long as your ancestry remains hidden, we’re safe?”

“For now, yes,” Harry agrees. His exhaustion seeps into his words, but he forces himself to continue. “As long as no one knows who I really am—what I can do—Voldy won’t suspect me. But if word ever gets out…”

“We’ll make sure it doesn’t,” Fleamont says firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. He exchanges a glance with Euphemia, who nods in silent agreement.

Harry lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “One more thing,” he adds, turning to Alvin. “If someone… hints that your brother is dead, don’t deny it. Let them believe it. As long as Voldy thinks Evan’s dead, he’ll stop looking for him.”

Alvin’s eyes widen in shock, and he opens his mouth to protest, but Harry’s expression is serious, almost pleading. “Please, Alvin. It’s the only way to keep Evan safe.”

There’s a heavy pause. Alvin’s shoulders sag as he realizes the truth in Harry’s words, though he hates it. Finally, he nods. “Alright,” he says, his voice thick. “I won’t say a word.”

Evan, who has been lying quietly, managing the remnants of his pain, speaks up, his voice strained but full of gratitude. “Thank you, Harry. And… Lady Potter. I owe you both my life.”

Euphemia smiles softly, brushing her hand over Evan’s hair like a mother tending to a wounded child. “You owe us nothing, dear. Rest now.”

Harry, though weary, meets Evan’s eyes. “You don’t owe me either,” he says gently. “Just… stay safe. That’s all I ask.”

Evan nods slowly, his eyes closing as exhaustion overtakes him. Alvin moves to sit beside him, keeping a protective watch over his brother, his worry etched in every line of his face.

As the tension in the room begins to settle, Harry feels the weight of everything pressing down on him. The exhaustion is bone-deep, but more than that, the fear of what comes next lingers in the back of his mind. Voldemort may be arrogant, but he’s not stupid. If he ever finds out…

***

About an hour later, the breakfast table at Potter Manor feels heavy with unspoken tension as the news of Cathal Rosier’s death hangs over them like a dark cloud. The Daily Prophet lies open, the bold headlines announcing the grim discovery of Rosier’s body in Diagon Alley, with mentions of his sons still missing.

Alvin and Evan sit across from each other, their expressions grave as they push their food around on their plates, each bite feeling like a weight they can’t swallow. The usually bustling atmosphere of the breakfast nook is stifled, the air thick with unease.

James glares at them from the far end of the table, his eyes filled with resentment, but he doesn’t dare speak up. Sirius sits beside him, unusually quiet, a frown etched on his face. Harry steals glances at Alvin, concern flickering in his emerald eyes.

Fleamont Potter, always the voice of reason, breaks the silence. “So, what are your plans now, Evan?” he asks, leaning forward, his tone gentle yet probing. “You’re now Lord Rosier. You have seats in the Wizengamot.”

Evan looks up, the weight of the title sinking in. “The seats can stay empty for now,” he replies, his voice steady but low. “The wards on our properties will keep everyone that isn’t a Rosier out.” He glances at Alvin, a mix of protectiveness and concern in his gaze. “I want Alvin to continue going to Hogwarts, but…” His voice trails off, and he swallows hard. “With this giant target on his back…”

Harry speaks up quietly, cutting through the tension. “As long as Dumbledore is there, Voldy won’t come to Hogwarts,” he states, his voice unwavering despite the disdain that lingers in his tone. “As much as I despise the headmaster, he needs to stay for the moment. We’d only need to watch out for the children of the Death Eaters. Those are easier to deal with.”

Lord Potter nods thoughtfully, the lines on his face deepening. “And what about Slughorn?” he asks, concern creeping into his voice. “Should we warn him?”

Harry’s lips press into a thin line. “The article should be all the warning he needs to know he’s in deep shit,” he replies. There’s an edge to his tone, a frustration that bubbles just beneath the surface. “If we’re lucky, Slughorn becomes scared enough to flee to Dumbledore and confess what he’s done.”

The room falls into a heavy silence, each person lost in their own thoughts. Alvin can feel the weight of the decisions ahead, the uncertain future stretching out before them like an uncharted sea.

Finally, Fleamont clears his throat, bringing everyone’s attention back to the present. “It’s decided then,” he says firmly. “We wait and watch for the moment. We’ll make decisions later, once we have more information.”

Chapter 33: The contract - Part I

Harry sits alone in the Potters’ drawing room, his legs curled beneath him in one of the oversized chairs. A dozen thoughts swirl through his mind, none of them comforting. The vision of Cathal Rosier’s death, Alvin’s troubled face when he’d found Harry earlier, Regulus—everything feels like it's pressing down on him, all at once.

He runs a hand through his messy hair, his mind racing. It’s all too much. Harry feels like he’s barely holding it together, even as the weight of it all slowly crushes him. Alvin and Evan retreated to the guest rooms after breakfast to try and take a short nap. Harry knows he should catch up on sleep, too. But he has too much on his mind.

A creak interrupts his thoughts, and Harry looks up to see James and Sirius standing awkwardly in the doorway. His stomach twists; he knows immediately he isn’t going to like whatever they do or say.

They exchange a glance before stepping inside, their usual swagger gone, replaced with an air of reluctant obligation. James shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual but failing miserably. Sirius is beside him, arms crossed, his expression hardened but faintly uncomfortable.

James clears his throat, trying for a casual tone but failing. “Harry, we, uh, wanted to talk to you.”

Sirius shifts beside him, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw set. He looks irritated more than anything, as though this whole thing is a chore he’s been forced into. “Yeah. We need to… apologize, or whatever.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but his eyes harden as he looks between them, waiting. He’s not naive. He knows where this is going. Euphemia had confiscated their prized possessions as punishment for the months of bullying.

James sighs, clearly uncomfortable. “Look, we were just messing around. It wasn’t, you know, serious.” He pauses, looking at Sirius with a smirk that quickly fades when Harry’s expression doesn’t change. “Anyway, we’re sorry.”

“Yeah,” Sirius adds, though his voice lacks any real sincerity. “Sorry.”

Harry stares at them for a long moment, feeling a familiar sting of bitterness rise in his chest. There’s no remorse in their voices, no guilt in their eyes. It’s a hollow apology, born out of inconvenience, not any real understanding of the hurt they’d caused. They weren’t sorry—they just wanted their things back.

“Are you, though?” Harry says quietly, his voice calm but sharp.

James looks taken aback. “What? We just said we’re sorry. What more do you want?”

Harry’s expression hardens. “I want you to actually mean it. I want you to care about what you’ve done, about how it’s made me feel. But you don’t, do you? This isn’t an apology—it’s just a way to get your stuff back from Aunt Euphemia.”

Sirius scowls, his voice defensive. “What difference does it make? We said we’re sorry. Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” Harry snaps, rising to his feet. “It’s not enough because you’re not sorry. You’re just annoyed that you got punished. You’re not sorry for making my life miserable for months. You don’t care about me, you just want your stupid broom and mirror back.”

James’s face flushes with anger, his frustration bubbling over. “We said we’re sorry, Harry! What else do you want?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Harry retorts, his voice sharp with bitterness. “It’s not about the words, James. It’s about what you’ve done. It’s about how you’ve made me feel like I don’t belong here. Like I’m not good enough to even be around you two.”

Before either of them can respond, the door to the drawing room swings open with a loud bang, and Cepheus steps inside, his face a mask of barely restrained fury.

“What is going on here?” Cepheus’s voice is low and dangerous, his eyes flashing with anger as they land on James and Sirius. “Did I just hear you right? You’ve been bullying Harry for months?”

James blinks, startled by the intensity in Cepheus’s voice. “It’s not like that—”

“Oh, it’s exactly like that,” Cepheus cuts him off, his voice rising. “You’ve been tormenting my little brother? My brother? And you think some half-hearted apology will make up for it?”

Sirius’s jaw tightens. “We were just messing around, Cepheus. It wasn’t serious.”

Cepheus’s face darkens. “Not serious? You think it’s fun to hurt someone? To make them feel worthless? To isolate them and make them feel like they don’t belong?”

James stammers, “We didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant!” Cepheus snaps, stepping closer, his fists clenched. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea what it’s like to feel like you’re on the outside, watching everyone else live their lives while you’re left wondering what you did wrong? Of course you don’t. You’re James Potter. You’re Sirius Black. You’ve never been on the outside of anything a day in your lives!”

Sirius opens his mouth to argue, but Cepheus silences him with a glare. “You two don’t deserve Harry’s forgiveness. You don’t deserve to even be in the same room as him after what you’ve done.”

The room is tense, the air thick with the weight of Cepheus’s words. Harry feels a strange mix of emotions—gratitude, anger, relief. Cepheus’s fierce defense of him is like a balm to the wounds he’s carried silently for so long. But at the same time, he feels exhausted, worn down by the constant strain of it all.

James and Sirius stand there, their faces pale, their usual arrogance stripped away. For once, they’re speechless.

Cepheus steps between them and Harry, his voice quieter but no less dangerous. “From now on, you leave him alone. No more pranks, no more hexes, no more anything. If I hear that you so much as look at him wrong, you’ll regret it.”

James swallows hard, nodding slightly. Sirius looks at the floor, his jaw clenched in frustration.

“Get out,” Cepheus says coldly. “Before I lose my temper.”

Without another word, James and Sirius turn and leave, their steps quick and tense. The door closes behind them, leaving Harry and Cepheus alone in the room.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then Cepheus lets out a slow, frustrated breath, turning to Harry, his expression softening.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice gentle now.

Harry nods, though his throat feels tight. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Cepheus shakes his head. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Harry. You’re not fine, and I don’t blame you for feeling that way.”

Harry feels the sting of tears threatening to rise, but he blinks them away. “It’s just... everything. Alvin, Voldy, Regulus. And now this.”

Cepheus pulls him into a hug, his arms tight around Harry’s shoulders. “You’re not alone, Harry. You’ve got me. And I’ll always be here for you.”

Harry leans into the hug, letting himself take comfort in his brother’s warmth. For the first time in what feels like forever, he feels like maybe—just maybe—he’s not as alone as he thought.

***

After lunch, Harry notices Fleamont lingering near the dining room door, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by something quieter, more serious. When everyone else has left, Fleamont nods toward his office, silently inviting Harry to follow. Harry feels a prickle of unease at the base of his neck, but he obliges, trailing after Fleamont with a sense of growing apprehension.

Once inside the office, Fleamont shuts the door softly behind them. The room smells faintly of parchment and ink, the morning sunlight slanting through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. Fleamont gestures for Harry to sit, but he remains standing, a knot of tension tightening in his chest.

Fleamont doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. His voice is low, but direct. “Harry, we need to talk about Regulus.”

Harry’s stomach drops, and for a moment, all he can hear is the pounding of his own heartbeat. “What about him?” he asks, though he has a terrible suspicion of where this conversation is headed.

Fleamont leans against his desk, folding his arms. His expression is kind but firm. “You care about him, don’t you?”

Harry feels a flash of heat rise to his cheeks, and he turns his gaze to the floor. “It doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “I don’t stand a chance.”

Fleamont frowns. “Why do you think that?”

Harry laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “Because everyone thinks I’m a bastard, for starters. And I’m a half-blood. I’m not exactly marriage material for someone like Regulus Black.” His voice cracks, though he tries to keep it steady. “People are already giving him and Alvin funny looks just for being friends with me.”

Fleamont hums thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving Harry’s face. “You might be surprised. Lord Black could still be convinced to sign a marriage contract between you and Regulus.”

Harry blinks, startled by the casual certainty in Fleamont’s tone. “But—”

Fleamont raises a hand to cut him off. “Listen to me, Harry. The Potters are descendants of both the Peverells and the Of Stinchcombes. If Lord Black knew that, it could very well tip the scales. There’s a lot of dormant family magic in the Blacks. And if he were to find out that you are second in line for Lordships for Slytherin, Gaunt, and Peverell—well…” He gives Harry a pointed look. “He might be quite eager to have you in his family. He’d probably insist you take the Black name, but I don’t think you’d mind that.”

Harry’s mouth goes dry, the weight of Fleamont’s words sinking in. “But I’m… I’m a guy,” he stammers. “I can’t give Regulus children.”

Fleamont smiles gently, as if Harry is missing something obvious. “There are potions for that.”

Harry stares at him in disbelief. “There are? Why have I never heard about them?”

“They might be banned in your time,” Fleamont says with a small shrug. “They’re considered dark magic by some, and they’re ridiculously expensive. But right now? They’re perfectly legal.”

Harry falls silent, his mind racing. The world feels like it’s shifting beneath his feet, possibilities unraveling before him that he’d never dared consider. But then doubt creeps back in, twisting his insides.

“I don’t want Regulus to be forced into something he doesn’t want,” Harry says softly, the weight of his own insecurities pressing down on him. “What if he hates me for it?”

Fleamont sighs, his expression softening. “The Blacks are an old-fashioned family, Harry. They don’t believe in love the way we do. Regulus always knew he’d have an arranged marriage. He’s probably already expecting his grandfather to start searching for the right candidate.”

Harry’s throat tightens. “But what about Dorea and—Father?” He stumbles over the word, but Fleamont doesn’t seem to notice.

“Or was that arranged too?”

Fleamont chuckles, a hint of fondness in his voice as he thinks of his brother. “No, Dorea and Charlus were lucky. They fell in love early, before any engagements could be made. Dorea comes from a side branch of the Blacks, and being a woman, the rules were a bit more flexible. When our father asked for a marriage contract between her and Charlus on the grounds that they were in love, Dorea’s father accepted.”

He chuckles again, though there’s a flicker of something sadder behind his eyes. “Of course, Charlus did receive a rather unfriendly letter after you came into the picture. But Dorea was able to smooth things over and convince everyone that Charlus had been just as much a victim as she was.”

Harry huffs a weak laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The thought of Regulus being forced into an arranged marriage gnaws at him, making his stomach churn.

“Do you really think…” Harry begins, but the question dies in his throat. He doesn’t know how to ask the question without sounding like a fool.

Fleamont seems to understand. He steps closer, placing a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I think,” he says gently, “that you might have a chance. But it won’t last forever. The Black family is already planning Regulus’ future. If you want a place in it, you’ll have to act soon.”

Harry swallows hard, the knot in his throat tightening as Fleamont’s words linger in the air. His mind spins with uncertainty, doubt clinging to him like a second skin, but beneath it, a fragile flicker of hope stirs—delicate, but there.

He and Regulus are good friends. Surely Regulus would prefer him over some pureblood girl he doesn’t love or has never even met? At least with Harry, there’s a bond, a connection. That must count for something, right?

Harry’s heart pounds against his ribcage, but the decision is made. He glances at Fleamont, who watches him with an amused, knowing look. “Alright,” Harry says at last, his voice soft but steady. “Let’s give it a try.”

Fleamont chuckles, the corners of his lips twitching into a grin. “I thought you'd come around,” he says, sounding both pleased and entertained. “Though I’m fairly certain you’re overcomplicating things. Regulus isn’t exactly subtle, you know.”

Harry frowns, blinking. “What do you mean?”

With an indulgent smile, Fleamont starts pulling out parchment, ink, and quills, setting them neatly on the desk as he replies. “Harry, if you think Regulus doesn’t feel the same way about you, you’re more oblivious than I realized.”

The words catch Harry off guard, his mind momentarily going blank. He stares at Fleamont, his thoughts stumbling over themselves. “But—he’s never said—” he starts, but Fleamont waves him off, his grin widening.

“He doesn’t need to say it. It’s written all over his face when he looks at you.” Fleamont chuckles as he begins to draft the marriage contract. “But don’t worry, you’ll figure it out eventually. Probably when it’s staring you right in the face.”

Harry sits down, feeling the weight of what they’re about to do settle heavily on his shoulders. Fleamont’s words swirl in his mind, making his head spin. Regulus… loves him? No, Harry tells himself, shaking his head. That can’t be right. He’d know. Wouldn’t he?

As Fleamont’s quill scratches across the parchment, the ink forming elegant, precise lines, Harry watches in silence, his thoughts in turmoil. His heart thuds in his chest as he tries to make sense of it all. He must’ve misread something, he thinks. Regulus is just… he’s just nice. Right?

“Does this sound alright?” Fleamont asks suddenly, breaking Harry from his spiraling thoughts. He pushes the parchment across the desk, and Harry leans forward to read it, his nerves tangling as he scans the carefully written words.

The terms are straightforward: an agreement of mutual respect, equal partnership, and financial independence. It’s not binding yet—just a draft—but the weight of it is undeniable. This is real. Harry’s fingers brush the edges of the parchment, his throat tightening as he tries to find the right words.

He glances up at Fleamont, his doubt creeping back. “Do you really think Regulus would prefer me? Over… over someone else?”

“Of course.”

Chapter 34: The contract - Part II

Lord Arcturus Black glances up from the stacks of parchment scattered across his desk, the lines of weariness on his face momentarily deepening as he lifts his gaze to Fleamont Potter, standing in front of him. Arcturus gestures toward the chair opposite him. "Please, take a seat," he says, voice controlled but cool.

Fleamont sits down with a steady nod, his expression composed yet purposeful.

"You asked to meet me, Lord Potter?" Arcturus begins, his tone carrying the hint of suspicion that always accompanied conversations with anyone outside his immediate family.

"I was wondering," Fleamont replies smoothly, "if young Regulus was still available for marriage."

Arcturus frowns, a deep furrow forming between his eyebrows. "I thought the Potters didn’t do arranged marriages. And isn’t your son currently pursuing that muggleborn girl from his house? Not that she seems to reciprocate his affections."

Fleamont offers a small, knowing smile. "I’m not asking for my son."

Arcturus’s eyes narrow slightly, his calculating mind already working through the implications. His lips form a thin line before he speaks again, voice sharper this time. "Then who—" He pauses, realization dawning, and his frown deepens further. "Your nephew, Harry."

Fleamont nods, his gaze unwavering. "Yes, Harry."

"No!" Arcturus's fist slams against the table with a startling bang, making the parchment on his desk tremble. His eyes burn with indignation as he glares at Fleamont. "I cannot believe you would insult me like this, Fleamont. After the scandal with Charlus—"

"Charlus was a victim as well," Fleamont interrupts, keeping his voice calm and steady, despite the heat radiating from Lord Black.

"Which is the only reason I didn’t declare a blood feud." Arcturus hisses through clenched teeth, his knuckles whitening as he grips the arms of his chair. "Dorea told me everything. I know that woman fed Charlus a love potion. My cousin should have sued the daylight out of her, not just forced her to quietly leave the country."

Fleamont exhales slowly, his voice more tempered now. "Dorea wanted to avoid a scandal. Her marriage to Charlus was already the talk of the year. If it had come out that Charlus had been coerced into sleeping with another woman—forced or not—they wouldn’t have had the peace they needed to raise Cepheus."

Arcturus’s jaw tightens at the mention of peace, but Fleamont continues, pressing his point gently. "Harry genuinely loves Regulus. And if Dorea is right, Regulus returns those feelings but is too afraid to act on them. You wouldn’t want your grandson to live in misery for the rest of his life, would you?"

Arcturus inhales sharply through his nose, then exhales with a long, drawn-out sigh. His anger seems to falter, replaced by a weariness that is all too familiar for the lord of such an old and proud family. "I can see where you’re coming from," he admits slowly, his voice softening slightly. "I don’t have a problem with your nephew, and I won’t order Regulus to break off his friendship with him." He pauses, his dark eyes searching Fleamont’s face for some sign of hidden motive. "But Regulus is Heir Black. He has duties to the family. He will be wed to a pureblood of good standing, not a half-blood. And a bastard, on top of that."

"I knew you would say that," Fleamont replies smoothly, leaning forward ever so slightly, "but I have something that will make you reconsider."

Arcturus raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "I doubt anything you say will change my mind. But go ahead, Lord Potter, give it your best shot."

Fleamont reaches into his coat and pulls out a sealed parchment, which he hands across the desk. "I heard there’s a lot of dormant family magic in the Blacks, including Metamorphmagus abilities. If Harry marries Regulus, there’s a strong chance some of that magic could resurface in their children."

Arcturus eyes the parchment warily before breaking the seal and scanning the contents. His sharp eyes widen, disbelief flickering across his usually impassive features. "Of Stinchcombe and Peverell?" he murmurs, barely audible. He looks up at Fleamont, incredulity in his voice. "Is this genuine?"

Fleamont gives a small nod. "Dorea had the ancestry test done to confirm Harry’s parentage. Feel free to test Harry yourself if you’re not convinced."

Arcturus waves the suggestion off dismissively, still staring at the parchment. "No need. You wouldn’t have brought forged documents to me, not in such a matter." He leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face. "This explains so much... why so much of our family magic has resurfaced in Cepheus and even little Carina."

Fleamont’s lips curve into a quiet smile, sensing that he’s struck a chord. "There’s more, though. You might want to take a closer look at Harry’s mother’s side of the family."

Arcturus looks up sharply, skepticism returning to his expression. "She was a mu—" He stops mid-word, his eyes widening in shock as he skims the page again. His disbelief is palpable. "Impossible..."

"I assure you, it’s not." Fleamont’s tone is measured, careful not to sound too triumphant. "I had it verified with Gringotts. Harry is currently the next in line, after You-know-who, for the titles of Lord Gaunt, Lord Slytherin, and Lord Peverell."

Arcturus stares at Fleamont, the shock still evident on his face. "Interesting," he finally murmurs, though his voice is far more subdued now.

Fleamont leans forward slightly. "And Harry says Salazar Slytherin himself has been quite vocal in his displeasure regarding certain actions of Him. Particularly when he created Horcruxes." He pauses for effect, watching the stunned look on Arcturus’s face. "Salazar was furious enough to teach Harry Parselmagic to perform a ritual to restore his soul. Of course, no one knows of Harry’s connection to Slytherin, or he’d be the prime target of his so-called agenda."

At the mention of Horcruxes, Arcturus jerks back in his chair, eyes wide with horror. "Horcruxes? Plural?"

Fleamont nods gravely. "Yes. Six."

Arcturus stares at him, his breath shallow, the weight of the revelation clearly overwhelming him. He rubs his temples, his mind reeling at the implications. "Six..." he mutters again, more to himself than Fleamont. “I’ve read the theory—creating even one is... But six?" He shakes his head, the magnitude of the situation sinking in.

Fleamont allows the silence to stretch for a moment, knowing Arcturus needs time to process the gravity of what he’s just learned. Then, quietly but firmly, he speaks again. "Now, Lord Black, considering all this, I ask you to reconsider the idea of a marriage contract between Harry and Regulus. It would not only unite two of the most ancient and powerful bloodlines, but it might also be the key to restoring some of the dormant magic within your family."

Arcturus leans back in his chair, eyes narrowed as he watches Fleamont Potter. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, silence stretches between them. Then, with a resigned sigh, he speaks, his voice carrying the weight of generations. "You’ve put me in a very difficult position, Lord Potter," he admits, each word measured. "Alright. Let’s negotiate."

Fleamont nods, as if anticipating this turn. "I know the Lestranges and the Malfoys are some of his most loyal followers. Narcissa, while not marked, supports her husband’s wishes. I also understand the value of loyalty to family in times like these. So, here’s what I propose."

Arcturus leans forward, fingers steepled as he listens intently, his expression unreadable.

"My family won’t betray their names to the Ministry," Fleamont continues. "Should they be found out, I will personally defend them in front of the Wizengamot. But only under one condition—they must immediately leave his service or, preferably, turn spy to help bring him down. The same applies to their families and anyone else you can convince to walk away from him."

Arcturus’s face remains impassive, though there’s a flicker of interest in his eyes. He knows the value of what Fleamont is offering—a lifeline for those on the brink of ruin. But it’s a dangerous game.

Fleamont adds, his tone lowering, "I don’t know whether you are aware of it, but Walburga has made plans to induct Regulus into his ranks. If Regulus is to marry Harry, then this cannot happen."

Arcturus’s face hardens at the mention of his daughter-in-law’s schemes. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, his knuckles whiten as he clenches the arms of his chair. He inhales sharply, forcing his anger under control. "I had not been aware of my heir’s involvement, but now that I am, I will put a stop to it."

Fleamont doesn’t blink, watching for Arcturus’s reaction.

"Alright," Arcturus finally agrees, his voice low but firm. "I agree to your terms. Is there anything else regarding the war, or can we move forward to discussing the engagement?"

Fleamont shakes his head. "No, that’s all."

Arcturus takes the contract from Fleamont, his sharp eyes scanning the parchment. The room falls into silence once again, the weight of the negotiations pressing down on both men. After what feels like an eternity, Arcturus sets the contract down in front of him, his fingers lightly tapping on the desk. "It’s a well-founded contract, thorough," he admits. "But there are a few things I want changed."

Fleamont raises an eyebrow, remaining silent, inviting him to continue.

"Harry was raised by his mother until last summer," Arcturus begins. "He knows nothing about what it means to be the consort of the future Lord Black. He will need to be trained from scratch."

Fleamont nods, expecting this concern. "Dorea is teaching him everything she can, but given the time constraints, I understand if you want to appoint an additional teacher. Who do you have in mind?"

Arcturus doesn’t hesitate. "His future mother-in-law, Walburga. She was trained to be Lady Black until Orion fell ill. She will be more than sufficient."

Fleamont’s expression hardens slightly, his eyes flashing with disapproval. "I’m afraid I must insist on another option. Walburga is not to be anywhere near my nephew without sufficient supervision. Furthermore, I would like you to permit Harry to defend himself and Regulus from her by any means necessary, provided he doesn’t cause any lasting damage. In fact, I would prefer Regulus to be removed from her care entirely, but I understand that decision lies with you."

Arcturus's brows knit together in confusion at the unusual request. His voice is colder now. "This is an unusual demand. Will you explain your reasoning?"

Fleamont meets Arcturus’s gaze, his voice steady, but filled with conviction. "Walburga is abusive. She has been tormenting both Sirius and Regulus for as long as Sirius can remember. If she’s given even half a chance, I fear she will turn that same cruelty toward Harry."

Arcturus’s expression flickers with shock. He regards Fleamont for a moment, his mind racing through memories of his interactions with Walburga. "I see," he says after a pause, his voice softer, almost reluctant. "I will look into this. And should I find confirmation of your claim, I will allow Harry to defend both himself and Regulus from her, with any means he deems appropriate—provided, of course, no permanent damage is done to her person."

Arcturus pauses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "As for Harry’s lessons, I would suggest my wife, Melania. She is strict but fair and does not condone corporal punishment."

Fleamont smiles, visibly relaxing. "Lady Black would be an excellent choice."

Satisfied with that resolution, they dive back into the details of the contract, discussing it in depth, their voices lowering to a steady hum as they make minor revisions and adjustments. Every clause, every word, is carefully scrutinized before both men finally sign it, sealing the future of Harry and Regulus with ink on parchment.

As the ink dries, Fleamont looks up at Arcturus with a final request. "Before I leave, I’d like to deliver a message to Regulus."

Arcturus raises an eyebrow. "A message?"

"Alvin and Evan Rosier are fine."

The name Rosier seems to jolt something in Arcturus. His lips part slightly as the memory of what he’d read that morning flashes across his mind—the headline in the paper. Lord Cathal Rosier found dead. His sons missing. Arcturus’s gaze sharpens, a flicker of relief mingling with his ever-cautious expression.

"Regulus will be relieved to hear his friend is safe," Arcturus murmurs, more to himself than to Fleamont, his voice quieter now. He leans back in his chair, staring at the contract before him, the weight of everything they’ve discussed hanging between them.

"Thank you, Lord Potter," Arcturus says finally, his voice strained but sincere.

Fleamont stands, giving a respectful nod before turning to leave the room, knowing that today he has won a battle more significant than either man may fully understand just yet.

After Lord Potter has left, Arcturus waits for a few moments. Then, with deliberate, steady movements, he crosses the grand study to the doorway. His long, dark robes trail behind him, whispering against the stone floor.

He stops in front of the large, intricately carved door to his and Melania's quarters. He knows his wife will be there, meticulously working through her embroidery or reading one of the many Black family tomes. She never leaves things undone, much like him.

Arcturus knocks lightly before pushing the door open. The faint scent of lavender greets him, mingling with the warm glow of the candles that flicker on the far table. Melania looks up from her embroidery frame, her steel-grey eyes locking onto her husband with mild curiosity.

“Arcturus,” she greets, her tone always calm, always controlled. "You look troubled."

Arcturus steps into the room, his expression a carefully crafted mask. “I’ve made a decision today,” he begins, his voice deep and steady. He walks over to the hearth and stares into the flames for a moment, his back to her. “It concerns Regulus.”

Melania lifts an eyebrow, carefully setting her embroidery down beside her. "Regulus? What decision is this, then?" Her tone remains neutral, but there’s a flicker of concern in her eyes. She knows how closely Arcturus guards Regulus’s future. "You’ve found a suitable match, haven’t you?"

“Yes," Arcturus replies, turning to face her now. "I have chosen a spouse for Regulus. Someone who I believe will make a good match."

Melania sits up a little straighter, her fingers resting lightly on the arm of her chair. She does not press for a name just yet; instead, she watches him carefully, the subtle shift in her posture betraying her interest. "And you are confident in this match?"

Arcturus meets her gaze, his own eyes sharp and unwavering. "More than confident," he says. "It is an arrangement that will secure not only Regulus’s happiness but also the future of this family. Though you will need to teach them"

Melania studies him, sensing the gravity in his words, though she refrains from asking specifics. She knows Arcturus will reveal the details in his own time. “Then I trust your judgment,” she replies quietly, knowing her husband does not make such decisions lightly. “Have you spoken to Walburga and Orion?”

Arcturus’s jaw tightens at the mention of Walburga’s name. "Not yet," he admits, his voice hardening. "That is why I came to speak with you first. I need you to inform them—and the rest of the family. They are all to come to Black Manor tomorrow afternoon. I will inform everyone then."

A silence falls between them, filled only by the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the ancient grandfather clock. Melania nods after a moment, accepting the responsibility without question. "Very well," she says, rising from her chair. "I will ensure they are all present. But you know Walburga will have her questions."

Arcturus’s lips press into a thin line. “She always does,” he says tersely. “But she will have her answers tomorrow, as will everyone else. It is important that they hear it from me.”

Melania steps closer to him now, her fingers brushing his sleeve lightly in a rare show of affection. "And Regulus? Have you told him yet?"

Arcturus lets out a low sigh, his gaze momentarily softening. "No. Not yet." He pauses, as if weighing his next words carefully. “However, there is something else I need you to tell him before tomorrow. His friend, Alvin Rosier, and his brother are fine.”

Melania’s brow furrows slightly, and her eyes narrow in thought. “I had heard about Lord Cathal Rosier’s death in the Prophet. They said the sons were missing.”

Arcturus nods, his expression darkening. “They were, but they are safe for now. Regulus will be relieved to hear his friends are out of immediate danger.”

Melania considers this for a moment before nodding. “I’ll speak to Walburga.”

Satisfied with her response, Arcturus turns away from the fire, moving toward the door. But just before he leaves, he looks back at his wife, his voice softening ever so slightly. “Thank you, Melania.”

She inclines her head, a rare smile tugging at her lips. “You are welcome, Arcturus.”

Chapter 35: The contract - Part III

When Fleamont returns to Potter Manor, Harry is already waiting for him, his heart pounding in his chest. The moment the door swings open, Harry rushes forward, barely able to contain his nerves.

"And?" Harry blurts out, his eyes wide with anticipation.

Fleamont steps inside, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "Congratulations on your engagement," he says warmly. "There were a few small changes to the contract, but nothing we didn’t expect."

For a moment, Harry just stares, processing the words. Then, with a squeal that’s entirely out of character for him, he throws his arms around Fleamont, hugging him tightly. "Thank you!" he breathes, a wave of relief and joy washing over him. He really did it, he thinks. Regulus and I... it’s real.

Fleamont chuckles, patting Harry’s back. "I told you it would work out."

But before the warmth of the moment can settle in, Sirius steps into view, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. "What do I hear? Harry’s engaged?" he teases, clearly amused. "James is going to be so jealous. He’s barely managed to get Evans to agree to a single date, and now you’re off signing marriage contracts?"

Sirius crosses his arms, still smirking. "Didn’t even know you were seeing anyone, Harry. Though, judging by how formal Fleamont had to get, I’m guessing her family’s the old-fashioned type. So, who’s the lucky lady? Please tell me she isn’t a Slytherin."

Harry lets go of Fleamont and spins around, glaring at Sirius. His chest tightens with the sting of everything Sirius has put him through—the bullying, the cruel jokes, the cold indifference. Now Sirius is acting like they’re friends, like nothing ever happened? It sends a wave of bitterness surging through Harry.

“There’s nothing wrong with being in Slytherin!” Harry snaps, his voice sharper than he intended.

The entrance hall falls silent for a beat, and then James, along with the rest of the family, appears, curiosity written across his face.

“I can’t believe you beat me to it!” James exclaims, his grin wide and teasing. “I’m one of the most popular guys at Hogwarts, and Lily still won’t agree to anything official after ages of courting!”

Harry’s glare deepens. His emotions bubble to the surface—anger, resentment, frustration with James and Sirius. He’s been patient, but not anymore. “Maybe it’s because Lily thinks you’re an arrogant toerag with the intelligence of a bloody tablespoon,” he spits, his tone dripping with venom.

Everyone bursts into laughter, the sound filling the hall and leaving James mockingly wounded as he clutches his chest.

“Oh, come on, mate,” James protests, laughing along with them, though the truth in Harry’s words clearly stings. "You didn’t have to go that hard."

Cepheus steps forward and embraces Harry with a warm smile. “Congrats. You’ve only been pining after him since you met,” he teases softly.

Harry flushes scarlet, the heat rising in his cheeks as he fidgets under his brother’s gaze.

Sirius and James exchange wide-eyed glances, both blinking as though they’ve missed something crucial.

“Him?” they say in unison, the synchrony of their shock almost comical.

Fleamont chuckles softly, clearly enjoying the moment. “Your parents and I are about to head to my office to go over the changes Arcturus insisted on. Do you want to join us, Harry?”

Harry nods, still dazed by the fact that Lord Black actually agreed to let him marry Regulus. His heart swells with disbelief and hope, but there’s still the lingering sting of Sirius and James’s betrayal. He can’t let himself get distracted by their petty jokes, not now.

Sirius, meanwhile, stands frozen, his mouth slightly agape as he tries to wrap his head around what he just heard. “Arcturus?” he echoes in disbelief. “My grandfather?”

James is no less stunned. “Wait—Lord Black? You met with Lord Black for a marriage contract? But he’s the head of the family... that means this is for Regulus?!” James's voice pitches upward in shock, his brain clearly struggling to catch up.

“How?” Sirius gasps, clearly still not fully recovered from the news. “How did you get him to agree?”

Fleamont straightens up, his tone calm and measured. “I made Lord Black an offer he simply couldn’t refuse.”

Sirius shakes his head, his disbelief turning into something more frantic. “Grandfather wouldn’t let Reggie marry anyone who wasn’t a perfect little pureblood. He’s the heir! What could you possibly offer him?”

Fleamont’s expression remains as composed as ever. “I showed him that Harry has inherited a unique and extremely rare combination of family magic. Once I provided proof, Arcturus only requested a few minor changes to the contract. Then he signed.”

Sirius’s shock shifts into a quieter, more personal realization. He stares at Harry, trying to comprehend what it means. “You’re... you’re marrying my little brother?” His voice falters slightly, a rare crack in Sirius’s usual bravado.

Lord Potter nods curtly. "Yes. And we’ve been invited to Black Manor for dinner tomorrow. I expect everyone to be on their best behavior.” Fleamont’s voice grows stern as he turns toward Sirius and James. “That includes the both of you. If either of you pulls any of your pranks, you’ll be grounded until you turn thirty."

Sirius’s mouth opens, then closes again. Like he still can’t fully believe it, but the weight of Fleamont’s words finally settles in. Harry, his younger brother’s best friend, the boy Sirius spent months tormenting, is now going to marry Regulus. His head spins, trying to connect the dots of everything he’s missed, everything he’s failed to see.

Harry, meanwhile, watches Sirius carefully, his anger simmering just below the surface. He can feel Sirius trying to piece it all together, but part of him wonders—does Sirius really care? Or is this just another layer to the game for him?

***

When Harry steps out of Fleamont’s office, his mind is buzzing with everything they’ve discussed. His engagement to Regulus, the contract, the responsibilities—it’s a lot to process. He feels a strange mix of exhilaration and nervousness, still grappling with the idea that this is all happening.

As he wanders down the corridor, Alvin’s voice calls out from one of the guest rooms, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Oi, Harry! Come here for a second."

He follows the voice and enters the room where Alvin and Evan Rosier are seated. The moment he steps in, both of them smile warmly.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” Evan says, his voice calm and polite, though there’s a glint of surprise in his eyes.

Alvin grins, ever the playful one. “Finally made it official, huh? Took you long enough.”

Harry blushes slightly but smiles back. “Thanks.”

“Though I have to say, mate, it’s been painfully obvious for ages.” Alvin leans back, arms crossed, his grin widening. “I mean, come on—a lion patronus? Really?” His teasing tone makes Harry flush deeper.

Evan raises an eyebrow. “You can cast a corporeal Patronus?” He sounds genuinely impressed. “That’s incredibly advanced magic.”

Harry shrugs, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. “Yeah, well... I had some good reasons to learn.”

“Still,” Evan says, clearly impressed. “Not many people can manage it.”

The mood shifts slightly as Alvin’s grin fades and he turns to the real reason for calling Harry in. “So... about that research of yours. Do you mind if I show Evan what you’ve been working on? The stuff about muggleborns being descendants of Squibs, and the relation between blood purity and Squibs or childless marriages?”

Harry pauses, considering for a moment. “Sure, but it’s not finished. I’m still collecting evidence, so there’s not much to go on yet. The only family trees I’ve fully examined are mine and Lily’s.”

Alvin nods, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, and Harry quickly realizes why. The Unbreakable Vow. Alvin had sworn it to protect Harry’s secret about being a Parselmouth.

Sensing Alvin’s unease, Harry blurts out, “Do you know how to undo an Unbreakable Vow?”

Evan’s brow furrows in surprise. “You can’t undo it alone. Both parties have to agree, and you’ll need a binder. Well, technically a un-binder. Though, it doesn’t have to be the same one who bound you in the first place.”

Harry’s heart races slightly. “So you know the procedure, then?”

Evan nods slowly, suspicion creeping into his gaze. “Yeah, I know it. Why?”

Harry glances at Alvin, who’s now looking at him with wide eyes. “Because I want you to help me and Alvin undo ours.”

Evan’s eyes widen in shock. His usually composed demeanor falters for just a moment as he processes what Harry just said. “You... you’ve made an Unbreakable Vow with Alvin?” he asks, his voice tight with disbelief. But he quickly regains his composure, his expression unreadable now.

Harry shrugs, trying to act casual about it. “Yeah. It was... complicated. Can you help us undo it?”

Evan, after a brief pause, nods. “Yeah, I can do that.”

They quickly perform the procedure, and as the vow is broken, Harry feels a weight lift from his shoulders. Alvin looks visibly relieved too, but Evan’s curiosity clearly hasn’t been satisfied.

“What was the vow about?” Evan asks, his tone still laced with disbelief. “Why did Alvin need to swear something like that?”

Alvin shoots a quick glance at Harry, silently asking for permission to explain. Harry nods, letting Alvin take the lead.

Alvin glances at Harry for permission, and Harry gives a small nod. Alvin turns to his brother. “Some of the idiots in our house put a fire viper in Harry’s bed.”

Evan’s eyes widen in horror. “A fire viper? Are they insane? Those things are deadly!”

 “Apparently,” Alvin mutters. “But nothing happened, because Harry—well, Harry talked to the snake, and it obeyed him.”

Evan blinks. “Talked to it? Wait—Parseltongue?” Then he slaps his forehead with his hand. “Of course you’re a Parselmouth. You wouldn’t have been able to perform Parsemlagic otherwise.”

Harry nods, his expression hardening slightly. “Yeah.”

Alvin continues, “Everyone in the dorm heard him. He had to Obliviate them so they wouldn’t remember. But he gave Regulus and me a choice—either an Obliviation or an Unbreakable Vow to keep his secret.”

Evan frowns, confused. “What’s so bad about being a Parselmouth? I mean, it’s rare, but—”

“It’s not just about the Parseltongue,” Harry interrupts, his voice serious. “It’s about who I’m related to.”

Evan’s face goes blank for a second, and then understanding dawns on him. “The Dark Lord?” he whispers.

Harry nods grimly. “Yeah. He killed off all his relatives—at least the ones he knew about. I’m not in a hurry to join them, so I’d prefer to keep that connection quiet.”

Evan looks stunned. “How closely are you related?”

“Second cousins, once removed,” Harry replies. “Technically, I’m his heir for the titles of Lord Slytherin, Gaunt, and Peverell, unless he has children of his own or disowns me, which, given the circumstances, seems unlikely.”

Evan’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out at first. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet and full of disbelief. “You’re the heir to Slytherin? That’s...”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry says, cutting him off before he can finish the thought. “It’s not something I talk about, for obvious reasons.”

The room falls into an uneasy silence as Evan processes this revelation. Alvin looks at his brother, as if expecting more questions, but Evan just shakes his head, clearly at a loss for words.

Finally, Evan says, “That... makes sense.”

Alvin clears his throat, glancing between Evan and Harry with a subtle shift in his posture. He suddenly seems a little uncomfortable, as though something’s been weighing on his mind for a while. With the tension from the broken vow now behind them, it feels like the perfect moment to bring up what he’s been holding back.

“So,” Alvin begins, a bit too casually, “Evan, how upset would you be if I, uh… started dating a Muggleborn?”

Harry’s eyes widen at the unexpected shift in conversation, and he looks between the two brothers, curious about Evan’s reaction. He knows that blood status can be a touchy subject, especially in families like the Rosiers.

Evan stiffens, clearly not expecting the question either. His brow furrows as he considers it, and for a moment, Harry can see the wheels turning in Evan’s head. The Rosier family, known for their traditional pureblood values, has likely instilled certain prejudices in both brothers, but Evan isn’t the type to give a knee-jerk reaction.

“Dating a Muggleborn?” Evan repeats slowly, as if testing the words in his mouth. His eyes narrow slightly, but not in anger—more in deep thought. He glances at Harry briefly, as if gauging his reaction too, before focusing back on Alvin. “I don’t know. It depends.”

“Depends on what?” Alvin presses, leaning forward slightly, clearly invested in Evan’s answer.

Evan exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “It depends on who they are. If you’re asking whether I’d be angry just because she’s a Muggleborn—no. But if she’s a Muggleborn with no regard for the wizarding world, our culture, or... I don't know, someone who doesn’t get what it means to live in our world, then I’d have concerns.”

Harry watches the exchange closely, fascinated. He can hardly believe this is the same Evan Rosier who is, at least in the future, believed to be a bloodthirsty monster and one of Voldemort’s most devoted followers.

“Concerns like what?” Alvin asks, his voice quieter now. Harry can see this isn’t just idle curiosity—this matters to Alvin, and he’s nervous about what Evan will say next.

Evan looks at his younger brother for a long moment before replying, “Concerns that she wouldn’t understand the life you’d have. Dating a Muggleborn can come with complications. You know how our world is, Alvin. You know how our relatives think. It’s not only about how I’d feel—it’s about how she’d be treated, by them, by others.”

Alvin’s shoulders tense slightly. “I know it’d be difficult, but I’m not asking for their approval. Just yours.”

Evan’s expression softens slightly, and Harry notices a flicker of something—maybe protective concern for Alvin. “If she makes you happy, I wouldn’t stand in your way. But you’ll have to be prepared for a fight. It won’t be easy.”

Harry can’t help but feel a surge of respect for Evan. He’s not blindly clinging to blood purity or family expectations—he’s considering his brother’s happiness, even if it means going against tradition. For a moment, Harry wonders what it must be like to have a sibling who cares so much. He knows Cepheus cares about him, but they have only knows each other for a few months, and Harry spent most of that time at Hogwarts.

Alvin smiles, a little relieved. “Thanks, Evan. I knew you wouldn’t blow up, but… I wasn’t sure what you’d say.”

Evan chuckles softly, the sound more relaxed now. “You’re not an idiot. If you’ve found someone who can handle the wizarding world, who respects it, then it’s not my place to tell you no. But you’ll have to be ready for everything else that comes with it.”

Chapter 36: Uncertain Future – Part I

Regulus dreads this day, a pit of anxiety twisting in his stomach since the moment his grandmother’s Floo call came yesterday while he was doing his homework. The sound of his mother’s voice as she informed him afterwards had echoed in his mind all night—stiff, formal, and undeniably excited as she informed them of the family meeting. His grandfather, Lord Arcturus Black, had finally chosen a fiancé for him.

He can still hear his mother’s sharp intake of breath, the gleam of joy in her eyes. "A Black union! You are to be engaged, Regulus! Finally!"

Regulus had smiled weakly in response, but inside, it felt like the walls were closing in. He barely slept, staring at the ceiling of his darkened bedroom, dreading the inevitable. His marriage, the final lock on his gilded cage, would soon snap shut. Any hope of freedom, of choice, was slipping through his fingers. He couldn’t help but think of his brother Sirius, who had thrown off these chains and fled. For a brief, dangerous moment, Regulus envied him.

But that’s not his path. It never was. He’s the dutiful son—the heir. He has to play his part. And now, all he can do is hope that his grandfather hasn’t chosen someone unbearable—a brute like Mulciber or some vain, power-hungry girl like Pearl Parkinson. Regulus shudders at the thought, his mind replaying some of the proposals his mother had eagerly pushed on his behalf. His hand had trembled as he reviewed them, knowing that he barely had the power to refuse. The best he could do was rule out a few, hoping it would be enough to avoid a total nightmare.

And then there’s Alvin. The anxiety deepens as Regulus thinks of his friend. He hasn’t heard from him since the paper announced the death of Alvin’s father. The report had stated that Alvin and Evan were missing. Is that good? Are they in hiding, or worse, captured by the Dark Lord? The uncertainty gnaws at him, the fear of losing Alvin to this war too much to bear. Regulus doesn’t even dare to reach out, worried that any contact might expose Alvin’s location if he’s on the run.

With a heavy heart, Regulus floos into Black Manor, following his father, who moves with a rigid formality. His mother arrives right after, her eyes flaring with excitement. Regulus wishes for nothing more than to run, to escape like Sirius had, but instead, he steps forward with the weight of generations on his shoulders.

His grandparents wait in the foyer, their presence commanding as ever. "Grandfather. Grandmother," Regulus greets them, his voice wary, trying to keep the dread from showing.

Lord Arcturus Black inclines his head in acknowledgment. "Follow me to the dining room. The others have already arrived," he says, voice cool and composed, as if this meeting is a mere formality, a minor event in the grand scheme of things.

As they walk through the imposing corridors of Black Manor, Walburga, ever impatient, blurts, "Who did you choose?"

"Patience," Arcturus replies with a sharp edge to his voice, though there’s a trace of amusement. "You will know soon enough."

Regulus’s heart pounds in his chest, each step toward the dining room feeling like a march toward doom. His mind races, but outwardly, he remains composed, the perfect pureblood heir. His grandmother catches his expression, her eyes narrowing. "Why the long face, Regulus?" she asks sharply, her voice tinged with suspicion.

Regulus swallows, scrambling for a plausible excuse. “I’m worried about Alvin,” he lies, though there’s a kernel of truth in the statement. The anxiety about his friend mixes with his fear about the impending announcement, making him feel sick.

Arcturus frowns, stopping in his tracks. “Your mother didn’t tell you?” he asks, voice colder now, eyes narrowing on Walburga.

Regulus blinks in confusion. “Tell me what?” he asks cautiously, glancing at his mother.

She stammers, clearly caught off guard. “I... I must have forgotten in the excitement of the engagement.”

His grandmother’s eyes flash with disapproval. "You forgot? I specifically instructed you to inform Regulus that his friend, Alvin, and his brother Evan, are alive and well."

Relief floods through Regulus like a cool breeze on a stifling day. Alvin is alive. He’s okay. Though he doesn’t know how his grandparents could possibly know this, the weight in his chest lifts, just a little. He resists the urge to ask for more details, sensing it’s not the time for such questions.

They arrive at the dining room, and Regulus's heart sinks further when he sees the entire extended Black family gathered. His mother’s parents, Pollux and Irma Black, are seated with stern expressions. Great-Aunt Cassiopeia sits near the head of the table, along with Callidora and Harfang Longbottom. His Aunt Lucretia is there with her husband, Ignatius Prewett, as well as Uncle Alphard, who gives Regulus a sympathetic nod. Cygnus and Druella are present too, flanked by their three daughters and their husbands.

It’s a full family assembly—everyone except for Aunt Dorea and her family.

Walburga scowls the moment her eyes land on Andromeda and her Muggle husband. "What is that blood traitor doing here?" she spits, venom dripping from her words.

Regulus tenses, waiting for his grandfather’s reaction.

"She is a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black," Arcturus replies sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now that everyone is here, sit, and I will explain why I’ve called this meeting."

Hesitantly, Regulus takes his place between his father and grandfather, his eyes nervously darting around the room. His gaze falls on the crystal centerpiece in the middle of the table—a relic he recognizes from his studies. It’s enchanted with powerful blood magic, designed to prevent anyone from speaking, writing, or even using Legilimency to share what is discussed here. They won’t even be able to draw a picture about it. Whatever is about to be revealed, it’s something Lord Black wants to keep absolutely secret.

“Dorea isn’t coming?” Great-Aunt Cassiopeia asks, her sharp voice cutting through the silence.

“She and her family have a prior engagement that couldn’t be postponed. They’ll join us later, along with Sirius,” Arcturus answers.

At this, Regulus notices his father’s surprise. “Sirius is coming?” Orion asks, disbelief coloring his tone.

“Of course,” Arcturus replies smoothly. “He is still a Black.”

Regulus barely hears the rest of the conversation as a cold sense of dread coils tighter around his chest. His mind is racing. Why is Sirius coming? What does this mean for him?

When Arcturus begins speaking again, Regulus feels the blood drain from his face. "I called you here today to inform you of whom I’ve chosen as my heir’s future spouse," Arcturus declares, his voice carrying an ominous weight. "This engagement is not just a union of two families—it is a statement to the public and a declaration in the war."

Regulus’s heart pounds in his chest as the words sink in. His marriage isn’t just a personal matter—it’s political, a public alignment. His grandfather is making a move in the war, and his engagement is part of that plan. The room feels suddenly colder, and the crystal in the center of the table seems to pulse ominously.

"If you’ve made connections on the other side," Arcturus continues, his voice low and dangerous, "you will sever them. You will cut all ties and ally with the rest of the family. I will not tolerate any dissent. The consequences for disobedience will be... severe."

Regulus's blood runs cold. His heart pounds in his chest, panic creeping up on him. He sits at the long, polished table, his heart pounding in his chest, the oppressive weight of his family's gaze pressing down on him. The room, adorned with the ancient relics and portraits of Black ancestors, feels suffocating, as though every inch of it is filled with the expectations and burdens of his bloodline. He’s trapped in his seat between his father and grandfather, the silence before the announcement stretching on far too long. His fingers twitch slightly as his nerves buzz under his skin. He feels like he’s about to be sentenced.

“Stop with this secretiveness already and tell us who you have chosen,” Aunt Lucretia suddenly interjects, though she speaks with enough care not to overstep.

Regulus silently agrees, though he doesn't dare voice it. The knot of anxiety in his stomach tightens further. He’s already sick with dread, and the longer they keep him in suspense, the harder it becomes to keep himself composed. He isn’t sure how much longer he can bear this waiting.

“You don’t need to look like I have signed your death warrant, Regulus,” his grandfather says, his sharp eyes flicking toward him with a hint of amusement.

Regulus doesn’t flinch, but the comment cuts deep. He’s used to hiding his emotions around his family, but this is different. His future is being decided for him, and the cage is closing faster than he can process. His throat feels dry, but the words tumble out before he can stop them.

“Depending on which side you’ve placed us on, you might have,” he retorts, his voice low but steady.

Normally, Regulus wouldn’t dare contradict his grandfather—he knows the consequences of challenging Lord Arcturus Black. But right now, with his life and the lives of those he cares about hanging in the balance, fear of punishment feels insignificant. The stakes are too high.

His grandfather raises a brow, clearly intrigued by Regulus’s boldness. “Explain,” he commands.

Regulus takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of every eye in the room on him. His mind races, knowing he has to tread carefully, especially with the unbreakable vow he made to Harry. But he can’t avoid the truth. Not completely.

“Slughorn blurted out something about the Dark Lord,” Regulus begins, his voice tightening with barely concealed fear. “Something he shouldn’t have. He tried to Obliviate me, Alvin, and Harry after we overheard him. But Harry stopped him—didn’t trust him not to turn us into vegetables or something. If the Dark Lord finds out we know, he’ll obliterate all our families. Everyone we’re close to.” His voice trembles slightly as he adds, “Just look at what he did to Alvin’s father.”

The room falls deathly silent. His words hang heavy in the air, and Regulus can feel the tension thickening, the weight of what he’s just said sinking into the minds of those around him. His grandfather’s expression darkens, his gaze sharpening.

“You didn’t deem it necessary to inform me of this because...?” Lord Black’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade, his tone dangerous.

Regulus hesitates for a moment, his throat tightening. The room feels cold, and all eyes are still on him. He knows he’s toeing a dangerous line, but he speaks the truth as calmly as he can manage. “I didn’t think it would matter,” he admits, trying to keep his voice steady. “The Dark Lord will be gone before the school year ends.”

His words hit the room like a shockwave. Silence stretches longer this time, and Regulus can feel the stares drilling into him. Some expressions are a mixture of disbelief and horror, while others, like Bellatrix, are filled with righteous fury.

“You lie!” Bellatrix snarls, her face twisted with indignation. Her voice is sharp and venomous. “The Dark Lord is the most powerful wizard alive, stronger even than the old coot Dumbledore. He is both Lord Slytherin and Gaunt. There’s no way someone can be more powerful than him!”

Regulus wants to reply, but the unbreakable vow binds him. He can’t say too much, and it frustrates him to no end. Instead, he casts Bellatrix a cold look. “You don’t know anything,” he says flatly, keeping his voice calm even though he’s boiling inside.

Unexpectedly, his grandfather chuckles, a dark, amused sound that draws everyone’s attention. “Regulus is right,” Lord Arcturus says, surprising the room. “The Dark Lord may be Lord Slytherin, at the moment,” he emphasizes, “but he might not be for much longer.”

Regulus blinks in surprise, his pulse quickening as he processes his grandfather’s words. This sounds eerily familiar. Almost as if…

Arcturus smirks, continuing, “Salazar Slytherin himself is displeased with him. I’d love to see the Dark Lord’s face when he discovers who his current heir is.”

Regulus’s mind whirls, a jolt of recognition shooting through him. He and Harry had talked about this, almost exactly this. But how does his grandfather know? Regulus stares at him, trying to puzzle it out, until the realization begins to dawn.

“You know…” Regulus says slowly, his voice edged with suspicion. His mind races. This information isn’t something that should be common knowledge. “Someone told you.”

Lord Arcturus’s smile widens ever so slightly, a knowing look in his eyes.

Regulus frowns deeply, pieces beginning to fall into place. “But the only people who know… are Alvin, me, and his family.” He narrows his eyes, thinking hard. “I didn’t tell you, and neither did Alvin. His family has no reason to.”

He falls silent for a moment, turning the thought over in his mind, then a sudden, wild idea occurs to him—an idea that seems impossible but… perhaps not.

“No, wait… there is one scenario where it would make sense…” Regulus says slowly, his voice hushed as he finally puts the pieces together. “If they were negotiating a marriage contract. A contract that wouldn’t go through otherwise… If the name wasn’t enough to overlook that he’s not a pureblood, then his inheritance certainly would be.” Regulus speaks the final sentence in a whisper, almost unable to believe it himself.

Lord Arcturus’s smile deepens into a full grin as he gives a single nod.

Relief crashes over Regulus like a wave, his chest finally easing after what feels like hours of suffocating tension. He leans back slightly in his chair, the weight of the room lifting just a little. Finally, it feels like he can breathe again.

“Your expression tells me you are pleased with your fiancé,” Arcturus says smoothly, watching his grandson closely.

Regulus’s mind races as he connects the dots, his heart lifting with cautious hope. If the Potters have requested a contract, it means Harry had asked them to. Everyone knows the Potters don’t believe in arranged marriages, after all. This could only mean that his feelings for Harry… weren’t as one-sided as Regulus had believed.

“Very,” Regulus confirms, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. The idea that Harry had requested this fills him with a sense of quiet joy, one he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in so long.

Orion clears his throat to draw the attention of the room. His sharp eyes flicker between Regulus and Arcturus. "Would you two mind stopping this cryptic conversation?" he says, his voice calm but carrying an underlying edge of frustration. "We’re all anxious to hear who the next Lady Black is, and more importantly, which side we’re going to take in the war."

Regulus feels his heart pound faster as his father speaks. His stomach churns with nerves, and he steals a glance at his grandfather, waiting for the answer he knows is coming, but dreading the reaction it will provoke.

Arcturus turns to Orion, the room now hanging on his every word. "There isn’t going to be a Lady Black," he says, his voice calm, even regal. "But a Consort. Regulus is engaged to Harry Potter."

Chapter 37: Uncertain Future – Part II

A stunned silence falls over the room, thick and suffocating. Regulus watches as the reactions begin to unfold around him, tension coiling tightly in his chest.

"Charlus’ son?" Great-aunt Cassiopeia asks, her voice filled with confusion but not malice. There’s curiosity in her tone, like she’s turning the idea over in her mind, trying to make sense of it.

But Walburga—his mother—erupts at the same time, her shrill voice cutting through the air. “Charlus’ half-blood bastard?!” she screeches, rising from her chair. Her eyes are wide with disbelief and fury. “No! I forbid—"

“You will abide by your Family Lord’s decisions,” Arcturus says sharply, cutting her off with a tone that leaves no room for argument. His gaze is like steel, pinning Walburga in place.

Regulus holds his breath, his stomach twisting as he watches his mother’s face contort in rage. Her pale skin flushes red, and her lips curl into a sneer. He can feel the heat of her anger from across the table, and a sense of dread creeps up his spine. Walburga, defiant to the end, spits her venom.

“I refuse to let Regulus marry the whelp of Potter and his Mudblood whore.”

The words hit Regulus like a physical blow, his heart sinking. He clenches his hands tightly in his lap, knuckles turning white as he fights to remain composed. The air in the room thickens, heavy with tension.

“Silence!” Lord Black’s voice cuts through the room like a whip, the force of it causing everyone to flinch, even the proud Walburga. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the power in it is undeniable, and the room falls into an oppressive silence. “I will tolerate no disrespect to Regulus’ fiancé or his family.”

Regulus’s heart stutters in his chest. The room is so still, he can hear his own breathing. His mother stands frozen, her eyes wide, disbelieving. Regulus feels a wave of fear—he knows Walburga’s temper, knows she’s on the edge of something dangerous.

Arcturus’s gaze sharpens as he continues, his voice cold and precise. “Once this meeting is closed, you will have your house-elf bring Regulus’ belongings here. He will stay with me and Melania from now on. You are hereby forbidden to contact Regulus in any way without my explicit permission and sufficient supervision.”

Walburga's eyes flare with rage, her mouth opening in a shocked gasp. “You can’t just take my son!” she yells, her voice shrill, but there's a tremor in it now. A loss of control she rarely shows.

Lord Black’s next words make Regulus’s blood turn to ice. “Clearly, you should have thought of the consequences of abusing my grandchildren beforehand. I know what you did. Sirius told the Potters everything.”

Regulus feels the floor drop out from under him. His heart pounds painfully in his chest, fear clawing up his throat. He glances around the room, but no one speaks. No one moves. It’s as if time has stopped for a moment, all eyes turning toward his mother.

Walburga’s face drains of color. “That little—” she begins, her voice trembling with fury.

“I suggest you don’t finish that sentence,” Arcturus warns, his voice low, dangerous. “Furthermore, you will stay away from Sirius and all Potters. This is your final warning.”

Regulus watches as Walburga stands abruptly, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. Her fury is palpable, her eyes wild with disbelief, but she says nothing more. Without a word, she storms out of the room, her footsteps echoing loudly in the silent house. Regulus exhales, the breath he had been holding escaping shakily from his chest. His whole body feels tense, like a coiled spring about to snap.

Arcturus turns his attention to Orion, whose face is pale, his eyes wide in shock. His father, who always seemed so indifferent, now looks as though the very foundation of his world has been shaken. “Watch her,” Arcturus instructs sternly. “If her actions so much as hint at disobeying my orders, you will inform me immediately.”

Orion nods stiffly, but the look in his eyes is one of disbelief, as though he’s only now beginning to comprehend the full scope of what’s been happening in his own home. Slowly, his gaze shifts to Regulus, and for the first time in years, there’s something akin to regret in his eyes. “I didn’t know,” he mutters, his voice low, almost broken. “If I had known… I would have never let her… I thought it was just her and Sirius screaming at each other.”

Regulus’s jaw clenches, his emotions a storm inside him. He feels anger—anger at his father’s ignorance, at his mother’s cruelty—but beneath that is something far colder. A deep, simmering hurt that gnaws at him. “She didn’t do anything while you were around,” he says quietly, his voice tight with restrained emotion. “And it was mostly Sirius she targeted.”

“That’s why he ran away…” Orion murmurs, his voice distant, as though the pieces are finally falling into place. “I always wondered… But why did nobody notice?” he asks, more to himself than to anyone else.

Uncle Alphard, who has been silent throughout the exchange, finally speaks. His voice is quieter, gentler than usual. “That’s why we lost Sirius…” He rubs his face, looking regretful. “But why did no one else see it?”

Arcturus sighs heavily, the sound weary, like the weight of generations rests on his shoulders. For the first time, Regulus sees his grandfather as an old man, tired and burdened. “Accusing each other won’t help,” Arcturus says softly, but there’s steel beneath the weariness. “Nobody is to blame but Walburga. Now that you know, I trust you all will keep an eye on her so that she cannot repeat her actions.”

The family members around the table nod, some solemnly, others reluctantly, but the tension lingers, thick and uncomfortable. Regulus remains quiet, the storm inside him swirling, threatening to break. He feels exposed, like a secret part of himself has been laid bare before everyone. His shame, his helplessness—it all feels too raw.

Arcturus clears his throat, signaling a shift in the conversation. “The Potters are mostly neutral, so Regulus’ engagement should not interfere with your lives too much,” he says, his voice now more businesslike, returning to the matter at hand. “You will, of course, need to tone down your dislike for Muggle-borns and half-bloods. As long as you do not join Dumbledore or the Dark Lord, you will be able to retain your friendships and connections—provided you do not aid either side and keeping those contacts does not endanger the family.”

There’s a tense pause before Arcturus continues, his gaze moving to Bellatrix, Lucius, and the others seated around the table. “Rodolphus, Bellatrix, Lucius, Narcissa,” he addresses them directly. “Please come to my office afterwards so we can discuss how we will keep you and your families from being convicted for joining the Dark Lord.”

Regulus watches as the room remains silent, the weight of his family’s new reality settling in around them. His own heart beats faster as he realizes just how much has changed—and how much more will change in the days to come.

“Let’s get back to the engagement,” Orion says, his voice tight as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His gaze flickers to his father, Arcturus, the family patriarch, with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. “I’m curious. What made you decide to allow Harry to marry Regulus? I believe I heard something about an inheritance?”

Regulus’s heart skips a beat at the mention of Harry. He hadn’t anticipated how quickly the conversation would circle back to his engagement, especially with all the tension in the room. His palms grow clammy as he watches his grandfather, waiting for his response, both dreading and yearning for it.

Lord Arcturus sits back in his chair, his expression calm, almost calculating. “Contrary to what most believe,” he begins, his voice cool and composed, “Harry’s mother wasn’t a Muggleborn. She was, in fact, a Half-blood and a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin through a Squib line.”

The air in the room thickens with palpable shock. Regulus can almost hear the collective gasps around him. He swallows hard, his mind whirling. Even after all the revelations he’s had about Harry, hearing it laid out so plainly by his grandfather feels surreal.

“Harry inherited the entire family magic,” Arcturus continues, his tone tinged with a sort of pride, “and he is the next in line for the titles of Lord Gaunt, Lord Slytherin, and Lord Peverell.”

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the sharp intake of breaths. Regulus feels the weight of those words press down on him. Three titles. Three ancient, powerful names attached to his fiancé.

Lucius Malfoy, sitting stiffly in his seat, looks as though someone’s slapped him. Aunt Lucretia chuckles lightly, breaking the tension, her dark eyes gleaming with interest. “I can see why you allow him to marry Regulus,” she muses. “The titles aside, there’s no way you’d miss the chance to imbibe our family with that kind of magic.”

Regulus tries not to shrink under the sudden attention from the table. This engagement was never about him, and hearing his family discuss it like a strategic move leaves him with a strange, hollow feeling. He wonders what Harry would think if he were here now, being spoken of like an asset, a chess piece in the Black family’s power game.

Orion, still processing the news, turns to his son with a newfound interest. “Tell us about your fiancé,” he says, the weight of expectation heavy in his voice. “After hearing this, I’m sure we’d all like to know more about him.”

Regulus shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Where does he even begin? There is so much about Harry that he doesn’t fully understand himself, let alone explain to his family. But he knows what they want to hear, so he begins cautiously.

“Don’t underestimate him,” Regulus says, his voice steady but low. “He might not seem like much at first glance, but he’s both powerful and dangerous. If you make him your enemy, you’ll regret it.”

Lucius raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “The seventh-year Slytherins told me he’s a total pushover.”

Regulus can’t help but smirk at that, though his chest tightens. “That’s what I thought at first too, until I saw him in action. He got fed up with his cousin and his friends and decided to do some ‘pest control’—his words, not mine.” Regulus glances around the room, gauging their reactions. “It was four against one, and Harry didn’t just win. He wiped the floor with them.”

Narcissa, who had been silent until now, chuckles softly. “I would have loved to see that.”

Regulus grins slightly, though inside he feels a twinge of guilt. Harry never liked showing off. “You can always ask him for the memory,” he offers, though part of him knows Harry would probably prefer to leave that moment in the past.

“If he can stand his ground,” Lucius interjects, still skeptical, “then why don’t your peers know? Why do you and Rosier always seem to be protecting him from the other Slytherins?”

Regulus sighs, leaning back in his chair as he tries to articulate the complexity of Harry. “Harry doesn’t want to stand out,” he begins, choosing his words carefully. “He hates fighting, especially senseless violence. Most of the Slytherins have done nothing worse than call him names or snub him. He doesn’t react to that. But if you push him too far, or attack someone important to him, he will retaliate.”

His eyes meet Lucius’s across the table. “You want to be far away when that happens. If Harry snaps, he won’t just fight back—he’ll make sure you regret it. He can be vindictive when he wants to be. He’ll find your weakness, and he’ll strike where it hurts most.”

The room falls silent as Regulus speaks, his words sinking in. He knows he’s pushing the boundaries of what his family expects to hear, but he also knows that he needs them to understand. Harry isn’t someone to be trifled with.

“You’re exaggerating,” Lucius says, though there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his voice.

Regulus shakes his head. “I’m not. You work in the Ministry, right? In the department for regulating dark artifacts?”

“Yes,” Lucius replies, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“Then you know how blood quills work?” Regulus asks, his voice lowering. “Outside of signing contracts, I mean.”

Lucius nods, his expression cautious now. “Yes, I do.”

Regulus takes a deep breath, the memory of what Harry had shown him flashing painfully in his mind. “Mulciber and his friends forced Harry to write with one.”

His grandmother, Melania, gasps softly, her hand flying to her chest. “Someone made him write with a blood quill?”

Regulus nods, his voice heavy with the weight of the memory. “I lectured Harry about the quill’s characteristics afterward, but he didn’t believe me. He even accused me of making it up. When I asked him to proof his claim he told me a bunch of very obvious lies before he showed me a scar on the back of his left hand. It isn’t distinctive, only slightly paler that the rest of his skin, the residue of the dark magic barely there. I wouldn’t have noticed the words if Harry hadn’t told me to read them.”

“Words?” Lucius asks, his skepticism wavering.

Regulus clenches his fists, anger simmering beneath the surface. “It says ‘I must not tell lies.’ The scar is still visible, even though it’s faded. From its look I’d guess it probably happened before he moved in with the Potters. That quill was used on him for hours a day, over several weeks. The compulsion to obey should have been overwhelming. But Harry broke free without even realizing the damage it was doing.”

“That’s… impossible,” Lucius mutters, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Arcturus, however, seems unperturbed. “Yet it happened,” he says calmly, his gaze never leaving Regulus.

Regulus nods, his voice low but firm. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Harry could fight off other compulsions too. He’s stronger than anyone gives him credit for.”

The room falls into a heavy silence, and Regulus feels the weight of their stares, a mixture of shock, disbelief, and a grudging respect. He isn’t sure how much more he can take of this conversation, his nerves frayed by the constant scrutiny. But he knows one thing with absolute certainty: whatever the future holds, Harry is more than capable of holding his own.

Chapter 38: Family dinner and other catastrophes

The familiar whoosh of the Floo Network brings a rush of spinning air as Fleamont, Euphemia, James, Sirius, Charlus, Dorea, Cepheus, Elena, Carina, and Harry arrive at Black Manor in quick succession. The stately fireplace, dark marble polished to a mirror-like sheen, towers over them in the grand foyer of the ancestral home. Most of them step out with practiced ease, accustomed to this form of travel, their postures straight and composed.

Harry, however, is not so fortunate. He stumbles forward, losing his balance entirely as he tumbles out of the fireplace with an undignified thud. A light puff of soot escapes around him as he sprawls onto the floor.

James bursts out laughing almost immediately. “Brilliant entrance, Harry. Top form,” he says between chuckles.

Sirius joins in, his grin wide as he gives Harry a playful look. “One of these days, mate, you’ll learn how to land on your feet.”

Harry's face burns red with embarrassment. He hates this. He hates that every time he travels by Floo, the blasted fireplace spits him out like it’s rejecting him. He mumbles under his breath, brushing off his robes as he quickly casts a cleaning spell to rid himself of the soot. “All magical transport hates me... I swear, Floo travel’s bad enough, but portkeys are even worse.”

Dorea, standing nearby, sighs softly. Though her expression is calm, Harry can sense her dismay, and it only deepens the knot in his stomach. He knows she means well, but every moment he spends in Black Manor feels like another test he’s bound to fail.

Before Harry can retreat further into his thoughts, a soft, but cutting voice cuts through the tension. “I see why my husband insisted I teach the boy,” Lady Black comments, her tone cool and measured as her sharp eyes settle on Harry. “His manners are indeed... disastrous. I have seen Muggleborns behave with more grace.”

The words sting, though Harry tries not to show it. He feels his face flush even more, and his posture stiffens instinctively. He straightens, his back rigid, as if that alone could somehow make up for his clumsiness. He suddenly feels very small under Lady Black’s scrutinizing gaze.

Lady Black's eyes narrow slightly as she studies him. Then, with a small, approving nod, she continues, “So, you have received some training.” Her gaze shifts to Dorea. “I assume that’s your doing, Dorea?”

Dorea nods, her expression unreadable. “Yes, Melania. He’s improving.”

Lady Black doesn’t seem entirely convinced. “Still, we have a lot of work to do. Just meeting on weekends won’t suffice.” There’s a finality in her voice that sends a shiver down Harry’s spine. “In addition to the lessons I have planned for each Saturday, I will be coming to Hogwarts twice a week to continue your instruction. Would Monday and Thursday evenings be acceptable?”

Harry’s throat feels tight as he swallows hard. More lessons... more time under Lady Black’s exacting eye. He feels the weight of her expectations pressing down on him already. If he messes up in front of her—again—it’ll only confirm what everyone probably already thinks: that he’s not good enough, not graceful enough, not pureblooded enough. He forces his voice to come out steady, though it feels like a whisper. “Yes, Lady Black.”

“Now I pity you,” Sirius mutters from behind Fleamont, his voice barely audible but full of sympathy.

Before Harry can say anything, Lady Black’s gaze shifts sharply toward Sirius, her expression softening only slightly. “Sirius,” she says in a tone that is both firm and oddly warm, “I am delighted to see you again.”

Sirius, the ever-rebellious runaway, visibly gulps. He straightens up, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face as his confident exterior falters under the weight of his grandmother’s presence. “Uh... you too, Grandmother.”

Harry watches this exchange, feeling a strange sense of kinship with Sirius in this moment. Both of them seem to shrink under the authority of Lady Black. The air feels thick, tense with unspoken expectations and traditions that Harry is only beginning to grasp.

Lady Melania Black is only mildly upset when she scolds Sirius for running away like he did and how irresponsible he had been. Harry watches the exchange from across the room, feeling like an outsider, his stomach twisting in knots as he listens. He can see Sirius growing more uncomfortable under the sharpness of her words, but the reprimands seem almost secondary, a formality more than anything.

No, what really seems to bother Lady Black is something else entirely—something far worse. Her eyes narrow, cold and piercing, as she speaks the words that make Harry’s blood run cold.

"How could you do it, Sirius?" she says softly, her voice a chilling whisper. "How could you and your friends nearly kill your own brother?"

Harry sees Sirius flinch as if he’s been struck. The room feels heavy, suffocating. The silence that follows Lady Black’s words is unbearable. Harry swallows hard, his throat dry as he watches Sirius struggle to form a response, but no words come. Sirius looks away, shame written all over his face.

"You put him in danger, Sirius," she continues, her voice trembling with a rare emotion—hurt. "Your brother, your own flesh and blood. Regulus could have died, and it would have been your fault. Do you even realize that?"

Sirius shifts uncomfortably. He swallows, his hands curling into fists.

Lady Black’s disappointment is palpable, her voice now laced with something deeper than anger—betrayal. "You abandoned him, Sirius," she says, shaking her head. "Not just by running away from this family, but by leaving him vulnerable to the worst of fates. And for what? A prank? A game with your friends?"

Sirius clenches his fists, his face pale. "It wasn’t like that—"

"Wasn’t it?" Lady Black cuts him off, her eyes flashing with fury. "You think I don’t know? I’ve heard the whispers, the rumors. Regulus barely survived because you and your Gryffindor friends thought it would be fun to teach him a lesson. What lesson could be worth your brother’s life?"

Harry feels a sickening lurch in his stomach. He remembers the incident like it happened yesterday. It had been really close. If he hadn’t known, how to clear Regulus’ airways, if Euphemia had not taught him that charm, Regulus would have died.

Regulus stands stiff beside him, eyes lowered, but Harry knows he must be feeling everything—hurt, betrayal, anger—all at once. Regulus doesn’t speak, though.

Lady Black’s voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its edge. "I could forgive you for leaving. For abandoning this family, running away like a petulant child. But what I can never forgive, Sirius, is you nearly costing me my other grandson. That is something I will never forget."

The words hang in the air, thick and heavy, and Harry feels the weight of them pressing down on him. He chances a glance at Sirius, whose face is pale, his eyes shadowed with guilt. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes. There is no defense for what he did.

For the first time, Harry sees Sirius truly speechless.

The tension in the air is thick as they gather for dinner. The Black family sits in their usual rigid formation, as though every movement must be as poised and controlled as their outward demeanor. Lady Black sits at the head of the table, her gaze occasionally flicking toward Sirius as though expecting him to misstep. Lord Black, silent and watchful, is to her right, with a quietly fuming Walburga on the other side.

The clinking of cutlery on fine china is the only sound that breaks the uncomfortable silence. Harry sits next to Regulus, trying to keep his head down, his heart hammering in his chest. It’s awkward being here, as though every set of eyes could turn to him at any moment. He feels utterly out of place, and yet, this is his future family.

Across the table, Sirius pokes at his food without much enthusiasm. The tension between him and his parents is palpable, though Lady Black’s earlier scolding has kept everyone on their best behavior. Even Regulus is quieter than usual, stealing glances at Harry from time to time, as though wanting to say something but unsure how to broach the subject.

“So, Potter,” Lucius Malfoy finally breaks the silence, his voice smooth but laced with an air of superiority. “It seems you’ve managed to ingratiate yourself with the Black family. A rather impressive feat, considering your lineage.”

Harry feels a flush of discomfort creep up his neck. He knows this kind of snide remark—one designed to provoke and belittle. He’s been dealing with it since he started his sixth year at Hogwarts in the past, but here, at this table, it feels different. More dangerous.

Before Harry can respond, Regulus cuts in sharply. “He’s my fiancé, Malfoy. Show him some respect.”

Lucius raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting Regulus to defend Harry so quickly. “Of course, Regulus,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. “Merely making conversation.”

Harry shifts uncomfortably, his appetite gone. The awkward silence returns, thicker than before, as the meal continues in a strained atmosphere. He’s never been more relieved when dinner finally comes to an end.

After the last dish is cleared, Regulus gives Harry a subtle nod, signaling for him to follow. They slip away from the dining hall, unnoticed, and make their way up the grand staircase. Their footsteps echo softly through the vast, ancient halls of Black Manor, the weight of centuries pressing down on them from every corner of the imposing estate. The air feels heavy, laden with the secrets and burdens of the Black family’s long, complicated history, and Harry can’t help but feel overwhelmed by it all.

As they reach the door to his new room, Regulus finally breaks the silence. “Harry,” he says quietly, his voice almost too soft to hear. “I’m staying here now. Grandfather decided it’s better if I live at Black Manor from now on.”

Harry stops, startled by the news. “You’re not going back to your parents?”

Regulus shakes his head, his expression carefully neutral, but there’s a hint of something deeper—relief, maybe, or fear. “No. I can’t… not after everything that’s happened. Grandfather thinks it’s for the best. He wants to keep me separated from them, especially after what came out about Sirius and… other things.”

Harry nods slowly, absorbing the weight of Regulus’s words. He understands, but that doesn’t stop the gnawing worry that creeps up his spine. There’s more to this than just physical separation; the emotional scars run deeper than Harry can fathom.

“Regulus,” Harry begins, his voice hesitant, “about the vow…”

Regulus stiffens, his face tightening as if bracing for impact. “Harry, we don’t have to—”

“We do,” Harry cuts in, his voice firm, resolute. “I don’t want you tied to that vow anymore. It’s dangerous, and you deserve to be free of it.”

Regulus hesitates, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he gives a small nod of agreement. Without another word, he summons a house elf, who appears instantly, its large eyes watching them with silent anticipation.

Harry turns to the elf, his expression serious. “I need you to act as the binder—actually, the un-binder in this case.”

The elf nods without question, stepping back to prepare for its part in the delicate process. Harry draws in a deep breath, steadying himself as he raises his wand. He’s done this before, but the gravity of it never lessens. The Unbreakable Vow is powerful, ancient magic, and breaking it feels like peeling apart the threads of fate itself.

As Harry begins the incantation, the air around them hums with energy, thick with resistance. The vow fights back, as it always does, and Harry can feel the tension mounting. But he’s prepared this time, his movements precise, deliberate. He recalls every detail Evan had taught him, each twist of the wrist, each syllable of the spell. His wand traces familiar, intricate patterns in the air, and the magic responds—slowly, reluctantly, but it bends to his will.

Regulus watches silently, his expression unreadable, but Harry can feel the weight of what this means to him. This vow has bound him for so long, a chain that’s kept him tethered to forces beyond his control. The thought of breaking it, of freeing him, makes Harry’s heart race with both determination and fear. He can’t mess this up. Not now.

The magic crackles faintly, a reminder of how fragile the balance is. Sweat beads on Harry’s forehead as he continues, the tension pulling at the edges of his concentration. The room seems to hold its breath, the very walls watching, waiting for the outcome.

He mutters the final words of the spell, feeling the vow’s resistance falter. For a moment, time seems to stretch, every second a test of his skill, his control. His heart pounds in his chest as the magic pushes back one last time, then—finally—it breaks.

With a soft shimmer, the vow unravels, the lingering energy dissipating into the air. The room exhales, the tension lifting in a rush of quiet relief. Regulus lets out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing as the burden of the vow slips away from him, leaving only silence behind.

Harry lowers his wand, still feeling the weight of the spellwork heavy in the air. His muscles are tense, as if expecting the magic to snap back into place at any moment. But it doesn’t. It’s over.

“It’s done,” Harry says, his voice softer than he intended. The relief hits him all at once, washing over him like a wave.

Regulus blinks, as though he’s struggling to believe it’s really over. Then, after a beat of silence, he looks at Harry, and his expression softens. Gratitude flickers in his eyes, mixed with disbelief, and something deeper—relief, maybe, or a quiet sense of freedom.

“Thank you,” Regulus says quietly, his voice sincere, carrying the weight of all the emotions he can’t put into words.

Harry nods, though the tension in his shoulders still lingers. He’s relieved, but there’s no time to relax. He glances toward the door, knowing he needs to tell Regulus what happened. He’s dreaded this conversation, but it can’t wait.

“I need to tell you something,” Harry starts, running a hand through his hair. He hesitates, trying to find the right words. “About Alvin and Evan…”

At the mention of their names, Regulus’s attention sharpens. His body tenses again, and Harry can see the flicker of concern cross his face. “What about them?” Regulus asks, his voice careful, controlled.

Harry takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of the truth pressing down on him. “Alvin showed up at our doorstep with Evan. Evan was badly injured.” The words come out more quickly than he intended, but Harry forces himself to slow down, to stay calm. “Alvin didn’t know where else to go, so they came to us. Aunt Euphemia healed them, and… we’re hiding them at Potter Manor for now.”

Regulus stiffens, the shock clear in his expression. His eyes widen slightly, and he sits up straighter in his chair. “How bad was it?” His voice is sharp, the tension palpable now.

“They’re going to be fine,” Harry reassures him. “Aunt Euphemia did everything she could, and they’re recovering. But… Voldy knows.”

Regulus closes his eyes for a moment, his jaw tightening. Harry can see the strain, the fear creeping in despite Regulus’s usual calm demeanor. When he finally speaks, his voice is tight. “We have to be careful,” he says, echoing Harry’s earlier words.

Harry nods, feeling the same weight settle over him. “I’ll talk to Salazar about speeding things up, so he can teach me the ritual earlier,” he says, though he knows it won’t be easy.

Chapter 39: Back to Hogwarts

The train ride back to Hogwarts feels strangely unreal. Harry sits in the compartment with Regulus and Alvin, the usual noise of bustling students and the rattling of the train muted by the heavy silence between them. None of them speak, each lost in their own thoughts. The events of the holidays have left an unspoken weight hanging over them, and Harry can’t shake the feeling that something fundamental has changed.

He keeps glancing out the window, watching the rolling hills and passing trees blur together, but his mind is elsewhere. His thoughts circle endlessly around the dangers that seem to loom ever closer. Every now and then, he looks at Regulus and Alvin, wondering how they’re processing everything. Alvin sits quietly, arms crossed, his face unreadable, while Regulus seems distant, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

Suddenly, the door to their compartment slides open, pulling Harry from his thoughts. Lily Evans steps inside, her bright red hair a sharp contrast to the gloom that’s settled in their little space. She offers them a polite smile, but Harry can sense a touch of awkwardness in her expression. “Hello,” she says, her voice soft but clear, her eyes flicking over to Alvin. “I just… I wanted to offer my condolences. About your father, Alvin. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

Alvin blinks, clearly taken aback by her words. He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound comes out at first. Finally, he mutters, “Thank you.” His voice is tight, guarded, as if he doesn’t quite know how to accept the sympathy.

Lily shifts slightly, her expression still kind but more determined now. “I also wanted to say I’m glad you’re alright,” she adds, her gaze steady on Alvin.

Alvin’s brow furrows in confusion. “Why would you care?” he asks bluntly, his tone a little sharper than he intended.

Lily doesn’t seem fazed. Instead, she gives a small, understanding smile. “Because you’re my cousin’s friend,” she explains simply. “Of course, I want you to be okay.”

Her sincerity seems to take Alvin by surprise. For a moment, the guarded tension in his posture softens, though he doesn’t say anything more. The words hang in the air, and the room feels a little less heavy.

Lily turns to Harry then, her expression brightening just a little. “I also wanted to talk to you, Harry,” she says, meeting his eyes. “I told my parents about you, and they’re really interested in meeting you. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to invite you to visit us during the summer holidays.”

Harry blinks, caught off guard by the offer. He hadn’t thought much about summer, hadn’t let his mind wander that far ahead with everything that’s been happening. But Lily’s invitation feels genuine, a small sliver of normalcy amidst the chaos. He shrugs, trying to act nonchalant. “Yeah, sure. I don’t see why not,” he says, though he can’t help but feel a bit curious about meeting her family. Maybe not her sister, Petunia, but defninitely the rest of them.

With a final smile, she excuses herself, slipping out of the compartment as quietly as she entered. As the door closes behind her, the silence returns, heavier than before. Harry glances at Alvin and Regulus, but neither of them seems eager to speak. They sit in the same muted silence as before, each of them lost in their own thoughts once again.

The quiet follows them even as they disembark the train and board the carriages pulled by the Thestrals. The eerie creatures pull the carriages through the grounds, their skeletal wings beating slowly against the winter air. Harry can see them now and the sight of them always stirs something heavy in his chest. They ride in silence, none of them acknowledging the creatures or each other.

As they arrive at the castle, the whispers begin. Harry can feel the eyes of the students on them, the quiet gossip spreading through the crowd like wildfire. His grip on his sheathed wand tightens as they enter the entrance hall, the murmurs growing louder, but he keeps his gaze straight ahead.

Suddenly, Pearl Parkinson, with her usual air of superiority, storms up to them, her face twisted into a look of entitlement. “Regulus!” she snaps, her voice grating against the backdrop of whispers. “Why did your family reject my marriage proposal? Don’t they know I’m the best you could possibly get?”

Regulus remains calm, though Harry can sense the flicker of annoyance beneath his composed exterior. He looks at her with cold detachment, his voice clipped but polite. “Clearly, my grandfather thought differently,” he replies coolly. “And I agree with him. I couldn’t have asked for anyone better than the fiancée he chose for me.”

Parkinson’s face turns a deep shade of red, her lips trembling with barely contained fury. “How dare you!” she hisses, before turning on her heel and storming away, her robes billowing dramatically behind her.

Alvin watches her go, shaking his head. “She’s unbearable,” he mutters under his breath.

Regulus nods in agreement, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. “She always has been.”

But before the moment can settle, they’re approached by the Mulciber brothers, flanked by Crabbe and Flint. Their presence is immediately unsettling, and Harry feels the tension rise between them. The Mulcibers wear cruel smirks, their eyes gleaming with malice.

“Rosier,” one of them sneers. “So sorry to hear about your father. Must’ve been awful.”

Alvin’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t take the bait. He stays silent, just as they had agreed during the holidays. Play the part. Pretend to be hurt.

“And your brother?” the other Mulciber adds with a sneer. “Is he dead too?”

Alvin swallows hard, his face carefully controlled. He looks away, pretending to be shaken, as they had planned. The act seems to amuse the Mulcibers, who laugh cruelly.

“Must be your fault,” Flint taunts, his voice thick with mockery. “If you hadn’t refused the Dark Lord, maybe your family wouldn’t be in pieces.”

The words sting, and Harry’s free hand balls into a fist. But before he can step forward, a familiar voice cuts through the tension.

“That’s enough.”

Dumbledore strides toward them, his expression stern. “Ten points each from Slytherin,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “for Mulciber, both of you, Crabbe, and Flint. And you will all report to Mr. Filch for detention this Saturday after breakfast.”

The group mutters under their breath but scurries away, clearly not eager to test Dumbledore’s authority. But as the headmaster’s attention turns to Alvin, Harry’s stomach tightens with unease.

“Mr. Rosier,” Dumbledore says, his voice deceptively mild. “May I see your left forearm?”

Harry feels his blood boil. He steps forward before Alvin can react, his voice cold and furious. “You’re violating your restraining order.”

The hall falls silent. All eyes are on them now, and Harry can feel the weight of every gaze.

Dumbledore’s face tightens, but he doesn’t back down. “Mr. Potter, I am merely ensuring—”

“You’re too close,” Harry interrupts, his voice rising. “You’ve stepped too close to me and Regulus. So either step away now, or I’ll call the Aurors.”

Dumbledore’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, the headmaster looks like he’s just bitten into a lemon. But then, after a tense pause, he steps back, his eyes narrowing.

Harry, still seething, turns to Regulus and Alvin, but he speaks loud enough for the entire hall to hear. “What’s he thinking? Publicly accusing a student of being a Death Eater right after his father’s been murdered? By You-Know-Who no less! How heartless can one person be?”

The whispers around them grow louder, spreading through the crowd like wildfire. Harry can feel the tension in the air shift, students casting wary glances at Dumbledore as the murmurs grow.

Dinner is a quiet affair, much like the train ride had been. The Great Hall buzzes with the usual chatter of students, forks clinking against plates, laughter floating through the air, but Harry, Regulus, and Alvin remain wrapped in their own silence. Harry pushes his food around his plate, hardly tasting it. His mind is far from the feast before him. Instead, it’s locked onto the upcoming conversation he knows he needs to have with Salazar Slytherin.

As the minutes tick by, Harry's thoughts swirl around Voldemort's knowledge of their existence of the Horcruxes. The weight of it presses on him, every bite feeling heavier than the last. He glances at Regulus, who’s eating mechanically, his face as stoic as ever, but Harry knows he's just as tense. Alvin, sitting next to them, barely touches his food, his fork tapping restlessly against the edge of his plate. The anxiety hangs over them like a dark cloud, and Harry knows they all feel it. Voldemort is closing in, and they don’t have much time.

As dinner comes to an end, Harry stands up abruptly. Regulus raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Alvin looks like he’s about to ask where he’s going, but Harry cuts him off with a curt nod, letting them know he’ll be back later. The rest of the students are filing out of the hall, oblivious to the storm brewing in his head. Harry follows them, but instead of heading to the common room, he slips away from the crowd and heads down a different corridor, his pace quickening with each step.

His heart pounds in his chest as he makes his way through the familiar secret passage that leads to the Chamber of Secrets. When he finally reaches the stone door, it opens with a low, rumbling sound, revealing the vast, echoing chamber beyond. Harry steps inside, his footsteps echoing as he crosses the floor. The towering statue of Salazar Slytherin looms before him, but it's not the statue that draws his attention, but his portrait.

“Harry,” Salazar greets him, his voice low and steady, though there’s a flicker of curiosity in his gaze. “You look troubled.”

Harry takes a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts. He doesn't waste any time on pleasantries. “We need to move up the plan.”

Salazar’s expression remains calm, but there’s a hint of surprise in the way his head tilts slightly. “Explain.”

Harry clenches his fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Voldy knows we know about the Horcruxes. We don’t have much time left before he acts. We need to act first, and we need to do it now.”

There’s a long pause as Salazar regards him, his eyes narrowing. “You are certain of this?”

“Positive,” Harry says, his voice firm, though inside, he’s anything but calm. “He knows, and that means we can’t afford to wait. You said you’d teach me the ritual when the time was right. Well, the time is now.”

Salazar doesn’t respond immediately. His ghostly form stands tall, his presence commanding even in his spectral state. For a moment, Harry wonders if the ancient founder will refuse, or tell him he’s being reckless. The weight of the request feels immense—this isn’t a simple spell or lesson; it’s a matter of life and death, a gamble with stakes higher than Harry has ever faced.

Salazar sighs, a sound that seems to echo through the chamber, and his expression softens, though it still holds a touch of reluctance. “I had hoped you would have more time to prepare,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “This ritual is not to be taken lightly. It requires strength of magic and of will—far beyond what you’ve experienced.”

“I’m ready,” Harry says quickly, his voice firm. But in truth, doubt gnaws at him. Is he really ready for this? But he doesn’t have a choice. They’re out of time, and hesitation could mean losing everything.

Salazar studies him, his ancient eyes searching Harry’s face for any hint of doubt. “It is not only a test of magic, but a test of spirit, Harry Potter. If you fail… the consequences will be dire.”

Harry’s throat tightens, but he forces himself to nod. “I understand.” His voice wavers slightly, betraying his nerves, but he steels himself. “I can’t fail.”

Salazar remains silent for a long moment, as if weighing Harry’s words. Finally, with another deep sigh, he relents. “Very well. If you are set on this path, I will teach you the ritual.” His eyes darken with a seriousness that sends a chill down Harry’s spine. “But know this: the magic you are about to attempt is not forgiving. You must be certain, beyond any doubt, that you are prepared for the toll it will take on you.”

Harry nods, feeling the weight of the warning settle on him. He’s not entirely sure he’s ready, but he doesn’t have the luxury of waiting any longer. Every second they delay, Voldemort grows stronger, and the world becomes more dangerous.

Salazar takes a step forward, his ghostly form gliding across the chamber floor. “We will begin this Saturday, after breakfast,” he declares. “You will need to come alone, and you must be fully rested. The ritual demands your full strength.”

Harry swallows hard, nodding again. “I’ll be ready.”

Salazar’s eyes linger on him for a moment longer before he finally turns away, disappearing from the portrait to move to another. The chamber grows eerily silent, and Harry stands there, his heart racing, the enormity of what he’s just agreed to sinking in.

As he turns to leave, a knot of anxiety tightens in his chest. There’s no turning back now. The weight of the task ahead feels overwhelming, but Harry knows they’re running out of options. If he’s going to face Voldemort, if he’s going to help Regulus and Alvin, he’ll have to master this ritual. He just hopes, for all their sakes, that he doesn’t mess it up.

Back in the Slytherin dorm, the atmosphere is thick with anticipation. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls, but its warmth does little to ease the tension in Harry's chest. He shuts the door behind him quietly, making sure no one else can hear what he’s about to say. Alvin and Regulus are already seated, their faces expectant but serious.

Harry takes a deep breath, still feeling the weight of his conversation with Salazar in the Chamber of Secrets. His mind is buzzing, a mix of nerves and focus. He knows what he has to tell them, but he keeps the most dangerous part to himself. They don’t need to know every risk—at least not now. There’s no point in making them more anxious than they already are.

“Salazar agreed,” Harry says, his voice steady but low. He looks between Regulus and Alvin, reading their reactions. “We’re doing it on Saturday, after breakfast.”

Alvin’s eyebrows raise slightly, but he nods. Regulus, however, leans forward, his face carefully neutral, but Harry can see the flicker of unease in his eyes.

“Saturday,” Regulus repeats, as if testing the weight of the word. He glances at Alvin briefly before turning his gaze back to Harry. “And after? What happens after we restore the Dark Lord’s soul?”

Harry pauses, caught off guard by the question. He hasn’t really allowed himself to think beyond the ritual. There’s been so much focus on the task itself—destroying the Horcruxes, restoring Voldemort’s fragmented soul—that what comes next has always felt distant, like something they’d figure out once the immediate danger was gone.

“After?” Harry repeats, buying himself a few seconds to think. He shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant, though the truth is he has no real plan. He meets Regulus’s gaze, offering a half-hearted smile. “Maybe we send Dumbledore a secret note? Tell him Voldy’s mortal again?”

Alvin snorts, and a surprised laugh escapes Regulus. It’s a sound that cuts through the tension, even if just for a moment.

Harry grins, leaning into the joke despite the seriousness of what lies ahead. The absurdity of it all hangs between them—trying to kill a man who’s supposed to be unkillable, working in the shadows while keeping the truth hidden from people like Dumbledore. There’s something darkly humorous about it, and for a moment, they let themselves laugh. “I’m sure the old coot would love that. A little anonymous letter saying, ‘Hey, Voldy’s killable now. Good luck.’”

“Yeah,” Alvin chuckles, shaking his head.

Chapter 40: Walburga snaps – Part I

Before lunch the next day, Professor Sprout catches Harry when he is on his way to the great hall. Her expression is a mix of concern and curiosity, and Harry immediately feels a knot form in his stomach. “Mr. Potter, a word, please,” she calls, gesturing for him to follow her.

They step into a quieter corner, where the noise from the other students fades into the background. “As I’m standing in for Professor Slughorn,” Sprout begins, her voice low but kind, “I received a rather unusual letter this morning from Lord Potter and your father.” She glances at Harry, gauging his reaction. “They’re requesting permission to bring an etiquette teacher to Hogwarts. Something about training you in proper pureblood manners... for a wedding this summer?”

Harry swallows hard. Of course. It had to come up eventually. He can feel his heart race slightly, though he does his best to keep his face neutral. Before he can respond, another voice joins the conversation—one Harry could recognize anywhere.

“Ah, etiquette lessons?” Dumbledore's voice is casual, but there’s an unmistakable interest gleaming behind his half-moon spectacles. He steps closer, the ever-present twinkle in his eye now more curious than kind.

“I thought the Potters had long since abandoned arranged marriages. You’re not being forced into anything, are you, Harry?” Sprout looks genuinely worried now, her concern deepening as she watches Harry’s reaction. Harry shakes his head, though his irritation grows as he realizes this is going to be a longer conversation than he anticipated.

“No, it’s not like that at all,” Harry explains, doing his best to sound calm. “I fell in love with someone from an old-fashioned family. They feel the same way, but their family has certain traditions. So I asked Uncle Fleamont to arrange the engagement. The contract’s not that strict,” he adds, glancing between Dumbledore and Sprout. “But my fiancés family insisted I learn etiquette and ballroom dancing—all that fancy pureblood stuff—so I don’t embarrass them.”

“Fancy pureblood stuff? Should I be insulted?” a familiar voice calls out from behind him. Harry turns to see Alvin approaching, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. He’s clearly overheard part of the conversation. Alvin stops next to him, his tone lighter than the heavy atmosphere between Harry and the professors.

Before Harry can respond, Alvin's expression changes slightly. “Have you heard from Regulus?” he asks, frowning.

Harry looks puzzled. “Didn’t you just have Arithmetic together?”

Alvin shakes his head, his own frown deepening. “He was called out of class. Something about urgent family matters.”

That sets off an alarm in Harry’s mind. His gut twists in discomfort. Something feels wrong.

Before Harry can ask any more questions, Dumbledore steps in, his voice too smooth for Harry’s liking. “Harry, my boy—"

Harry's spine stiffens instantly, that now-familiar irritation bubbling up inside him. “That’s Mr. Potter to you,” he interrupts, his voice icy. “I haven’t given you permission to use my first name. And please step back. You’re violating your restraining order again.”

The air between them crackles with tension. Dumbledore’s genial expression falters for the briefest moment, a flash of displeasure crossing his face. Sprout looks caught in the middle, clearly uncomfortable with the brewing confrontation.

Harry doesn't care. He turns back to Dumbledore, his eyes narrowing. “Where’s Regulus?”

Dumbledore, still not moving back as much as Harry would like, seems unfazed by the question. “It doesn’t concern you,” he says calmly. “It’s a private family matter between Regulus and his mother.”

Harry freezes. His mother?

The shock is like ice in his veins. “You let Walburga Black into the castle?” Harry’s voice rises, and Sprout gasps audibly beside him.

“You were specifically instructed not to allow her anywhere near Regulus!” Harry’s fists clench in anger. “Lord Black made it clear she wasn’t to have contact with him.”

Dumbledore remains infuriatingly composed, but Harry is livid. His hands tremble as he pictures Walburga’s venomous presence, the damage she could do to Regulus.

“If something happens to Regulus,” Harry’s voice is low, dangerous, “because you refused to listen to simple instructions about who is allowed to have contact with students, I will destroy you.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flash, and he raises his voice for the first time. “Detention, Mr. Potter, for disrespecting and threatening a member of the staff.”

“We’ll see about that,” Harry snaps. Without hesitation, he raises his wand. “Expecto Patronum!”

The silvery lion bursts forth from Harry’s wand, filling the courtyard with brilliant light. Harry leans toward it, speaking clearly so that everyone can hear. “Go find Lord Black and the Potters. Tell them Dumbledore allowed Walburga Black into Hogwarts, and now Regulus is missing.”

The lion bounds off into the distance, leaving a stunned silence in its wake.

Without another word, Harry storms toward the Great Hall, his fury propelling him forward. His mind races, his thoughts focused on Regulus and the rising sense of dread in his chest. He barely notices the whispering students as he enters the hall and heads straight for the Gryffindor table. James Potter sits there, laughing with his friends, unaware of the storm about to hit him.

Harry strides over and grabs James by the forearm, dragging him from the table and into a quiet corner.

James looks confused, a little irritated. “What’s your problem, Harry?”

Harry glares at him. “I know you’ve still got that stupid map,” he hisses. “So either help me find Regulus right now, or I’m telling your parents.”

For a moment, James just stares at Harry, clearly processing what’s been said, the tension in the air thick. Then, with a resigned sigh, he pulls the Marauders’ Map out of his pocket. His fingers move quickly as he activates it, tapping the worn parchment with his wand. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” The ink swirls into life, revealing the detailed layout of Hogwarts.

James mutters as he scans the map. Harry watches him closely, trying to keep his growing sense of urgency under control. Seconds feel like minutes until James gasps. “He’s in the Forbidden Forest.” His voice is sharp now, his eyes wide. He hands the map to Harry, pointing to the edge where Regulus’ name is almost off the grid.

But Harry doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong. He sees it immediately. Beside Regulus’ name is another one: Walburga Black.

James shakes his head. “That can’t be good. What’s she doing here?”

But before Harry can respond, his eyes catch the rest of the names around Regulus and Walburga. There are more. Laird Mulciber. Ellis Mulciber. Sebastian Mulciber. Corban Yaxley. Walden Macnair. Antonin Dolohov. Thorfinn Rowle.

Eight in total. All names Harry knows, names that make his blood run cold. These are not just random dark wizards; they are Death Eaters—or at least they will be in the future. Ruthless, loyal to Voldemort, and dangerous beyond measure.

“Fuck,” Harry curses, his hand gripping the edge of the map tighter. His mind races. Eight Death Eaters, including Walburga Black, and Regulus is out there with them. Harry knows he’s a decent duelist for his age, but taking on all eight? That’s suicide.

James, still staring at the map, glances at Harry with a weak smile. “I take it these people are the bad guys?” His tone is half-joking, but there’s a nervous edge to it, a sense that he’s not sure how to process what’s happening.

“They’re Death Eaters. Or supporters of Voldy. Definitely enemies.” Harry’s voice is steady, but his mind is churning with possibilities, trying to figure out how to handle this without getting himself—or worse, Regulus—killed.

James narrows his eyes. “Please tell me you’re not planning to go after them.”

Harry doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His silence says everything.

James groans, rubbing a hand through his messy hair in frustration. “Bloody hell, Harry!”

Without another word, James raises his voice, calling into the corridor, “Padfoot! Moony!”

Harry is expecting only Sirius and Remus, but to his surprise, Lily and Alvin come rushing in as well, concern etched on all their faces.

“What’s going on?” Sirius asks, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen as he looks between Harry and James. Remus stands beside him, his brow furrowed in quiet contemplation, while Lily’s eyes are filled with worry.

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He thrusts the map in front of Alvin, who gasps the second he spots the cluster of names surrounding Regulus. “Oh no...”

Harry clenches his jaw, fury bubbling just beneath the surface. “When I’m done with Dumbledore, that old coot is going to wish he was never born,” he snarls, his temper flaring dangerously.

Nobody tells him off for badmouthing the headmaster. The weight of the situation is too intense for trivial reprimands.

James sighs heavily. “Harry’s planning to go after a couple of Death Eaters,” he announces, almost exasperated.

Harry glares at him, wanting to kick him for outing his plan, but before he can say anything, Lily steps forward, her expression fierce. “You can’t just go after them like this! It’s reckless, Harry!”

“I can’t leave Regulus out there with them,” Harry snaps. His voice is sharp, but beneath the frustration, there’s a layer of desperation. “We don’t have time to wait for the Aurors.”

James steps in, shaking his head. “Harry, it’s eight against one. That’s suicide.”

Before Harry can argue, Alvin speaks up. “I’m going with you.”

Harry turns to him, ready to tell him no, to explain that he can’t risk Alvin getting hurt, not with such a target on his back. But then his gaze falls onto the Slytherin crest on Alvin’s robes, and an idea forms.

Quickly, he unfolds the Marauder’s Map fully, his eyes scanning for something specific. As he remembers the map Salazar Slytherin had shown him down in the Chamber of Secrets, Harry’s mind works to overlay the two maps mentally, searching for any hidden passages that could help.

There—near the Forbidden Forest. A tunnel. The one that connects to the Chamber of Secrets and leads directly into the forest, not far from where Regulus and the Death Eaters are gathered.

Harry's face lights up with sudden resolve. He looks up at the group. “I’m not going alone.” His voice is filled with purpose now. “I’ll take Shia.”

Alvin’s eyes widen in shock. “Wait—Shia? Are you joking?”

Sirius and James exchange confused looks. “Who the fuck is Shia?” Sirius asks.

Alvin answers before Harry can. “Slytherin’s basilisk.”

Lily gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “There’s a basilisk in the school?!”

Harry nods matter-of-factly. “Yeah, down in the Chamber of Secrets. But that’s not the point.” He taps the map where the secret tunnel approximately ends. “There’s a tunnel that leads into the Forbidden Forest. It ends here, not far from Regulus and the Death Eaters. Shia can take care of them.”

The Gryffindors around him are shocked into silence. Their expressions flicker between disbelief and alarm. The idea of unleashing a basilisk to confront a group of Death Eaters is wild—insane even—but Harry isn’t joking, and they know it.

Alvin, though clearly unnerved, half-jokes, “Well... at least no one’s expecting a basilisk. We’ve got the surprise factor on our side.” He lets out a small, nervous chuckle, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. The tension is palpable.

Sirius glances at Alvin, frowning. “Why aren’t you afraid?” he asks, incredulous. “You’re talking about a basilisk—a giant snake that kills with a look!”

Alvin shakes his head, more serious now. “No reason to be afraid,” he says, glancing toward Harry. “Not as long as Harry’s here. Shia listens to him.”

Harry doesn’t respond to the trust placed in him but turns to James, shifting focus. “I’ve already sent a Patronus to Lord Black and my family. They should arrive soon. You need to tell them where to go.” His tone is calm, but there’s urgency beneath his words. “I’ll go after Regulus now—stall for time.”

“I’m coming,” Alvin decides without hesitation, stepping forward. “Regulus is my friend. I won’t abandon him.”

Harry narrows his eyes at Alvin, his voice firm but not unkind. “Alvin, this is a bad idea. You have a huge target on your back. They’ve probably been instructed to kill you on sight. Or worse, bring you straight to Voldy.” The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the danger awaiting them.

But Alvin doesn’t waver. “I don’t care,” he says, determination burning in his eyes. “I’m going with you, Harry.”

Before Harry can argue further, Sirius speaks up, his voice softer than usual but no less resolute. “I might’ve run away from home, but Regulus is still my little brother,” Sirius says, the words coming out as a solemn declaration. His face is set with a rare seriousness, and Harry sees the emotion behind his eyes—guilt, perhaps, for leaving Regulus behind all those years ago. “I’m coming too.”

James straightens, determination written all over his face. “So am I. No way you’re doing this alone, Harry.”

Remus, who had been silent until now, finally speaks. “You won’t face them alone, Harry. We’ve got your back.” His voice is gentle but firm, offering reassurance even in the face of the impossible odds ahead.

Harry looks at them, his mind reeling. They’re all willing to go with him, to face trained Death Eaters—people who won’t hesitate to kill them. His frustration builds, but so does something else—gratitude. They are ready to stand by him, but that doesn’t ease the knot of fear tightening in his chest. “Have any of you ever dueled someone when your life depended on it?” His question cuts through the determination in the room like a knife. “We’re up against fully trained Death Eaters. If you hold back or even hesitate for a second, you will die.”

His words land hard. Sirius, James, and Remus exchange uncertain glances, their bravado momentarily shaken. Lily, who had been standing quietly, looks pale—her hands trembling slightly at her sides.

But despite the fear in their eyes, none of them back down. Sirius is the first to regain his composure, his jaw clenched. “I’m still coming.”

“Me too,” James echoes, his voice quieter but no less firm.

Remus nods in agreement, though he says nothing. The resolve is clear in his expression.

Harry lets out a slow breath, knowing he can’t stop them. “Alright then,” he says, relenting. “But we need a plan. Lily—” He turns to her, seeing the concern etched on her face. “You’ll stay here and watch the map. As soon as Lord Black and the others arrive, tell them where we are. We’ll need backup.”

Lily’s expression flickers between worry and frustration, but she nods. “I don’t like this, Harry,” she says, her voice soft but strained. “But I’ll do it. Just... be careful.”

Harry gives her a small nod, knowing that’s the best reassurance he can offer. His heart pounds in his chest as he turns back to the others. They have a basilisk, a plan, and a resolve stronger than ever, but the uncertainty of what lies ahead still looms. His stomach churns with a mixture of fear and determination.

Chapter 41: Walburga snaps – Part II

The group hurries through Hogwarts' branched hallways, rarely pausing their pace as they approach the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Myrtle’s voice echoes through the bathroom, shrieking as the boys storm in, but they don’t stop to explain or apologize.

“This is a girl’s bathroom!” Myrtle wails, her voice piercing as she zooms through the air, her ghostly form trailing behind them. “You can’t just barge in here!”

James, Sirius, and Remus all exchange glances, mildly horrified and confused by the entrance to such a legendary place being hidden in such an unassuming spot. “A girl’s bathroom?” Sirius mutters under his breath. “Of all places.”

“Fitting, really,” James comments, quirking an eyebrow. “They’ve hidden dark secrets in worse places, but this... it’s just strange.”

Harry, however, is far too focused to entertain their bewilderment. He hisses in Parseltongue. The stone sink shifts and reveals the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. “Come on,” he says quickly, his voice tense with urgency.

They descend into the Chamber, and as soon as they arrive at the bottom, Shia slithers forward, her massive form emerging from the shadows. Her scales shine in the faint light, and she hisses gently in greeting, waiting for Harry's command.

The Marauders freeze in place, shocked expressions on their faces. Alvin takes a step back with his lips slightly open. "Bloody hell," Sirius mutters, his eyes wide as he looks up at the gigantic snake. “I knew it would be big, but—that big?!”

Remus nods, his usually calm demeanor breaking slightly as he gapes at the basilisk. “Merlin, Harry... she’s huge.”

James looks like he’s reconsidering all of his life choices.

Harry rolls his eyes at their reactions, though he can’t help but feel a flicker of amusement. "Right, now you know why she’ll be useful." He turns to Shia, speaking in Parseltongue, explaining what’s happening and how they need her help to reach the Death Eaters quickly. She listens, her large eyes fixed on Harry, her tongue flickering out as she tastes the air.

Shia dips her massive head in acknowledgment before Harry turns to the others. “Climb on her back. She’ll take us to the exit—it’s faster this way.”

The pale, wary expressions on their faces tell Harry just how uncomfortable they are with the idea of riding a basilisk, but they don’t argue. One by one, they carefully climb onto Shia’s smooth, scaly back. Even Alvin, who had joked earlier about not fearing Shia, looks a little sick as he settles into place. Harry is last to climb up, patting Shia’s scales reassuringly.

Once they’re all in place, Shia moves. The sensation of the massive snake slithering through the chamber at top speed is unsettling, even for Harry, who’s used to her presence. The wind rushes past them as Shia speeds through the tunnels with a grace and speed that belies her massive size.

Within moments, they reach the exit near the Forbidden Forest. Shia pauses, tasting the air once again, then hisses to Harry in Parseltongue, informing him of Regulus's direction. "She says Regulus is that way,” Harry translates, pointing toward a small clearing in the distance.

They get off Shia's back and squat low, moving closer to the clearing. As they approach, the scene before them becomes clear. Regulus stands at the center of a circle, surrounded by Death Eaters. Harry’s breath catches as he realizes what’s happening. Walburga Black stands near her son, her expression unreadable. Around them, Ellis Mulciber and his father, along with Yaxley, Macnair, Dolohov, and Rowle, are positioned at the edges, casting spells and murmuring incantations.

Sirius gasps softly, his voice hushed but full of horror. “That’s... that’s a marriage ritual. She’s trying to marry Regulus to Ellis Mulciber!” His fists clench, his eyes blazing with fury. “We have to stop it now, before it’s completed.”

Harry’s heart pounds in his chest. “Do you know how to stop it?”

Sirius nods sharply. “Yeah, I know how. But I can’t just barge in. We’ll need to create a distraction first.”

Harry quickly surveys the scene. The Death Eaters aren’t dressed in their usual black robes and masks; they’re wearing normal wizarding clothing. The Mulciber brothers are even in their Hogwarts uniforms. It almost makes the situation more eerie—like they could be regular people if it weren’t for the dark magic they were performing.

“We’ll sneak as close as we can,” Harry whispers to the group. “Once we’re in range, we hit them with a Stunner—all at the same time. That’ll hopefully take a few of them out. Sirius, you use the distraction to disrupt the ritual.”

Each of them chooses a target.

“I’ll take Mulciber senior,” Alvin mutters, his eyes cold and determined.

“I’ve got Yaxley,” James says, his wand already out.

“Macnair’s mine,” Remus adds quietly.

“I’ll go for Rowle,” Harry finishes, his grip tightening on his wand.

They creep closer, their movements careful and silent. The Death Eaters are so focused on the ritual that they don’t notice the group approaching. Harry counts down in his head, his heart hammering in his chest. “On three,” he whispers. “One... two... three.”

Four stunning spells shoot out in perfect unison. Three Death Eaters fall to the ground, completely caught off guard. Yaxley manages to deflect the spell at the last second, his eyes widening as he spins around to face the intruders.

Sirius does not hesitate. He darts forward, pushing through the commotion to reach the ritual circle. During the chaos, the Death Eaters try to protect themselves. But Sirius is fast, swinging his wand in a blur as he disrupts the ceremony. Walburga yells in wrath as the charm is shattered, and her wand lashed at Sirius with fatal intent.

As the chaos of the clearing unfolds, Harry can feel the adrenaline thrumming in his veins. He sees Walburga Black's wand snap toward Sirius, a dark curse flying from it, sharp and deadly. Without thinking, he calls on the ancient magic Salazar taught him—wandless and powerful, fueled by blood and Parseltongue. He hisses under his breath, and a shimmering shield of blood-red magic erupts in front of Sirius just in time.

The curse bounces off the shield, rushing back toward Walburga. Her eyes widen in surprise as she narrowly escapes, the force of her own spell carving a deep scar into the ground where she had stood.

"Get him!" Harry yells to Sirius, his heart racing.

Without hesitation, Sirius lunges forward, grabbing Regulus by the arm and pulling him away from their mother, hauling him toward the safety of their group. Regulus looks dazed, still caught between the remnants of the ritual and the shock of seeing his mother resort to such extreme measures. Harry barely spares him a glance, his focus turning to the fight at hand.

Harry quickly hisses to Shia, ordering her to attack. “Strike, but don’t kill unless you have no other choice!” he instructs in Parseltongue. Shia’s massive body slithers forward, her emerald eyes gleaming with predatory focus. The moment the Death Eaters spot her, their faces drain of color.

Laird Mulciber, Ellis Mulciber, Corban Yaxley, Antonin Dolohov, and Walburga Black all scream in terror as the enormous basilisk emerges from the shadows, her scales catching the faint light like polished armor. For a brief, frozen moment, the Death Eaters are too stunned to react.

Harry takes advantage of their shock, his wand snapping up. “Stupefy!” His spell hits Laird Mulciber square in the chest, sending the older brother crashing to the ground, unconscious before he even realizes what’s happened.

Nearby, Alvin and Sirius check on Regulus, making sure he's unharmed, while James and Remus engage Ellis Mulciber in a heated duel. Ellis fights dirty, aiming not only at his opponents but also at Alvin, Sirius, and even the weakened Regulus whenever he finds an opening. His spells are vicious, and Harry can see the fury in his movements as he tries to strike Alvin in particular.

"Shia, go after Yaxley and Dolohov! Don’t let them escape the anti-apparition wards." Harry hisses, and the basilisk veers toward the fleeing Death Eaters, her long body moving with deadly speed.

Walburga's eyes snap toward Harry, narrowing with hatred when she hears the Parseltongue leave his lips. For a brief moment, she’s stunned into silence, then she screeches like a banshee, her voice cutting through the air. "How dare a lowly half-blood bastard like you possess such a gift?!"

Her words ooze with hatred. Before Harry reacts, she unleashes a spell on him, forcing him to dodge to the side. They start to duel. The air surrounding them crackles with dark magic. Walburga’s fury is palpable, each of her spells aimed to maim, to break. Harry’s heart pounds in his chest as he deflects and counters, but she’s fast—faster than he expected. She’s clearly not only vicious but skilled, and each hex she sends his way comes closer and closer to breaking through his defenses.

She eventually catches him off guard. “Imperio!” Walburga shouts, her voice gleeful as her spell hits him square in the chest.

Harry freezes as a strange warmth floods his mind. It’s as though a soothing fog has wrapped around his thoughts, numbing them. He feels detached, his own will slipping away as Walburga’s voice echoes in his head, sickly sweet and commanding.

Turn the snake on your friends.

A cold, empty calm fills him. He looks toward Shia. Alvin and Regulus stand nearby, watching him with a mixture of worry and fear, their eyes wide. James, Sirius, and Remus look equally terrified.

Do it, Walburga repeats, her voice smug. Turn on them.

For a moment, everything feels distant, like he’s no longer in control. His hand twitches. Then something inside him—something stubborn and fiercely resistant—flares to life. No.

He grits his teeth, forcing his mind to fight against the compulsion. With a sharp inhale, Harry breaks through the fog. He turns around slowly, his gaze locking onto Walburga. "No," he says firmly, his voice steady and defiant.

Her triumphant smile vanishes, replaced by a look of shock.

James, Sirius, and Remus stare at Harry, dumbfounded, their eyes wide with disbelief. Alvin and Regulus look equally stunned.

“How did you—” Sirius starts to say, but Alvin cuts him off. “That’s impossible. You can’t throw off the Imperius Curse, not like that.”

Harry shrugs, trying to hide how shaken he is. “I’m just stubborn, I guess.”

Walburga’s face twists in fury. “You dare defy me?” she shrieks, her voice rising to a fever pitch. “Crucio!”

It consumes him completely, searing through his nerves and causing every muscle in his body to stiffen. He collapses to the ground, agony surging through him, his limbs twitching uncontrollably. His control over his magic slips, but somehow, through sheer willpower, he manages to hold onto his wand. His vision blurs, and every heartbeat feels like a hammer against his skull, but through the haze of pain, he summons enough strength to aim his wand at Walburga.

“Secarus!” Harry gasps, his voice raw.

The invisible blade of the spell slices through the air, and Walburga lets out a bloodcurdling scream as her wand arm is severed at the elbow. Blood sprays across the ground, and she collapses to her knees, clutching the stump of her arm, howling in agony.

The Cruciatus Curse lifts, and Harry takes in a ragged breath, shaking as he forces himself to stand. His legs wobble, the aftermath of the curse making it hard to keep his balance. Sweat drips down his face, but he straightens his back, refusing to show weakness. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath. "That hurt."

Shia’s massive body snakes through the forest with deadly precision, her fangs bared and her tongue flicking in the air. Yaxley and Dolohov, once confident, are now reduced to nothing more than panicked prey. They stumble backward as she herds them back toward the clearing. Their faces are pale with terror, and their eyes widen even further when they catch sight of Walburga Black—writhing on the ground, her severed wand arm still oozing blood.

They freeze in place, utterly horrified. Dolohov's voice breaks through the stunned silence, shaky and filled with disbelief.

Harry, still trembling from the aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse, straightens up as much as he can. He gently runs a hand along Shia’s sleek scales, his voice calm and cold as he hisses in Parseltongue, "Well done, girl." Shia halts beside him, coiled and alert, her presence casting an even deeper shadow over the terrified Death Eaters.

Yaxley and Dolohov turn their gazes to Harry now, their fear no longer masked. There’s something almost primal in the way their eyes widen. Dolohov exclaims, "It can't be! The Dark Lord... he’s the heir of Slytherin. Not—"

Harry's demeanor is unreadable when he cuts off Dolohov with a chilly voice. “Do you really believe Voldy,”—he says the name with deliberate nonchalance, watching as they both flinch—“is the only descendant of Slytherin?”

Yaxley recoils as if struck, his face contorting in a mixture of fury and fear. “You dare to call him that?” he spits, his voice filled with disbelief. “That… that abomination of a name?” His hands twitch toward his wand, but he doesn't make a move, too frozen by the presence of the basilisk and the chaos that surrounds him.

Dolohov quickly follows, shouting in angry disbelief. “Do you have any idea who you're disrespecting?”

Harry shrugs, his expression remaining impassive, though there’s a flicker of dark amusement in his eyes. “He shouldn’t have put a taboo on his name, then,” he replies coolly. The casualness with which he says this seems to throw Yaxley and Dolohov even further off balance, and for a moment, they seem completely unsure of what to do.

But the moment of standoff is cut short as the sound of hurried footsteps and the rustle of robes fill the air. Harry looks up, his senses sharpened. From the shadows of the forest emerge several figures, wands raised and expressions tense. The aurors have arrived.

Chapter 42: King of Serpents – Part I

As the Aurors arrive in a flurry of robes, accompanied by Lord Black, Fleamont Potter, and Charlus Potter, the tension in the air shifts. Behind them, Dumbledore, Professor Sprout, McGonagall, and Slughorn follow closely, their expressions a mixture of shock and disbelief. And standing off to the side, keeping a wary distance, is Lily—her eyes wide as they take in the scene unfolding before her.

Everyone's gaze is drawn to Shia, the enormous basilisk coiled protectively around Harry, her tongue flicking in and out as if tasting the tension. Harry stands at her side, his hand resting calmly on her scales, his posture surprisingly composed for someone who just faced down Death Eaters. His heart is still racing, but he keeps his breathing steady, focusing on the feel of Shia beneath his fingers. The basilisk's presence is oddly grounding.

The group stares, frozen in various states of disbelief. The Aurors, seasoned wizards, are visibly uneasy, eyes darting between Shia and the injured Death Eaters. The professors, for once, are speechless. Even Dumbledore, usually so composed, looks as if he’s struggling to process the sheer enormity of what he’s walked into.

It’s the Potters who manage to regain their composure first. Fleamont strides forward with purpose, his sharp eyes scanning the scene as he moves directly to James.

“Are you hurt?” Fleamont’s voice is filled with concern, his hand already reaching out to inspect his son. His grip on James’s shoulder is firm, but the relief is evident.

James, pale and shaken but otherwise unharmed, shakes his head. “I’m fine, Dad. We all are.”

Charlus, his face a mask of calm authority, steps forward next, his voice cutting through the chaos with an air of command. “Aurors, you are to arrest Walburga Black, Antonin Dolohov, Corban Yaxley, Walden Macnair, Thorfinn Rowle, and Sebastian, Laird, and Ellis Mulciber for the kidnapping of Heir Black and for their involvement with—you-know-who.”

The Aurors exchange uneasy glances, their wands gripped tightly, but none of them make a move. They seem transfixed by Shia’s towering presence, their apprehension palpable as they cast furtive glances toward the enormous snake.

One of the Aurors, his voice low and hesitant, protests quietly. “Er... what about the basilisk?”

The fear is obvious, and it takes Harry a moment to realize that Shia’s presence, while comforting to him, is terrifying to everyone else. His gaze flickers from the Aurors to Shia and back, and with a calming hand still on her scales, he speaks up, his voice steady despite the lingering adrenaline. “Shia won’t attack,” Harry says, his tone reassuring but firm. “Unless you attack her first.”

He can feel the slight shift in the air as his words sink in, the tension easing ever so slightly. The Aurors still look nervous, but they seem a little more willing to approach.

It’s Slughorn who breaks the fragile silence next, his eyes fixed on Shia as he steps forward. “What about the eyes?” he asks, his voice carrying a note of caution. “A basilisk’s gaze can kill instantly. Are we... safe?”

Harry turns his head slowly toward Slughorn, and for a moment, he just stares at his professor, feeling a flicker of disbelief at the question. When he speaks, his voice is dry, almost incredulous. “All basilisks have a second eyelid,” he replies, as though the answer is obvious. “It blocks the deadly gaze but still allows them to see. Surely a potion master of your caliber knows this?”

There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then a ripple of relief passes through the crowd. The tension visibly deflates as if everyone had been holding their breath. The professors exchange glances, and the Aurors finally begin moving toward the captured Death Eaters, though they still give Shia a wide berth.

Charlus, with an air of casual curiosity, glances at the enormous basilisk curled beside Harry and comments, “So this is the monster from the Chamber of Secrets.”

His words send a ripple of shock through the group, and Harry instantly feels a surge of protectiveness for Shia. His jaw tightens, and he steps forward, his voice sharp but steady. “Don’t call her a monster,” Harry snaps, meeting Charlus’s gaze with a defiant look. “Shia can understand English. You’re hurting her feelings.”

The others exchange uncertain glances, clearly not used to someone defending a creature as feared as a basilisk.

In the meantime, the Aurors continue their task, rounding up the remaining Death Eaters and preparing them for transport. Walburga, still screeching incoherently about Harry being a “half-blood bastard” and how he dared to attack her, is dragged past Lord Black. Two Aurors hold her firmly, and a third carefully carries her severed arm, wrapped in a cloth but still visible to those who glance.

Lord Arcturus Black’s eyes follow the arm briefly before shifting to Harry with an arched brow, his tone composed but probing. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

Harry doesn’t flinch under his gaze. “You’re free to have your healer reattach it,” he says bluntly, not bothering to hide his irritation.

A few of the Aurors gasp audibly at Harry’s cold, matter-of-fact response. The sound cuts through the tension in the clearing, making the whole situation feel more surreal. Harry feels the weight of their gazes, but he doesn’t care. After everything Walburga has done—her attempts to control Regulus, her attack on him, and that Cruciatus burning through his nerves—he can’t bring himself to feel sorry for her.

Before Arcturus can respond, Regulus steps forward, placing himself between Harry and his grandfather, his voice low but filled with conviction. “Mother held Harry under the Cruciatus. I’m honestly surprised he had enough control to just cut off her arm and not misfire and accidentally kill her.”

Harry’s heart skips a beat at Regulus’s words. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that his spell could have gone further, could have done far more damage in his weakened state. He’d acted out of sheer instinct, driven by pain and desperation, and the thought of what could have happened makes his stomach twist.

But Arcturus raises a hand to silence his heir, his expression unreadable. “Calm down, Regulus.” His voice is measured, cold, like a man who had already anticipated this kind of outcome. “I knew something like this might happen. Lord Potter wouldn’t have insisted on a clause in the contract that allows Harry to use everything at his disposal to defend both himself and you from Walburga unless he expected a confrontation.” He glances briefly at Harry before continuing. “As long as he, barring any unfortunate accident, doesn’t cause any permanent damage, the contract is upheld. The severed arm is reversible. Therefore, no violation has occurred.”

“On his part,” Fleamont interjects, stepping forward with a diplomatic tone. His eyes, however, carry a warning. “We still have to check your side, Lord Black. I’m not accusing you of anything yet, but you were responsible for ensuring Walburga had no unsupervised access to either Harry or Regulus. After this situation has been cleared, we’ll have to review the precautions you put in place to make sure they were sufficient.”

Lord Black’s lips press into a thin line, and for a brief moment, his mask of calm cracks. He looks like he’s just bitten into a lemon, but he doesn’t argue. The weight of Fleamont’s words lingers in the air, a silent reminder that even the Blacks are not above reproach.

As the Aurors finalize the arrests, Harry’s gaze flickers toward Dumbledore. The headmaster stands at the edge of the clearing, watching everything with his usual serene expression. But Harry knows better. That placid look hides too much—too much control, too much arrogance.

“Lord Black did inform the headmaster that Walburga wasn’t allowed on school grounds,” Harry says, his voice laced with cold anger. His emerald eyes, blazing with resentment, lock onto Dumbledore. “But the old coot thought he knew better and let her in regardless.”

The ripple of shock that runs through the crowd this time is palpable, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s sick of Dumbledore’s games, his manipulation of everyone around him, always acting like he knows what’s best. This time, his arrogance nearly cost him Regulus.

“Mr. Potter!” McGonagall’s voice rings out, her Scottish brogue sharp and filled with outrage. Her face is flushed with indignation, her eyes flashing behind her square spectacles. “How dare you speak about the headmaster with such disrespect!”

Harry clenches his jaw, feeling his pulse quicken. His fingers tighten around his wand as if seeking some kind of comfort. Every part of him wants to lash out, to tell McGonagall and Dumbledore exactly what he thinks of their so-called authority. But he reins it in, reminding himself that this isn’t the moment to lose his head. There are bigger battles ahead, and losing his temper now won’t help Regulus or anyone else.

Still, his voice is tense as he replies, “With all due respect, Professor, Walburga wouldn’t have been here if Dumbledore had listened. This isn’t just about disrespect—it’s about responsibility. Something the headmaster clearly lacks.”

His heart pounds, but his gaze doesn’t waver from Dumbledore’s calm, unreadable expression. He can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him, but he’s done holding back, done playing by rules that have always seemed skewed in Dumbledore’s favor. Harry knows he’s crossing a line, but the fire inside him won’t allow him to stop.

“It’s either that,” Harry continues, his voice gaining an edge, “or you don’t care about your students unless you can use them as fodder for your war.”

For a brief moment, Dumbledore’s usually composed face falters. There’s a flicker of shock in his eyes, though he quickly reins it in, regaining his calm. “Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore begins, his voice gentle but firm, “you misunderstand—”

But Harry cuts him off with a cold laugh. The idea that he could possibly misunderstand after everything he’s been through infuriates him. As Dumbledore speaks, Harry feels it—the subtle, invasive pressure on his mind. Legilimency. The probing tendrils of magic, testing the edges of his thoughts.

For a few seconds, Harry pretends not to notice. His grip on his wand tightens, but outwardly, he remains still, his expression unreadable. Let him think he’s won, Harry tells himself, just for a moment longer.

Then, with a sharp movement, Harry raises his wand and points it directly at Dumbledore. “Animus Protégé!” he shouts, and an invisible force blasts Dumbledore backward, sending him skidding several meters across the grass.

Shia hisses in outrage, her massive form coiling protectively around Harry, her golden eyes narrowing at the headmaster. The sound of her hissing reverberates through the clearing. The Aurors flinch. A ripple of unease goes through the gathered professors.

“Legilimency?!”, One Aurors gasp whispers in disbelief.

The entire clearing is frozen in stunned silence. The professors, usually so quick to defend Dumbledore, remain rooted in place, their faces pale and eyes wide. They don’t protest. They don’t even move. It’s as if they can’t quite process what has just happened.

Before anyone can react, both Charlus and Fleamont Potter step in front of Harry, their wands drawn and aimed directly at Dumbledore. The tension spikes as Charlus’s voice rings out, cold and authoritative. “Arrest him.”

The command hangs in the air for a moment, the Aurors hesitating, unsure of how to proceed. But then, surprisingly, they move forward without protest. The weight of Charlus Potter’s command, combined with the undeniable fact that Dumbledore had just tried to invade the mind of a minor, is enough to break their paralysis.

“On what charge?” Dumbledore tries, his voice steady, but there’s an undercurrent of desperation now. “That boy is dangerous. You’ve all seen it. We should be focusing on him—and that basilisk.” His eyes flick to Shia, his tone rising with urgency. “He’s working for Voldemort! Why else would Slytherin’s monster listen to him?”

The outrage that erupts from the Potters and Lord Black is instantaneous. Arcturus’s face darkens with fury, his voice low and venomous. “How dare you accuse him of such a thing, Dumbledore,” he growls, his wand still raised, unwavering. “Do you think we would stand here defending Harry if he were in league with that monster?”

Charlus steps forward, his wand still pointed at Dumbledore, his expression unreadable but dangerous. “You’ve lost your mind, Albus. You crossed a line when you tried to violate Harry’s mind. And now, to accuse him of working for You-Know-Who? Absurd.”

Harry stands there, his emotions roiling inside him, a storm of betrayal, anger, and disbelief. He knew Dumbledore was manipulative, knew the man had his own agenda, but this? This was beyond anything Harry had imagined. The sheer nerve of accusing him of working for Voldemort after everything he’s done, after everything he’s lost because of that monster…

Harry’s voice is cold as ice when he speaks again, his gaze never leaving Dumbledore’s. “You have the same nonexistent intelligence as Yaxley and Dolohov,” he says, every word dripping with disdain. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so stupid as to assume Riddle is the only descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

The words hang in the air like a blade. Dumbledore’s face tightens, but he doesn’t respond. He can’t. There’s no defense for what he’s just done, and Harry knows it. The headmaster’s carefully crafted image is crumbling, and for once, the entire crowd is witnessing it. The trust and admiration that once surrounded Dumbledore are fading before their eyes.

The Aurors, finally overcoming their hesitation, step forward to take Dumbledore into custody. He doesn’t fight them, though his face is pale, and his eyes dart between the Potters, Lord Black, and Harry, as if searching for some sign of mercy.

“Good girl,” he murmurs in Parseltongue.

Chapter 43: King of Serpents – Part II

As soon as the Aurors lead Dumbledore away, Lily rushes to Harry. She throws her arms around him in a tight embrace. “I’m so glad everyone’s alright,” she whispers, her voice shaking with the release of pent-up fear. Her grip is tight, almost desperate, and for a brief moment, Harry allows himself to melt into the comfort she offers. There’s something soothing about her warmth, the certainty that she’s safe, that they all made it out alive. But the weight of everything that just happened is still there, pressing down on him like a heavy storm cloud that refuses to clear. Beneath the relief, the tension coils tighter in his chest, a reminder that this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

He pulls back slightly, giving her a reassuring look, when he feels Shia shift beside him. The giant basilisk lowers her head, her tongue flicking out to catch Lily’s scent. Harry’s heart skips a beat as the snake moves closer, her massive form dwarfing them both. He knows Shia won’t harm her—Shia, despite her terrifying size, is loyal to him, and by extension, to those he cares about. But Lily doesn’t understand that yet. Her body goes rigid as Shia’s snout inches nearer.

Harry tenses, watching closely as Shia's massive head tilts toward Lily. Her slitted eyes narrow, but there's no malice in them—only a strange, focused curiosity. Her body coils ever so slightly, not with aggression, but with the same kind of excitement Harry has seen before. It’s the kind of coiled energy that surges when Shia senses something important, something deep.

Lily doesn’t know that, though. She takes a step back, her green eyes wide with apprehension, fingers twitching toward her wand as if she’s not sure whether to flee or defend herself. “Harry…” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Why is she looking at me like that?” Her tone contains a raw edge of terror, a sense of helplessness when confronted with a creature as ancient and powerful as the basilisk.

Before her fear can take root, Harry steps between them, his hand instinctively finding the warm, smooth scales of Shia’s side. He can feel the muscles beneath her skin ripple like water, a sure sign she’s excited about something, though he knows she means no harm. “It’s okay,” he says softly, his voice calm and steady, as if trying to soothe both Lily and the giant snake beside him. He keeps his hand on Shia’s flank, feeling her energy buzzing through his fingertips, a gentle but undeniable vibration of life and eagerness. “She’s not going to hurt you.”

Shia hisses again, this time longer, more insistently. Harry can tell she’s trying to communicate, and even though Lily doesn’t understand, the tone of Shia’s hiss is unmistakably friendly.

Shia’s tongue flicks out once more, and she lowers her head toward Lily again. She hisses, her voice a low, soft murmur in Parseltongue: "You... you are like him, like my Speaker. You carry the blood of the Salazar."

Lily takes another nervous step back, her hand half-raised, unsure whether to retreat or stay. She glances at Harry, confusion furrowing her brow.

Shia, not deterred by Lily’s silence, hisses again, her massive form shifting closer, though she’s careful not to crowd the redhead. "You should hear me," Shia murmurs in Parseltongue, her tone insistent but not impatient. "You are kin. Why do you not answer me?" The basilisk’s head nudges just slightly toward Lily, as though expecting an answer.

Lily stiffens for a moment, clearly sensing the weight of Shia’s attention. “She’s saying something, isn’t she?” she asks, her voice soft but tinged with unease.

Harry sighs, recognizing that Shia doesn’t understand why Lily isn’t responding. In Parseltongue, he speaks to the basilisk. “She can’t understand you, Shia. She doesn’t have the gift.” Then, turning to Lily, he gives her a reassuring smile. “She’s trying to talk to you, but you’re not a Parselmouth, so …”

Lily’s fear begins to ease as she looks from Harry to Shia. The snake’s hissing isn’t aggressive—it’s almost curious, even gentle. “She’s really trying to talk to me?” Lily asks, her voice softer now, though the uncertainty hasn’t left her completely.

Harry nods, carefully choosing his words. “Yeah, she likes you.”

Lily tentatively reaches out, hovering her palm above Shia's smooth scales before making contact. The moment her fingers brush against the smooth, surprisingly warm surface, she gasps in astonishment. “She’s so… warm! I thought snakes were supposed to be cold-blooded?”

Harry smiles softly, feeling some of the tension in his chest ease. The sight of Lily, standing there petting a basilisk, her fear melting into wonder, brings a flicker of relief to his strained nerves. “Most are,” he replies, his tone lighter now. “But some magical snakes, like basilisks and fire vipers, can regulate their body temperature. And dragons, of course—you can’t forget about those.”

Lily’s expression softens as she strokes Shia’s scales, her amazement visible in the way her eyes light up. “She’s amazing.”

Before Harry can respond, the quiet around them is abruptly shattered. A voice, filled with disbelief, cuts through the moment. “Lily!” James yells, his voice trembling with shock as he stares at the sight in front of him. “What are you doing?”

Harry turns to see James standing a few feet away, his face pale as he gapes at the scene. His eyes flick from Lily, who is still petting the basilisk, to Harry, and back to Shia. There’s a mixture of horror and confusion in his expression, and for a moment, James looks like he doesn’t know whether to pull Lily away or run in the opposite direction.

“Are you seriously petting a basilisk?” James exclaims, his voice rising. His gaze snaps to Harry, bewildered. “You’ve got to be joking—this can’t be safe. How is this even happening?”

Harry suppresses a sigh. He understands James’s fear, the protectiveness he feels for Lily, but after everything that’s just happened, the sudden burst of alarm feels like a weight crashing back down on his shoulders. Shia, sensing the heightened tension, shifts slightly, her massive form coiling in response to the sudden noise.

“She’s not dangerous,” Harry says quickly, stepping forward to keep James from doing anything rash. He places a steadying hand on Shia’s side. “She’s under control. Shia isn’t going to hurt Lily—she’s actually really fond of her.”

James’s eyes narrow, his skepticism clear as he glances warily at Shia’s towering form. “A basilisk. Fond of someone?”

Harry can’t help but feel a flicker of irritation at James’s reaction, but he bites it back, reminding himself that James doesn’t know Shia like he does. Most people would freak out seeing someone so close to a creature that could kill with a glance.

Lily, noticing the tension in James, turns to him with a calm, reassuring smile. “She really is, James. Look—she’s not hurting me. She’s... gentle.”

“Gentle?” James echoes, his voice a mix of disbelief and concern. “Lily, it’s a basilisk. You know, the kind that can kill people just by looking at them?”

“Shia’s different,” Harry interrupts, his tone firmer now, standing his ground. He’s not sure if it’s the exhaustion or frustration, but James’s reaction is starting to wear on him. “She listens to me. She won’t hurt anyone unless they try to hurt her or one of us.”

James' gaze shifts between Harry and Lily, a whirlwind of emotions passing through his eyes—fear, disbelief, protectiveness. “But how can you be so sure?”

“Because I’ve spent enough time with her to know,” Harry responds with a hint of defensiveness in his voice. “Shia’s not a mindless monster, James. She’s smart. She wouldn’t hurt Lily.”

There is a tense silence between them as James processes Harry's words. He takes a breath, clearly attempting to relax himself. But his gaze remains fixed on Shia, as if he is unsure whether to trust such a terrifying creature.

James hesitates, his shoulders relaxing slightly, but the tension doesn’t leave him entirely. He runs a hand through his messy hair, letting out a long breath. “Alright,” he says finally, though his voice is still edged with uncertainty. “But this… this is mental, Harry. I mean, a basilisk?”

Before Harry can respond, another voice interrupts. "You're a descendant of Salazar Slytherin?" Slughorn's tone is full of surprise, and the humorous glint in his eyes has been replaced by genuine shock. The potions professor looks at Harry as if he's seeing him for the first time, his expression full of amazement.

Harry tenses again. He’d known this moment would come eventually, but it still hits harder than expected. He meets Slughorn’s wide-eyed stare, feeling the full gravity of what he’s just revealed.  “Yep,” Harry says, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. “Parseltongue and everything. I kept quiet so Voldy wouldn’t figure out we’re related.”

Slughorn’s jaw drops, and for a brief moment, he looks like a fish out of water. “Voldy?” he croaks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry can’t help but grin. He knows how absurd it sounds, but after everything, humor is a welcome relief. “Yeah. Reg and ‘Vin weren’t comfortable with me calling him Voldemort because of the taboo, and I wasn’t about to call him ‘Dark Lord.’ That would imply I have some level of respect for the bloke, which I definitely don’t. And ‘You-Know-Who’? Please, that’s just stupid. So, we settled on Voldy.”

There’s a brief silence as Slughorn tries to comprehend Harry’s casual use of such a nickname for the most feared dark wizard of their time. Before Slughorn can respond, Alvin, who has been standing nearby, suddenly hisses in frustration. “We’re not comfortable with you calling him Voldy either!” His eyes are wide with disbelief, and there’s an edge to his voice. “He’s a Dark Lord, Harry! Even if you don’t respect him, what’s wrong with calling him that?”

Harry pouts, folding his arms defiantly. “I just don’t want to. It sounds too… formal. Like I’m giving him a title or something.” He shrugs, a flicker of defiance flashing in his eyes.

Alvin glares at him for a moment, but Harry can see the tension slowly draining from his friend’s shoulders. “You’re impossible,” Alvin mutters, shaking his head.

James, who has been silent for a while, suddenly lets out a loud laugh, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. “I think I like ‘Voldy,’” he says, grinning widely. “Definitely takes the fear factor down a notch.”

Sirius, standing nearby, crosses his arms with a smirk. “Yeah, but can you imagine what Voldy would do if he knew? He’d blow a fuse.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Harry quips, his grin widening. “He deserves to be mocked. I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of respect.”

James and Sirius share a glance, laughing at the image of Voldemort losing his temper over something so trivial as a nickname. The humor seems to release the remaining tension in the air. It’s as if, for a brief moment, the horror of what they’ve just been through takes a back seat to their banter.

But then, James’s laughter fades, and his grin is replaced by something more serious. He exchanges a glance with Sirius before turning to Harry, his expression expectant. “Alright, Harry,” James says, his tone now more deliberate. “We’ve had our fun. But you owe us an explanation.”

Harry feels his chest tighten. He’d known this moment was coming. The questions, the inevitable confrontation, had been hanging over him since the moment everything came to light. Still, hearing it now, with James and Sirius both watching him intently, it feels more daunting than he imagined.

“Yeah,” Sirius adds, stepping closer. “We didn’t push before, you know, because saving Regulus was obviously more important. But now…” He crosses his arms again, his gaze locking on Harry. “We want to know. Since when are you a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, and since when can you talk to snakes?”

Harry sighs, rolling his eyes in a half-hearted attempt to play it off. “I’ve been able to talk to snakes since I can remember,” he says, trying to keep his voice casual, though the weight of the truth is heavy on his shoulders. “And I’ve been a descendant of Salazar since the day I was born. It’s not like I had any choice in the matter.”

James’s eyes narrow, and Harry can see the wheels turning in his mind. The easy-going laughter from moments before is gone, replaced by something more intense—hurt, maybe even betrayal. “Then why,” James presses, his voice growing more frustrated, “did you tell Regulus, Rosier, and even Lily before you told us? Your family?”

Harry feels the heat rise in his chest. He meets James’s eyes, feeling the unspoken accusation lingering between them, and for a moment, his own frustration bubbles to the surface. “Because they’re my friends,” Harry says sharply, his voice hardening. “And I knew they wouldn’t judge me for my heritage. Unlike some people.”

The words land heavily, and James’s face falls slightly, his expression flickering with guilt. Sirius’s smirk falters, and Harry can tell they both know exactly what he’s referring to. They might not have said it out loud, but the way they treated him after he was sorted into Slytherin still hangs between them, an unspoken rift that’s not fully healed.

James glances at his father, who stands a few feet away, observing the exchange with a calm, steady gaze. There’s an accusatory edge to James’s look now, as if he’s just realized something he hadn’t considered before. “Dad,” James says, his voice edged with disbelief. “Did you know?”

Fleamont Potter steps forward, his face thoughtful as he addresses his son. “We all knew, James,” Fleamont says quietly, glancing at Harry and then back at James. “Your mother, Charlus, Dorea, Cepheus, Elena… we’ve known since Harry came into our care. But we decided not to tell you. You and Sirius were not mature enough for that knowledge at the time.”

Harry watches as Fleamont’s words hit James and Sirius like a punch to the gut. James’s eyes widen, and Sirius looks equally blindsided. “Not mature enough?” James repeats, the hurt creeping into his voice. “What does that mean?”

Fleamont’s gaze softens, though his tone remains firm. “It means, James, that considering how you and Sirius treated Harry just for being sorted into Slytherin, we were right to keep this from you. You weren’t ready to handle it back then. And frankly,” he adds, his voice sharpening just slightly, “I’m not sure you’re handling it much better now.”

James and Sirius fall silent, the weight of Fleamont’s words sinking in. Harry can see the way their shoulders tense, their expressions clouded with guilt. James opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. It’s clear that Fleamont’s honesty has hit him harder than he expected.

Sirius, too, looks unusually subdued. His usual smirk is gone as he stares at the ground, processing everything.

Chapter 44: About obscure magic – Part I

Harry is lying in the hospital bed. Every part of him hurts, even though Pomfrey used painkillers earlier. His hands shake slightly, a memory of the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, but he is more concerned with Madam Pomfrey's face as she mutters to herself while hovering close to the foot of his bed.

"It’s just not working," she whispers, staring down at the latest potion she had administered—an iridescent blue liquid meant to counteract the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. "And neither are the pain potions."

Her frustration is palpable. It’s been hours since Harry came to the hospital wing together with his friends after sending Shia back into the chamber, she’s tried everything—every potion in her arsenal that’s specifically designed to ease nerve damage from curses, but Harry remains in pain. It’s not as severe as it could be, he knows that much, but it’s still enough to make his body tense with every minor movement.

Pomfrey turns back to him, her face a storm of concern and determination. "Mr. Potter, something’s not right. I’ve given you the strongest pain relief potions we have, and nothing seems to be getting through. I’m going to have to call St. Mungo’s for help."

Harry nods silently, though his stomach twists at the idea. If St. Mungo's doesn’t know what is happening, who would?

Walking over to the fireplace, Pomfrey scoops up a handful of Floo powder and tosses it into the fire. "Healer Dobbs, St. Mungo’s."

The green flames flicker and swirl before an elderly woman’s face appears in the fire. Pomfrey describes the circumstances, including Harry's exposure to the Cruciatus Curse and the ineffectiveness of her treatments.

Healer Dobbs frowns. "That’s unusual, but without seeing him myself… Perhaps try—"

"I’ve already tried that," Pomfrey cuts in, the frustration growing in her voice. "None of the usual remedies are working."

After a brief, futile exchange, Pomfrey ends the Floo call with a sigh, then immediately throws more powder into the fireplace. "Healer Yaxley, St. Mungo’s."

This time, a stern-faced man appears. Pomfrey repeats her explanation, but after another series of questions and answers, Yaxley, too, is at a loss.

By the third call, Harry can feel the tension rising in the room, like a knot tightening in his chest. Pomfrey is growing more exasperated with each conversation. The fourth healer, a young woman with kind eyes, suggests trying a stronger version of the same potions, but Pomfrey cuts her off again, her tone sharper now. "I’ve already administered the strongest dose he can safely handle. None of it is working!"

As Pomfrey cuts the connection once more, her movements become more agitated. Harry notices the faint tremor in her hands as she grabs another handful of Floo powder. His heart sinks.

They’re running out of options.

"Madam Pomfrey," Harry begins, trying to keep his voice steady, but the words catch in his throat. He can see the worry etched into her face, and it makes his own fear harder to suppress.

Pomfrey waves him off. "I won’t give up yet. There’s still one more person to try."

Harry watches her, his fingers gripping the edge of the bed as she throws the powder in for the fifth time. "Healer Fawcett, St. Mungo’s."

The tension in the room is suffocating as the green flames flicker, and Pomfrey leans forward, her voice almost pleading now as she explains Harry’s symptoms yet again.

Harry’s breath comes in shallow gasps as he listens. The pain isn’t unbearable, but the uncertainty gnaws at him. What if this can’t be fixed? What if this is permanent?

The flames change just as his thoughts begin to spiral out of control, and an elderly man with a kind, intelligent face appears. He pays close attention to Pomfrey's explanation, and after some silent reflection, a flicker of understanding appears in his eyes.

"Ah," he says softly while rubbing his chin. "I think I may know what’s happening here."

Pomfrey stares at him with hope, and her rigid stance relaxes slightly. "You do?"

Healer Fawcett nods. "Let me step through the Floo. I’ll examine him myself, but from what you’ve described, it sounds like there’s a reason the potions aren’t working."

Harry feels the knot in his chest loosen just slightly.

He sits up a bit straighter as the flames roar to life, and a few moments later, an old, hunched-over healer steps out of the fireplace, brushing the soot from his robes. His graying beard and wrinkled face show years of experience, and the way he immediately strides over to Harry’s bedside gives off a sense of authority.

"Good afternoon," the healer says, his voice rough but kind. He immediately pulls out a wand and starts scanning Harry. "I understand you’ve been through quite an ordeal."

"That’s one way to put it," Harry mutters, wincing as the healer’s wand sends a ripple of magic through him.

After a few minutes of silent examination, the healer straightens up and gives Pomfrey a knowing look. "It’s as I suspected."

Pomfrey crosses her arms. "Well, go on, tell us. What’s causing this?"

Healer  Fawcett turns to Harry, his expression calm but serious. "The reason the potions aren’t working is because of the blood magic you used. There’s residue—magical remnants of the spell—lingering around your nerve endings. It’s essentially blocking the potions from doing their job."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "So, it’s not that the potions are broken?"

"No," Healer  Fawcett replies, shaking his head. "They’re perfectly fine. But the magic you used is creating a barrier, preventing them from taking effect."

Pomfrey’s face pales slightly. "Blood magic…" she whispers. “Mr. Potter, you could get into serious trouble for that."

Healer Fawcett chuckles softly. "Not to worry, Madam Pomfrey. The lad won’t get into trouble for this. What he’s used isn’t the commonly known and mostly banned blood magic—what we have here is something different."

Pomfrey looks perplexed. "Different? How?"

The healer gestures toward Harry. "This is an obscure form of blood magic, one that hasn’t been seen for centuries. In fact, most of us believed it to be extinct. If I hadn’t seen the magical residue myself, I would have thought it impossible. Since this particular form of magic has been long forgotten, there are no laws against it."

Pomfrey lets out a relieved breath, but there’s still a hint of worry in her eyes as she looks at Harry. "But… he’ll be okay, right? The magic won’t hurt him?"

Healer Fawcett smiles kindly. "He’ll be fine. The residue will fade on its own in time. Once it does, you can administer the potions and they’ll work as they should. Or, if the residue takes too long to fade, you can just let everything heal on its own. The damage caused by the cruciatus isn’t bad enough it won’t heal without the potions. A few days of rest and limited use of magic will suffice."

Harry exhales slowly, feeling the weight lift from his chest, even if only slightly. "So, I'll be fine? There's nothing seriously wrong with me?"

Healer Fawcett glances at Harry, nodding reassuringly. "Yes, you're fine. Just be cautious—don’t take any pain or healing potions until that residue is completely gone. They’ll be ineffective, and if you keep taking doses, you risk overdosing or causing complications."

Harry grits his teeth, anger bubbling under his calm expression. Salazar should have warned him about this. But he keeps silent, not wanting to drag the conversation into a confrontation with the ancient Slytherin in front of Pomfrey and the healer.

Instead, he turns to Pomfrey, his tone more controlled than his frustration allows. "So, since there’s nothing else that can be done for now... can I go? I’ll rest better in the dormitory."

Pomfrey narrows her eyes at him, clearly still uneasy. "Absolutely not. You’ve just been hit with one of the Unforgivables. You’re still vulnerable, and in no condition to be leaving."

"Madam Pomfrey," Harry begins, trying to stay calm, "you heard Healer Fawcett. The residue will fade on its own, and as long as I don’t take any potions, I’ll be fine. There’s no point in me staying here."

Her arms cross, her gaze hardening. "Fine? Potter, you’re still trembling! I don’t care what Healer Fawcett says—your body isn’t fully recovered, so you’re not leaving this wing."

Harry feels a surge of impatience rising. “What am I supposed to do here? Sit and wait while nothing happens? I’d rather rest in my own bed, with my friends nearby. I’ll be careful, I promise."

"You’ve had a serious magical reaction," Pomfrey counters, her voice stern but laced with concern. "Your body could be at risk from any number of things—additional curses, infection—"

"Madam Pomfrey," Healer Fawcett interjects gently, "he really will be fine. The residue acts almost like a magical barrier around his nerves. As long as he avoids using magic for the next few days, there’s no immediate danger."

Pomfrey lets out a deep sigh, clearly torn. She looks at Harry again, seeing both the exhaustion and the determination in his eyes. "You’re still vulnerable, Potter. One wrong move—"

"I’ll take it easy," Harry insists, his voice softening, trying to appeal to her better judgment. "You’ve done all you can for me here. I promise, I’ll be careful."

There’s a long pause as Pomfrey weighs her decision. Her eyes dart to Fawcett, who gives a small nod of agreement, then back to Harry. Finally, she relents, though her voice is firm with warning. "Fine. You may go. But mark my words, Mr. Potter—if anything goes wrong, you come straight back here. I won’t hesitate to drag you back myself if I have to."

A small smile tugs at the corners of Harry’s lips. "Understood. Thank you."

As soon as he’s given permission, he stands and heads toward the door. His legs are still shaky beneath him, but his determination is stronger. The momentary relief he feels from being allowed to leave is mixed with simmering irritation as his thoughts turn back to Salazar.

How could Salazar not mention something as important as a magical residue blocking healing potions?

The frustration lingers as Harry leaves the hospital wing and makes his way toward the Slytherin common room. His body may feel heavy and worn, but his mind is racing. By the time he reaches the entrance, the irritation is practically buzzing under his skin.

Hissing the password in Parseltongue, "Open," the stone door slides aside, revealing the familiar cool, dim atmosphere of the common room. But as soon as he steps inside, the entire room falls silent.

Dozens of eyes turn toward him—some wide with concern, others curious, and a few utterly surprised to see him out of the hospital wing. Regulus, sitting by the fireplace, straightens up in his chair, his brows furrowed with a mixture of relief and worry.

Regulus is the first to break the silence. “Should you really be out of bed already?” he asks, rising from his seat and walking over to Harry, his expression a mix of worry and confusion. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”

Harry forces a smile. “I’m fine,” he says, though his voice betrays a hint of exhaustion.

Alvin, standing by the fireplace, crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “Please tell me you didn’t bring Pomfrey’s wrath down on us by escaping while her back was turned.”

Harry glares at him. “Do you really think that lowly of me?”

Alvin smirks, not entirely convinced. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to make a break for it.”

Shaking his head, Harry makes his way toward Salazar’s portrait, which hangs above the hearth. He looks up at the snake coiled in the painting, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Now, help me take this flubberworm to the Gryffindor common room.”

Salazar, currently in his snake form, hisses in indignation, though his voice holds an amused note. “Flubberworm, is it?” His forked tongue flicks out, tasting the air as he watches Harry.

Regulus frowns. “Why exactly do you want to move the painting of our house mascot to the lions’ den?”

Harry shrugs, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eye. “Revenge.”

Alvin arches an eyebrow. “So, this isn’t just about being petty?”

Harry grins, unable to hide it. “Oh, it’s definitely petty. But also deserved.”

Regulus steps closer, concern deepening in his gaze. “You’re still shaking, Harry,” he says quietly, his eyes tracing the slight tremor in Harry’s hands. “What’s going on?”

Harry exhales, pointing at Salazar. “His fault,” he says, his tone accusatory.

Salazar in his snake form hisses a denial, shifting his body. “I assure you, it is not my fault.”

Alvin glances between Harry and the portrait, clearly confused. “Are you seriously blaming a portrait of a snake right now?”

Harry rolls his eyes, his patience wearing thin. “Yes, Alvin. I am.” He turns back to Salazar, his irritation bubbling up again. “This stupid lizard forgot to mention a few side effects of the blood magic he taught me. Like the fact that the residue from the spell sticks around after you use it, and if you get hit with something like the Cruciatus curse right after, it acts like a shield. A shield that also happens to block healing potions from working until it fades.”

The whole common room gasps when Salazar turns back into his human form and crosses his arms, his expression almost casual. “I didn’t think I needed to,” he says calmly, but there's a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “It was common knowledge in my time. Anyone practicing blood magic back then would’ve known the risks.”

Harry blinks at him, momentarily speechless before his irritation bubbles over. “Common knowledge?” he repeats incredulously, his voice growing louder. “Salazar, get a reality check! That might’ve been true a thousand years ago when you were still alive, but this is the 20th century! Parselmagic and the kind of blood magic you taught me have been extinct for centuries.”

Salazar’s brows knit together as he processes Harry’s words. There’s a flicker of realization, and the defensive edge in his demeanor fades. “I… I hadn’t considered that,” he admits, his voice quieter now.

Harry shakes his head, his irritation still simmering beneath the surface. “Yeah, no kidding. Blood magic? It’s mostly forbidden now! Except for a few very controlled, rare cases. The kind you're teaching me isn’t even on the Ministry’s radar because it’s been extinct for so long. No one thought to outlaw magic that no one’s been able to use for centuries!”

Salazar's look is thoughtful as he runs a hand through his dark hair. “I see now. What was once so ingrained in our society has been forgotten.” He looks back at Harry with something akin to guilt in his eyes. “I should have been more thorough in teaching you.”

As if recognizing the magnitude of his error, Salazar appears to shrink in the portrait. “I truly hadn’t imagined this would be an issue,” he says, his tone filled with remorse. “In my time, these things were basic knowledge, taught alongside the fundamentals of magic. But you’re right... times have changed more than I expected.”

Harry crosses his arms, his annoyance still there but a little lessened. “Yeah, they have. And because of that ‘residue,’ Pomfrey’s potions won’t work. I can’t even take the standard after-effects potion for the Cruciatus Curse.”

Salazar’s expression softens further, his eyes showing something akin to regret. “I understand, Harry. I didn’t mean to cause you harm. If I overlooked something, it wasn't on purpose.”

Harry’s glare wavers, his emotions swirling between anger and gratitude. He wants to be angry with Salazar, but the portrait's sincere concern makes it difficult to maintain his anger. Still, he’s not ready to let it go. “Well, maybe staring at all that red and gold in the Gryffindor tower will help you remember if there’s anything else I should know about.”

Salazar raises an eyebrow, clearly not amused. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Harry crosses his arms, staring right back at him. “Try me.”

Regulus steps in then, laying a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Harry, calm down,” he says gently. “Salazar cares about you. You know that. You don’t need to drag him to the Gryffindor common room to make a point.”

Salazar nods, his tone sincere as he speaks. “Regulus is right. I do care about you, Harry. More than you know. But you also need to trust me. Although the blood magic is dangerous you've mastered it in ways I never would have thought possible. You will be fine—you just need to give yourself time to recover.”

Harry lets out a sigh as his rage gradually begins to subside. He rubs a hand over his face, suddenly feeling the weight of everything that’s happened. “Yeah, well, maybe mention these ‘side effects’ next time, will you? I’m tired of getting blindsided.”

Salazar offers him a small, almost fatherly smile. “Next time, I’ll be more thorough. You have my word.”

Harry nods, the tension between them easing. “You can stay here for now. I’ve got enough on my plate without adding Gryffindor revenge schemes.”

The room falls into an awkward silence before Alvin clears his throat. “So… no moving portraits to Gryffindor tower?”

Harry shakes his head and laughs quietly. "No. Not today.”

Salazar sighs quietly, almost in relief. “Thank Merlin for that.”

Chapter 45: About obscure magic – Part II

Harry drags his feet as he walks towards the fireplace. The weight of the day rests heavy on his shoulders. His body is still aching from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. He collapses into one of the sofas, sighing deeply and tired.

Regulus, sitting beside him, watches him carefully, concern flickering in his grey eyes. The room still holds an air of curiosity, but Alvin, who had been observing Harry with raised brows, finally breaks the silence.

"Did you really not run away from Pomfrey?" Alvin asks, half-joking, though his tone holds a note of disbelief.

Harry leans his head back, closing his eyes for a moment. "No, I didn’t run," he confirms, his voice quiet but firm. "I actually got permission to leave the hospital wing. Pomfrey didn't want to let me go at first, but Healer Fawcett... he convinced her."

At the mention of Fawcett’s name, Regulus’s eyes widen in surprise. "Fawcett?" he echoes, sitting up straighter. "Healer Fawcett from St. Mungo’s? The one who deals with obscure magic? He’s practically a legend. He’s like a curse-breaker, except he works for St. Mungo’s, not Gringotts. He’s famous for solving cases no one else can. He’s saved countless lives."

Harry merely hums in response, barely lifting his eyelids. He’s too tired to care about Fawcett’s reputation or to give Regulus the reaction he’s clearly expecting. His body is demanding rest, and his mind keeps circling back to his conversation with Salazar, the irritation bubbling up again.

Alvin steps into the awkward silence that follows. His voice is calm, but there’s a hint of curiosity and hesitation in his question. "So... Slytherin, if you don’t mind me asking. I’ve heard some... things. Specifically, about you refusing to teach Muggle-borns. Is it true?"

Harry’s eyes flicker open, the tension in the room shifting. Everyone’s gaze turns toward Salazar’s portrait, where the ancient wizard’s figure is resting comfortably, coiled as a snake. At Alvin’s question, Salazar’s eyes narrow slightly, but his tone remains even.

"I have already explained this to Harry," Salazar begins, his voice a slow, calm hiss. "And yes, it is true that I refused to teach them. But not for the reasons you may have heard." His eyes flick between Alvin and Harry before continuing. "It had nothing to do with blood. Muggle-borns, in my time, were illiterate. They knew nothing of the magical world and often lacked even the most basic understanding of proper behavior in polite society. I simply did not have the patience to teach everything from scratch."

Alvin's brows furrowslightly as he listens intently. "But you’re teaching Harry," he points out in a voice polite but curious tone.

Salazar’s gaze softens slightly, as if the answer is obvious. "That, young man, is a completely different matter. Harry is my descendant, my blood. He is family. Of course, I will teach him. Those children I refused were not of my blood, and it was not my responsibility to educate them on the most basic matters. That was the duty of their parents, relatives, or guardians."

Alvin nods with an expression of understanding. "I see," he says slowly. "So Harry, being your blood, is your responsibility."

Salazar’s form ripples as he straightens, a proud gleam in his eyes. "Precisely," he says. "Harry carries the legacy of my family, and as such, it is my duty to ensure he is properly educated. It is not a matter of obligation—it is a matter of honor."

Harry, who had been silently listening to the conversation, feels a mixture of emotions swirling within him. He understands Salazar’s reasoning, but the underlying sense of familial duty doesn’t sit entirely well with him. He doesn’t want to be treated differently simply because of his bloodline. But at the same time, there’s a strange comfort in knowing that Salazar feels responsible for him, even if his methods are... archaic.

Alvin glances at Harry, sensing the storm of emotions behind his quiet demeanor. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a shared understanding between them. Regulus, on the other hand, places a gentle hand on Harry’s arm, concern still etched into his features.

"You should rest," Regulus murmurs, his voice soft but insistent as his hand remains on Harry’s arm. "You’ve been through a lot, and you’re still shaking."

Harry grumbles, rubbing his temples as if that could erase the ache embedded deep within his bones. "Everything hurts," he mutters, his voice rough with exhaustion. "And no bloody pain potions work. Stupid Walburga for hitting me with that stupid Cruciatus... and stupid Salazar for not telling me about the stupid side effects of that stupid blood magic."

Alvin, who’s been sitting quietly across from them, leans forward and says under his breath, "At least Walburga’s going to Azkaban and won’t be coming back."

Harry lets out a tired hum of agreement before leaning against Regulus’ shoulder, closing his eyes and hoping the world would just disappear for a moment. His body feels like it’s caught in a vice, the weight of everything pressing him down.

The room falls quiet, save for the crackling of the fire, until Greengrass clears his throat, cutting through the silence with a voice full of confusion. "Wait, hold on. What do you mean Walburga—your mother—hit Potter with an Unforgivable?"

Harry, without opening his eyes, lets out a humorless chuckle. "Two, actually," he corrects, his words dripping with the same casualness as if he’s discussing the weather. "The Cruciatus and the Imperius. But the Imperius didn’t really matter. Doesn’t work on me anymore."

Regulus, who has been holding himself together with a fraying thread of composure, stiffens. "I’m probably going to regret asking," he begins, his voice taut, "but what do you mean the Imperius doesn’t work on you anymore?"

Harry shifts slightly but doesn’t open his eyes. His body is too worn out, too drained to care about anything beyond the warmth of Regulus’ shoulder and the weight of the conversation dragging him deeper into memories he’d rather forget. "Someone," Harry says, the word bitter, "thought it’d be funny to see how many times they could make me break my kneecap by making me jump onto a desk and back down onto the floor. Over and over."

The room goes deathly quiet. Even Alvin, usually quick with a quip, sits in stunned silence as Harry continues.

"I got fed up with that someone," Harry mutters, his voice tired and fraying at the edges, like he’s telling an old story that’s lost its sharpness over time but still holds the same sting.

Alvin asks, though his voice is quieter now, more serious than usual, "What about your family? Guardians? Whoever was supposed to look after you—where were they?"

Harry’s laugh is dark, empty, and he finally cracks his eyes open, meeting Alvin’s gaze with something colder, something sharper. "They didn’t give a fuck," he says simply, each word like a stone thrown into the silence.

The room holds its breath. Regulus visibly tenses beside him, his jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might shatter. Slowly, as if he’s trying to steady his fury, Regulus wraps his arm more securely around Harry, pulling him in closer. "The more I hear about your past," Regulus murmurs, his voice low and simmering with barely-contained rage, "the more people I want to take revenge on."

For a moment, Harry is quiet, the warmth of Regulus’ arm offering a comfort he’s never been used to. He lets out a small sigh, his head tipping back against the sofa. "That someone’s already dead," Harry says softly, a strange finality in his voice. There’s no satisfaction, no relief in the statement—just fact, as if that particular chapter of his life is closed but still weighs on him.

Regulus doesn’t reply, but his grip tightens just a fraction more. The fire crackles softly, casting flickering shadows across the room, and for a while, no one says anything. The air between them is heavy, thick with unspoken things, and Harry feels the weight of all of it pressing down on him. But for once, he doesn’t feel alone in it.

****

The next morning, Harry wakes to a strange sense of relief. The dull ache in his limbs, the fog that had clouded his mind since Walburga’s curse, feels lighter—like the residue is finally slipping away. He still feels sore, but the sharp pain he’d grown used to is fading, like a distant echo.

Regulus, ever vigilant, is at his side. He looks exhausted, dark circles under his eyes from staying up to keep an eye on Harry through the night, but he offers a tired smile. “You ready?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

Harry nods, his voice rough with sleep. "Yeah. I think the residue’s gone."

Together, they make their way to the hospital wing. The walk feels strangely lighter, though Harry’s body still feels like it’s dragging him down. He’s not sure if it’s the lack of pain or the fact that Regulus is there, steady as always.

Madam Pomfrey is waiting for them, and she wastes no time in ushering Harry to one of the beds, her stern expression softening slightly when she sees the way Harry’s moving more easily. "Let’s have a look, then."

After a thorough examination, she lets out a small sigh of relief and retrieves the potion. "It looks like the residue’s finally worn off," she confirms, handing Harry the vial. "Take this. It should help with the remaining pain."

Harry takes the potion without hesitation. The bitter taste coats his throat as he downs it in one go. The relief is almost instantaneous. He exhales, feeling like he can finally breathe properly again.

"Merlin, that’s better," he mutters, rubbing his temples as the last traces of pain dissipate. The relief is overwhelming, washing over him like a cool wave, and for the first time in days, he feels almost normal again.

Pomfrey gives him a small, approving nod. "Good. But don’t push yourself too hard. You’ve still got some recovering to do."

Harry smirks faintly. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

With that, they leave the hospital wing and make their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. It’s still early. Most students are still asleep, but a few are scattered at the tables, enjoying a quiet meal before the chaos of the day begins.

Harry and Regulus sit at the Slytherin table, the clatter of dishes and the occasional murmur of conversation filling the hall. Harry feels lighter than he has in days, his appetite returning as he grabs some toast and eggs.

A few minutes later, Alvin joins them, sliding into the seat across from Harry with a yawn. "Morning," he greets, his voice muffled as he reaches for some food.

"Morning," Harry replies, a slight smile on his lips. It feels good to be back to some sense of normalcy.

Just as they start eating, the owls swoop in, delivering the morning post and, of course, the Daily Prophet. Harry glances up as a grey owl drops the newspaper in front of him. Regulus snatches his copy, his brow furrowing as he scans the headlines.

Harry unrolls his own copy, and his eyes are immediately drawn to a bold headline splashed across the front page:

WALBURGA NO-LAST-NAME ARRESTED: CRUCIATUS USED ON HEIR BLACK’S FIANCÉ

"In a shocking turn of events, Walburga No-Last-Name, formerly of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, has been arrested after using the Cruciatus Curse on none other than the fiancé of Heir Black, Harry Potter. Sources confirm that Lord Arcturus Black, current head of the Black family, has disowned Walburga through magical means and severed all ties with her following the incident. This marks a dramatic fall from grace for one of the most powerful families in the Wizarding world. A trial is set for later this month, and the Wizengamot is expected to deliver a harsh verdict given the severity of her crimes and her use of an Unforgivable Curse."

Harry reads the words slowly, his mind processing the stark finality of it. Walburga, the woman who had caused him so much pain, was finally facing justice. There’s a strange sense of satisfaction in that, but also a heaviness—because even now, despite everything, it still feels surreal.

"Well, would you look at that," Regulus mutters, his eyes scanning the same article. "My grandfather didn’t bother to inform me that he disowned her. But whatever… serves her right." His voice is cold, detached, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes.

Before Harry can respond, another headline catches his attention:

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE ARRESTED: LEGILIMENCY USED ON UNDERAGE STUDENT

"In a stunning revelation, Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts has been arrested following accusations of using Legilimency on an underage student. The student, whose identity has not been disclosed for privacy reasons, was reportedly subjected to unauthorized mind reading. Ministry officials have declined to comment further, but sources indicate that Dumbledore will be facing trial in the coming weeks. This development raises serious concerns about the ethical use of magic in the educational system, and the wider implications for student safety at Hogwarts."

Chapter 46: The Ritual

The day has finally arrived.

After grueling days of relentless theory and intense lessons, the weight of what Harry is about to attempt hangs heavily in the chamber. The air beneath Hogwarts is thick, almost alive, with the remnants of ancient magic embedded in every stone. It presses down on him, making it feel like the very castle itself is watching, holding its breath.

Salazar Slytherin’s portrait stands at the edge of the ritual circle, his gaze sharp, scrutinizing Harry with a gravity that has been present in every lesson leading up to this moment. There’s an unspoken understanding between them that this ritual is more than simply another test. It's a turning point moment that might either end a sad chapter or unleash devastation that neither of them can completely anticipate.

Harry stands in the center of the intricately drawn ritual circle, its winding symbols etched with precision onto the cold stone floor. He's spent endless hours memorizing every detail, practising the precise pronunciations of Parseltongue, and preparing his body and mind for the weight of the magic he's about to unleash. His hands quiver slightly at his sides and his heart pounds loudly in his chest. But despite his fear there’s a determination in his eyes. This is the moment he’s been waiting for—the chance to return the fractured pieces of Voldemort’s soul.

Salazar’s voice breaks the heavy silence. “Are you ready?” The question hangs in the air, not as a challenge but as a final moment of clarity, a pause before plunging into the unknown.

Harry exhales slowly. He tries to steady himself, but there’s no stopping the knot of anxiety in his stomach. “I’m ready,” he replies with a voice firm, though the tension beneath his words is clear. His body feels taut, like a string pulled too tight, ready to snap under the pressure.

“Remember,” Salazar instructs, his tone measured, “this magic is dangerous because it demands complete control. Do not waver. No matter what you feel. If you stop, everything will be undone.”

Harry nods sharply, clenching his jaw. He’s gone over this ritual a thousand times in his mind. He knows the stakes, knows that any hesitation could unravel everything. But knowing it doesn’t make the fear any less suffocating. His fingers curl slightly, brushing against the cold floor as if grounding himself to the task at hand.

Salazar raises his hand, and the chamber hums with latent energy, the walls seemingly vibrating with anticipation. “Begin.”

Harry kneels in the center of the circle, shuts his eyes, takes a deep, deliberate breath, and starts speaking. His voice is soft at first, the Parseltongue words flow off his tongue like a whisper. With every word, the power begins to stir around him, reacting to his call. The circle under him lights slightly, as the symbols gradually come to life with a soft and green radiance.

The sensation is immediate: a burst of power flowing through his veins, unlike anything he's ever experienced before. It’s not like casting a spell with a wand, or even using wandless magic. This is different. This magic is alive, older than the castle itself, darker and more primal. It coils around him, waiting for him to take control. For a moment, it feels as though the magic is testing him, gauging his resolve.

As he speaks, the connection he has dreaded for so long—the one that links him to Voldemort—starts to hum to life. His scar, always a reminder of the dark tether between them, begins to throb faintly. At first, it’s manageable, just a dull ache, something he’s lived with for years. But as the incantation grows more complex, the pain intensifies.

Each word from his mouth seems to ignite a deeper, sharper pain in his scar, like a needle pressing deeper with every syllable. The throbbing sharpens, spreading across his forehead, creeping toward his temples. Harry grits his teeth against the pain, his voice growing louder, more urgent. He can’t stop now. He won’t. He’s too far in.

The glow around him intensifies, a sickly green light bathing the chamber as the symbols flare with energy. The air grows thick with magic, heavy and oppressive, as if the very fabric of reality is giving way beneath its weight. Harry feels the ground under him throbbing and pulsating with strength, as if it were alive.

Then the pain strikes him full force.

It’s as though his head is being split apart from the inside. His scar burns with a fury unlike anything he’s ever experienced, searing through his mind with blinding intensity. His vision blurs, black spots dancing at the edges of his sight, but he keeps going. He forces the words out, his voice hoarse but steady, even as every nerve in his body begs him to stop.

The circle surrounding him becomes brighter, almost too bright to endure. The runes seem to ripple, as if magic is about to break out, wild and uncontrollable. The air itself hums, vibrating with raw, untamed power.

Harry is so close—he can feel the end of the ritual drawing near. But with every word, the pain increases, roaring to life inside his skull, threatening to tear him apart. His breath comes in ragged gasps, each one a battle as his body teeters on the edge of collapse.

And then—finally—the last word leaves his lips.

The magic snaps into place with a violent surge, the light from the circle flaring one last time before everything goes still. For a moment, there is nothing but silence, a suffocating quiet that hangs over the chamber like a shroud. The air feels heavy and dense, as if time has slowed to a crawl.

And then the pain explodes.

It's as if lightning struck him, tearing through his body with unbelievable force. His scar burns so fiercely that Harry can’t even think, can’t breathe. He cries out, his hands flying to his head as he collapses to the ground, clutching at his skull as the agony rips through him, relentless and all-consuming. It feels like Voldemort is inside him, tearing at the very fabric of his being, trying to pull him apart from the inside.

The magic surges one final time, wild and untamable, before it finally begins to recede.

And as the darkness pulls him under, Harry feels something deep within him shatter. A weight falls away, leaving him lighter, freer, even as the cold embrace of unconsciousness claims him.

He falls into the void, the pain fading away, replaced by a weird, almost peaceful silence. And then—nothing.

***

Harry's eyelids flicker open, and the faint light of the chamber comes into focus. His body feels like it's been through a war, and his mind is heavy with a dull throb. The soreness wrapps over him like a heavy, smothering blanket, yet there's something more beneath it. A odd sensation of lightness, as if a heavy weight he hadn't realized he was carrying had been removed. He feels unburdened, nearly liberated in a sense he can't quite explain.

A groan escapes his lips as he pushes himself upright, every movement a reminder of the strain his body has endured. He winces as his stiff muscles protest, but he pushes through it.

“Harry,” a familiar voice calls out, sharp with concern. It’s Salazar, his voice unusually tight, laced with an urgency Harry isn’t used to hearing from him. “Come closer so I can see you.”

Harry blinks, his mind still foggy, disoriented by the ritual and the strange sense of lightness. His instincts tell him something is wrong—Salazar’s tone isn’t one of calm observation, but rather deep worry. He frowns, confusion swirling in his head. Why is Salazar so worried? Did something go wrong with the ritual?

Pushing himself to his feet, Harry stumbles slightly, his legs weak beneath him. The soreness radiates through his body, but he ignores it as he makes his way toward Salazar’s portrait. “Why are you so worried?” he asks, his voice coming out rough, raw from the strain of the incantations. His throat burns with the effort, but he forces the words out. "Did the ritual not work?"

Salazar's expression softens, but the stress in his eyes belies his apparent calmness. "No," he says softly. "The ritual worked." But there's something in his voice that sends shivers down Harry's spine, a hesitancy that causes his heart to race. “But I need to see your scar. Come closer.”

Harry’s heart skips a beat, panic prickling at the edges of his mind. His scar? Why? His mind races with possibilities, each one worse than the last. Did something happen to the scar during the ritual? Is it still linked to Voldemort? The anxiety coils tight in his chest, and he quickly steps closer to the portrait, lifting a hand to brush his hair away from his forehead. His fingers pause mid-movement as he feels something wet and warm against his skin.

As he pulls his hand back and looks at the crimson stains on his fingers, he feels a flash of alarm. His scar has bled before, he reminded himself, attempting to control the panic that tries to rise. This isn’t new. But why does it feel different?

Salazar’s eyes narrow, and his expression grows even more strained as he takes in the sight of the blood. “Did you ever feel pain when you were near Tom Riddle?” he asks, his voice low and tight with a dark undertone Harry doesn’t like. “Did you feel any kind of connection to him?”

Harry’s stomach twists into knots as the memories flood back—the burning agony in his scar whenever Voldemort was near, the way it felt like his very soul was being tugged toward the Dark Lord. He nods slowly, his throat tightening as he recalls the moments of searing pain that felt like a beacon between them. “Yeah,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I felt it. Every time.”

Salazar’s jaw tightens, and a string of Parseltongue curses slips from his lips, too quiet and rapid for Harry to catch. The raw frustration and alarm in his voice make Harry’s blood run cold. “What’s wrong?” Harry asks again, his voice rising with the growing panic clawing at his insides. His heart races faster, each beat thudding loudly in his ears. “Salazar, what’s wrong?”

The silence that follows is agonizing. Salazar’s lips press into a thin line. For several long, tense moments he says nothing.

Harry’s chest tightens. Dread creeps into every corner of his mind.

Finally, Salazar speaks with a low yet steady voice. “I need you to use the Parselmagic spell I taught you to detect dark magic. Aim it at your scar.”

Harry’s mouth goes dry. He swallows hard, the knot in his throat growing tighter, but he nods. His mind races as he tries to push the rising tide of fear aside, focusing on the task at hand. He closes his eyes, muttering the familiar incantation under his breath, feeling the familiar, ancient magic ripple through him. It flows to his fingertips, coiling around them before surging toward his scar in a soft, glowing light.

The light washes over him, and Harry holds his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He waits, the seconds stretching into eternity as the spell scans for any trace of darkness. When the light finally fades, it leaves nothing behind. No dark magic. No lingering curse. Just…nothing.

Salazar’s shoulders visibly relax, and he lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding. "It's alright," he says, his voice filled with relief. "It's gone."

Harry's mind races as he tries to make sense of those words. Gone? What's gone? His heart beats faster, his pulse pounding in his ears. "What do you mean, 'gone'? What was there? What was inside me?" he asks, his voice cracking.

Salazar’s face darkens, his eyes clouded with something close to regret. He pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts before speaking. “After you fainted during the ritual,” he begins carefully, “something left your scar. Something dark. It appears…that Riddle turned you into a Horcrux, Harry.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. Harry feels the blood drain from his face, his legs weakening beneath him as his world tilts on its axis. A Horcrux. Him? “What?” he breathes, his voice barely more than a choked whisper. “How? Why—why didn’t I know?”

“Dark magic like that is insidious,” Salazar explains, his voice gentle but firm. “It buries itself deep within, so well hidden that not even you could have felt its presence. Riddle must have done it when he gave you that scar.”

Harry’s chest tightens with panic. A Horcrux? He’s been carrying a piece of Voldemort’s soul inside him all this time? His breathing quickens, his hands shaking as he stumbles back a step. “I… I had no idea,” he stammers, his mind spinning. “I didn’t—”

“Calm down,” Salazar interrupts, his tone commanding but not unkind. “It’s gone, Harry. The ritual worked. You’re not a Horcrux anymore. You’re free.”

Free. The word barely registers because his mind is too preoccupied with terror and confusion to fully comprehend its meaning. He takes a shaky breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. It’s over. He’s no longer tied to Voldemort. The bond—the dark tether that connected them—is gone.

The terror gradually subsides, giving way to cautious relief. "So…it's really over?" he says, still in disbelief.

Salazar nods firmly. “Yes, it’s over. You’re free now, Harry.”

Chapter 47: Triple Date

Harry doesn't know how it happened. One minute he’s brushing off the idea, and the next, he’s seated in the soft grass with a picnic spread laid out before him near the Shrieking Shack, surrounded by his friends. Somehow, he let them talk him into this—James, Lily, Alvin, and Jessica. But the real shock is sitting beside him. Regulus Black. His date.

It’s been a couple of weeks since the ritual, since the night Voldemort’s fragmented soul was made whole again, and since then, everything has been eerily quiet. Too quiet. No Death Eater attacks, no shadowy reports in the Daily Prophet, nothing. It's unsettling, this silence, like the calm before a storm. If Dumbledore weren’t sitting in a Ministry holding cell awaiting trial, Harry might have sent him a note, informing him that Voldemort was mortal once more—at least, he hopes he is still mortal. Harry’s biggest fear is that the dark wizard has made new Horcruxes.

But his friends are here now, drawing him out of those dark thoughts, reminding him there’s still a life to be lived beyond the looming threat of Voldemort. James, sitting a few feet away with Lily, looks both ridiculous and endearing as he tries too hard to impress her with stories of Quidditch moves. His hand gestures are over-the-top, causing Lily to giggle at him, though the fondness in her eyes softens every tease. Alvin, meanwhile, is trying to show off some strange card trick to Jessica, who watches with polite curiosity, her eyes occasionally wandering to the scenery.

And Regulus—Harry’s mind still stumbles over the fact that Regulus Black is sitting right next to him. His stomach flutters when their elbows brush.

James doesn't even get along with Alvin or Regulus. It feels like a small miracle that they’re not at each other’s throats. James shoots Regulus a skeptical look now and then, like he’s still trying to figure out how this all happened—how Harry ended up engaged with Sirius’s estranged brother. But it seems James is on his best behavior, probably for Lily’s sake.

"So," Regulus says, breaking Harry’s train of thought. His voice is smooth, but there’s a quiet uncertainty in his tone that Harry catches. "Enjoying the picnic?"

Harry’s head jerks up, and he finds Regulus’s grey eyes watching him with curiosity. There’s something softer there, something Harry hadn’t noticed before. He nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. It’s... nice. I wasn’t sure how today was going to turn out, but it’s been good so far."

Regulus glances down at the blanket between them, tracing a finger absently over the checkered pattern. "I didn’t think you’d agree to this," he admits, his voice low.

Harry shrugs, feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun on his face. "Neither did I," he replies honestly. He can’t deny the strange but pleasant feeling of sitting with Regulus like this—so different from the tension that always lingers when they cross paths in the halls of Hogwarts.

A comfortable silence falls between them, punctuated by James’s loud commentary on why Alvin’s card trick isn’t working. Harry glances over at the others. James is rolling his eyes, his frustration at Alvin barely masked, but Lily’s soft laughter keeps the peace. Jessica reaches out to brush a stray leaf from Alvin’s hair, her smile light. It all feels normal, almost like a proper double—or, well, triple—date, even though the dynamics are strange.

Regulus clears his throat. "You’re not... regretting this, are you?" His voice is quieter now, almost hesitant, like he’s asking more than just about today.

Harry turns to face him, catching the flash of vulnerability in Regulus’s expression. It’s a rare look, one that’s far from the cold, detached persona he puts on for most people. Harry shakes his head, his gaze softening. "No," he says. "I’m not. It’s kind of... nice."

Regulus’s lips curve into a small, almost shy smile, and for a moment, the world outside their little group fades away. Harry’s dark thoughts of Voldemort, Horcruxes, and the war that looms just over the horizon disappear. He’s here now, in this strange yet oddly peaceful moment, and for the first time in weeks, he allows himself to relax, even if only for a little while.

"You?" Harry asks, a teasing edge slipping into his voice as he nudges Regulus with his elbow. "Not regretting your engagement with the halfblood bastard are you?"

Regulus rolls his eyes, but there’s a warmth to the gesture, a lightness in his response that Harry hadn’t expected. "Oh, absolutely. It’s dreadful. This picnick is lacking so much etiquette I don’t know how I’m going to survive," he deadpans, though the twitch of his lips betrays his amusement.

Harry chuckles, the sound surprising even him. "Well, good to know. I’ll try to be less insufferable."

"I wouldn’t count on it," Regulus teases back, and Harry feels the strange tension between them start to ease. For the first time, he feels like he’s truly getting to know the real Regulus—the one who’s not shrouded in the shadow of his family name or the war they both stand on opposite sides of.

Harry's laughter fades as the warm, easy exchange between him and Regulus is suddenly interrupted. A shadow falls over their picnic spot, and Harry turns his head to see a man approaching—mid to early twenties, impeccably dressed, with sharp, striking features. He’s almost alarmingly handsome, though Harry catches himself thinking that Regulus is still better-looking.

“Excuse me,” the man says in a smooth voice, his eyes locking onto Harry with an odd intensity. “Could I have a word with you, Mr. Potter?”

The request is strange. Why would someone, especially a stranger, want to talk to him? Something about the man seems oddly familiar, but Harry can’t place him, and the way the man just stands there, not introducing himself, sets Harry on edge.

"Hello," Lily greets the man politely, her tone friendly yet cautious. Alvin nods curtly, and even Regulus gives the man a guarded glance. Jessica, seated near Alvin, offers a tentative smile, though her eyes dart to Harry for reassurance.

But Harry’s too busy staring at the man, his mind whirring as he tries to recall where he’s seen him before. There's something unsettling about the way the stranger shifts his gaze from Harry to Lily, his expression bordering on interest before quickly flicking to Alvin with a barely perceptible frown. That frown disappears almost as quickly as it came, replaced by a carefully neutral expression.

It doesn't feel like the man is hostile, not overtly. But Harry’s gut tells him something is off. A sense of danger prickles the back of his mind. His instincts, sharpened over years of dealing with dark wizards and deadly encounters, scream at him not to let his guard down.

Then it hits him like a bolt of lightning—he knows this man. The realization is sudden, bone-deep, and chilling.

“Voldemort!” Harry blurts, jumping to his feet in a single, swift movement, wand drawn and aimed directly at the stranger. His heart races as he positions himself between his friends and the man, his eyes blazing with both recognition and fury.

The reaction is immediate. The others freeze. Their confusion quickly turns into fear. Lily gasps, grasping James' arm, while Alvin and Jessica look close to fainting. Regulus, on the other hand, maintains a firm grasp on his wand, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Harry, what—?" James starts, his voice edged with panic.

Voldemort raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, palms empty. "I don’t mean any harm," he says calmly, his voice measured. "I only want to talk."

“Talk?” Harry repeats incredulously, his wand hand trembling ever so slightly, though he refuses to lower it. His mind races, trying to make sense of this. Why is Voldemort, of all people, standing here in broad daylight, in the middle of Hogsmeade, asking for a friendly chat? “You’re a murderer, a manipulator—you expect me to believe you?”

The man meets Harry’s eyes, and for a moment, something shifts in his expression, something almost… regretful? “My name,” he says carefully, “is Tom Marvolo Riddle. Not Voldemort. Not anymore. You can call me Mr. Riddle, or Tom, if you must. But I’m not that man, not any longer.”

Harry’s head spins at the absurdity of it all. Not Voldemort anymore? How could someone just stop being Voldemort? And why would he think Harry would ever call him Tom, like they’re old friends or something?

Harry’s mind is racing when Tom continues, “I know you have no reason to trust me. I understand. But I swear to you, I’m here for a conversation, not a confrontation.”

Before Harry can argue, Tom raises his hand again, his eyes locking with Harry’s. “I’ll prove it.” He takes a deep breath and speaks with a quiet intensity. “I swear, on my magic, that I will not attack you, your friends, or your family today. I will not harm any of you unless you attack me first.”

A shiver runs through Harry as he feels the magic of the vow settle in the air, binding Tom to his words. The weight of the vow presses against him, and Harry knows, deep down, that such an oath is not something to be taken lightly. It’s a serious commitment in the wizarding world—a promise that will take Tom’s magic should be break it.

Still, Harry’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why should I even consider talking to you?”

Tom’s expression softens, though his eyes still carry that intense focus. “Because,” he says slowly, deliberately, “it’s about something that belongs to me. Something you’ve watched over for fifteen years and returned to me recently.”

A cold realization sweeps through Harry, leaving him breathless. “The Horcrux…” he whispers, his mind snapping back to the ritual he performed weeks ago—the one that returned Voldemort’s soul to its whole form. That’s what Tom wants to talk about.

The silence between them stretches, thick with tension. Harry’s friends are still frozen in place, unsure of what to do, their gazes darting between Harry and Tom. Regulus inches closer to Harry, wand in hand, clearly ready to fight if need be. But Harry knows that this isn’t something that can be settled by a duel.

With a sharp exhale, Harry lowers his wand slightly—slightly—but he doesn’t relax his stance. “Fine,” he says warily, his voice cold. “But if you try anything—”

“I won’t,” Tom cuts in, his tone almost… pleading. “I just need to talk.”

The others watch in tense silence as Tom steps closer, still keeping his hands visible, still careful not to make any sudden movements.

Harry feels an uneasy knot tighten in his stomach as he walks alongside Tom Riddle, his friends watching nervously from a distance. The hills surrounding the Shrieking Shack seem quieter than usual, the wind brushing through the grass in soft, irregular patterns. Every step he takes feels weighted, as though the tension between him and Tom is thicker than the very air around them. His hand still hovers near his wand, ready for anything. Why did I agree to this?

They stop when they are far enough from his friends to not be overheard. Tom pauses and turns to Harry with a calm, calculated gaze that does not fit the monster Harry once knew. The familiar coldness in his eyes is gone, replaced with something Harry cannot quite understand.

"Thank you," Tom says, his voice subdued but sincere.  “For performing the ritual. For making my soul whole again.”

Harry blinks, caught off guard. Of all the things Tom could have said, this was not what he expected. “You’re… thanking me?” he asks, his voice thick with disbelief. “Shouldn’t you be angry that I took your immortality away?”

Tom’s lips quirk into a small smile, but there’s no malice in it, no hint of the sinister Voldemort Harry has come to know. “No,” Tom answers simply. “I can finally think clearly again, for the first time in… decades. Your actions prevented me from making some terrible mistakes. Or rather, from continuing down a path filled with them.”

Harry feels a chill settle over him. Something about Tom’s words—about the calmness with which he speaks—feels deeply unsettling. “What are you talking about?” Harry asks, his brow furrowing. “How could you know what mistakes you would have made?”

Tom glances away for a minute, his gaze shifting to the horizon. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more introspective. “When my Horcrux returned to me, I gained more than just the fragment of my soul back. I… I saw things, Harry. I experienced things. My time as a part of you—your memories, your emotions—some of it merged with me.”

Harry’s blood runs cold as he realizes what Tom is implying. “You… you have my memories?” he breathes, feeling a wave of dread wash over him.

Tom nods slowly. “Yes. Not all of them, but enough. Enough to know what kind of person I became. Enough to see the destruction I would have wrought, the pain I caused.”

Harry’s heart pounds in his chest. This—this is something beyond anything he had anticipated. His mind races as he processes the fact that Tom, formerly Voldemort, has seen through his eyes, felt what he felt. How much does he know?

Tom continues, his voice now tinged with something almost resembling regret. “The Horcrux I created in you… it didn’t remain untouched. You changed it, Harry. In those years it lingered within you, it was influenced by your thoughts, your feelings. And when it returned to me, it brought those changes back with it.”

Harry stares at Tom, utterly at a loss for words. He doesn’t know what to think, what to feel. Is this really happening? Could Voldemort—the man who had caused so much death, so much suffering—really have been changed by something as simple as Harry’s humanity? The idea seems impossible, yet here Tom is, standing before him, calm and rational, and so different from the monster he once was.

“So what… what does that mean?” Harry asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tom’s gaze softens, and for a brief moment, he almost looks… vulnerable. “It means I no longer see the world the way I once did. My goals remain the same—to bring about a new era for our world—but I intend to reach them through different means. The ritual you performed gave me a second chance, and I plan to take it.”

Chapter 48: An unpredictable turn of events

Harry's doubts resurface. “Different means? What are you talking about?”

“I’m going to pursue my goals through politics,” Tom replies, the hint of a smile returning to his lips. “Legitimate power, Harry. Influence gained through the Ministry, through alliances and diplomacy—not through fear and death.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, still not sure whether to believe him. Tom—Voldemort—becoming a politician? It sounds absurd. And yet, everything about Tom seems so different now. He’s not the same cold-blooded killer Harry remembers.

“Which brings me to another matter,” Tom continues, his tone now shifting to something more formal. “I’ve reclaimed my titles—Lord Slytherin, Lord Gaunt, and Lord Peverell.As a member of these ancient houses, I was expected to name an heir.

The words hang in the air, and Harry feels a sinking sensation in his stomach. "An heir?" he repeats, his voice wavering.

Tom nods, his face serious. “Yes. And since it’s unlikely that I will ever have children of my own… I’ve chosen you.”

Harry feels the ground tilt beneath him as the shock crashes over him like a tidal wave. “You… what?” he stammers, his mind reeling. “I’m… your heir? How could you—why would you even—”

“It’s already done,” Tom says, his voice matter-of-fact, though not unkind. “I’ve officially named you as my heir, Harry. You now hold a stake in the future of three of the most powerful bloodlines in wizarding history. It’s a responsibility, but I believe you are more than capable.”

Harry can’t breathe for a moment, the enormity of it all hitting him like a ton of bricks. An heir? To Voldemort? To Slytherin, Gaunt, and Peverell? The idea is ludicrous. Insane. He never asked for any of this. Why is Tom doing this?

His voice trembles as he speaks. “I… I don’t want to be your heir. I never asked for this.”

Tom studies him for a moment, his gaze unreadable. “I understand,” he says softly. “But this is about more than just you, Harry. It is about what is best for our world's future. You and I—whether we like it or not—are tied together. And you, more than anyone else, are the person I trust to shape that future.”

Harry shakes his head, feeling overwhelmed and unsure of how to react. There’s a part of him that wants to refuse, to tell Tom to take his titles and shove them. But another part of him—the part that’s always cared about the greater good, about ensuring that the right choices are made—wonders if maybe, just maybe, this could be an opportunity. A chance to shape the future in a way that ensures there won’t be another Voldemort, another war.

Harry’s eyes narrow, his heart pounding in his chest. This entire situation feels surreal, like a dream, or more accurately, a nightmare he’s about to wake from. Yet here he is, standing face-to-face with Tom Riddle—Voldemort—and being asked to trust him. After everything. After all the pain, the suffering, the losses. How could he possibly trust him?

“I can’t,” Harry finally says, his voice quiet but firm. “I can’t trust you. Not after everything you’ve done.”

Tom doesn’t react with anger or indignation like Harry half expects him to. Instead, he regards Harry with an almost patient expression, as if he anticipated this response. “I understand,” he replies calmly. “I didn’t expect you to trust me, Harry. But perhaps we can find a solution.”

Harry folds his arms across his chest, the tension still heavy in the air. “There’s only one way I might even begin to believe you,” he says, his mind racing with the enormity of what he’s about to propose. “You’ll have to make an Unbreakable Vow.”

Tom’s eyebrows raise slightly, but there’s no visible anger or reluctance in his face. “Very well,” he says, his tone measured. “What are the terms of this vow?”

Harry takes a deep breath, laying out the conditions carefully, the weight of each word pressing down on him. “You will never harm any sentient being again, unless it’s in self-defense or in defense of others. You won’t order harm or hint at it to anyone who might misunderstand it as an order. Even in self-defense, you’ll use reasonable means. You will never—ever—make another Horcrux. You will dissolve the Death Eaters. You’ll send those who can’t be trusted to Azkaban and let anyone who doesn’t want to work for you anymore go—without revenge. You’ll remove their Mark and just… let them go.”

For a long moment, Tom stares at Harry in silence, his sharp eyes searching Harry’s face. The gravity of the vow weighs heavily between them, like a tangible thing. Harry can feel his heart hammering in his chest, uncertainty gnawing at him. Is this too much to ask? Does he even want to trust Tom, knowing what he’s capable of?

Tom finally lets out a soft sigh, a weary sound that surprises Harry. “That’s a rather tight vow,” he says, though not with irritation. It’s more a statement of fact. “It won’t be easy to keep.”

“I know,” Harry replies, his voice steadier than he feels. “But if you’re serious about changing—about going a different route—then you should have no problem with it.”

Tom looks at Harry for a long time, something unspoken passing between them. Then, without further argument, he nods. “Alright. I agree.”

Relief mingled with disbelief rushes through Harry. He hadn’t expected it to be this simple. Now, all that remains is to seal the vow. Harry turns toward where his friends are gathered, catching Regulus’s eye.

“Regulus!” Harry calls, waving him over. His voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of tension he can’t quite suppress.

Regulus, who had been watching the exchange from a distance with wide, curious eyes, looks startled but makes his way over. His usual composed demeanor falters slightly, and Harry notices the faint pallor to his face.

“What… what’s going on?” Regulus asks, his voice quiet but tense as he glances between Harry and Tom.

“We need you to be the binder for an Unbreakable Vow,” Harry explains, keeping his tone as calm as he can. “It’s the only way I’ll even consider trusting Tom.”

Regulus swallows, clearly uncertain, but nods. His eyes flick to Tom, who watches him with a neutral, almost expectant expression. There’s no hostility between them, but the weight of the situation isn’t lost on any of them.

“Alright,” Regulus agrees, his voice wavering only slightly. “What are the terms?”

Harry quickly repeats the vow, and Regulus listens intently, his eyes widening slightly at the enormity of it. When Harry finishes, Regulus hesitates, then raises his wand. “I… I suppose we’ll begin?”

Tom nods and extends his hand toward Harry. The two of them clasp hands, and Harry feels a strange sense of finality as Regulus points his wand toward them, his voice steady as he begins to speak the incantation.

As Regulus utters the binding words, a thin ribbon of fire springs from the tip of his wand, wrapping around Harry and Tom’s joined hands. The flames are bright and hot but do not burn. Instead, they pulse gently, growing brighter with each promise sealed.

“Will you, Tom Riddle, swear never to harm any sentient being unless in self-defense or defense of others, and even then, to use reasonable means?” Regulus asks.

“I will,” Tom answers, his voice solemn.

The ribbon tightens, glowing more brightly.

“Will you swear never to create another Horcrux, nor seek immortality through similar means?”

“I will,” Tom says, the words slipping out almost too easily, but Harry can feel the weight of them.

Another pulse of the ribbon, binding tighter.

“Will you dissolve the Death Eaters, sending those unfit for society to Azkaban, and release those who wish to leave without revenge, removing their Mark?”

“I will,” Tom says once more, his voice firm.

The final pulse of the ribbon is so bright that Harry momentarily has to close his eyes. When he opens them again, the flame has vanished, leaving only the cool sensation of Tom’s hand in his.

The vow is done.

Harry lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his heart still pounding. Tom releases his hand and steps back, his expression unreadable.

“There,” Tom says, his tone calm. “The vow is made. I am bound to it.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. A part of him feels relieved, but another part is still wary, still unwilling to fully believe that this could be real. Before he can gather his thoughts, Tom reaches into his pocket and pulls out three rings, each intricately designed with the crests of the Slytherin, Gaunt, and Peverell families.

“These,” Tom says, handing them to Harry, “are the heir rings. As my heir, they belong to you now.”

Harry hesitates, staring at the rings in his hand. They feel heavy, as though the weight of their history is pressing down on him. He glances at Regulus, who is staring at the rings with wide eyes, his expression one of shock and disbelief.

“You… you can’t be serious,” Regulus mutters, his voice barely audible. “Those are the most powerful bloodlines in our world…”

Tom’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “I am quite serious.”

Harry swallows, unsure of what to do, but Tom gestures for him to put them on. “Go ahead,” he says. “They will merge once they’re on your finger and bear the crests of all three families. They’ll un-merge when you take them off.”

With a sense of trepidation, Harry slips the rings onto his finger. The moment they settle in place, the metal warms against his skin, and before his eyes, the three rings begin to shift and meld together, forming a single, ornate band. The crests of Slytherin, Gaunt, and Peverell shimmer faintly along the surface.

Harry stares at it, a mix of awe and disbelief coursing through him. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”

Tom watches him carefully. “You don’t have to say anything. Just remember the responsibility you carry now.”

The realization hits Harry like a bolt of lightning, leaving him momentarily frozen. He’s going to have to explain this—to the Potters. Not just to James, but to Fleamont, Euphemia, Charlus, and Dorea as well. His head spins at the thought, and an anxious pit settles deep in his stomach.

“My family…” Harry mutters under his breath, dread pooling in his chest. “They’re not going to be pleased about this…”

Regulus, who seems equally unsettled by what just transpired, glances at Harry, his brows knitting together. “You’re telling them?”

Harry lets out a shaky breath. “I have to. They’ll find out anyway… better if it comes from me.”

The two of them exchange a look of shared understanding, the enormity of it all weighing heavily on both of their shoulders. With a nod, Harry and Regulus make their way back to the others.

As they approach, Harry can already feel the stares. It’s like walking into a room where everyone knows something has shifted but can’t quite grasp what. Alvin is the first to react, his eyes immediately locking onto the heir ring now adorning Harry’s finger. His expression morphs through several stages—shock, wonder, disbelief, and outright astonishment—until it finally settles on something akin to reverence.

“Harry…” Alvin begins, his voice trailing off as his gaze stays fixed on the ring. “What—what just happened?”

Regulus, still visibly pale but regaining some of his composure, glances at Harry, silently asking if he should explain. But Harry, feeling like he’s been thrown into a whirlwind, takes a breath and looks at Alvin. “Your brother’s safe now,” Harry says, his voice gentle, though still tinged with the surreal. “Tom— Voldy —he’s not going to harm him. You should probably write to him, let him know.”

Alvin blinks, as if trying to comprehend everything, then nods slowly, though his eyes never leave the ring on Harry’s finger. “I don’t even… how did this happen?”

Before Harry can respond, James steps forward, eyeing him with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “Harry,” he says, shaking his head with a grin, “I want to be there when you explain this to the rest of the family. Just to see their faces when you tell them you’re now Voldy’s heir.”

“Technically,” Harry begins, feeling like this entire conversation is too absurd to be real, “I’ve always been the next in line. Unless Voldy has kids of his own or names someone else. I just never… announced it. For obvious reasons.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, still trying to process everything himself. “I can’t believe what just happened. Voldy must be—”

“Insane?” James supplies with a laugh.

Before Harry can agree, a voice behind them interjects, smooth and oddly calm. “Very much sane, thank you,” Tom says, making Harry and the others jump. Tom steps closer, though still maintaining a respectful distance. “And please, Harry, don’t call me ‘Voldy.’ It sounds absolutely ridiculous.”

The absurdity of the situation nearly makes Harry laugh. Without thinking, he blurts out, “I’m going to keep calling you Voldy. Unless you take your place in the as Wizengamot Lord Slytherin Gaunt Peverell in the next meeting. Then I might reconsider.”

James snorts at that, clearly entertained by the idea. “Wait, wait. You’re telling me that Voldy is going to sit in at the Wizengamot? During Dumbledore’s trial?” He’s barely containing his laughter, clearly loving the thought. “Harry, aren’t you supposed to be a witness against Dumbledore?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, crossing his arms and grinning a little despite the madness of it all. “I’m supposed to testify. But just imagine the look on the old coot’s face when he sees Vold—Tom there.”

Tom raises an eyebrow at Harry’s correction but seems amused by the suggestion. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I suppose I could consider making an appearance. It might be… enlightening.”

Harry can’t help but snicker at the image, his earlier dread slowly fading as the ridiculousness of the situation takes over. Tom Riddle—Voldemort—attending a Wizengamot meeting in full Lord Slytherin Gaunt Peverell regalia, attending Dumbledore’s trial with a calm, dignified expression. It’s almost too much to handle.

“Yeah,” Harry says, his tone playful. “Do that. Dumbledore’s face alone will be worth it.”

With an amused smile, Tom inclines his head slightly. “We’ll see what I can do.”

Then, as if satisfied with the encounter, Tom turns and begins to walk away, leaving Harry and his friends to process everything that just happened. The moment he’s out of earshot, Harry feels the weight of reality crashing back down on him. He turns to Regulus, his voice filled with disbelief. “Pinch me.”

Regulus stares at him for a second, confusion and amusement warring on his face. “What?”

“Pinch me,” Harry insists, his eyes wide. “I need to know I’m not dreaming. This—this can’t be real.”

Regulus raises an eyebrow but reaches out and gives Harry a quick pinch on the arm. Harry winces.

“Yup,” Regulus says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Not a dream.”

Harry groans, running a hand through his hair. “Great. So this is real. I’m Voldy’s heir, I’ve somehow convinced him to make an Unbreakable Vow, and I’ve got to tell the Potters about all of this.”

James claps a hand on Harry’s back, grinning widely. “Oh mate, this is going to be hilarious when you tell the family. I can’t wait to see their faces.”

Harry shoots him a withering look, though there’s a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “Thanks, James. I really appreciate the moral support.”

James just chuckles, and the group starts making their way back to the picnic blanket, Harry’s mind still spinning from everything that just transpired. However, as the strange tension between him and Tom fades, Harry begins to realize something else.

Despite everything—despite the chaos of the situation, the strange conversations, and the fact that he now possesses the heir ring of three powerful families—it feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Tom is no longer the same. Harry doesn't fully trust him, even with the vow. But maybe it's a start for something better.

Chapter 49: Letters – Part I

That evening, Harry sits at his desk in the Slytherin dormitory, staring at the nearly blank parchment in front of him. A single line of neat handwriting reads: Dear father, Dorea, uncle Fleamont and aunt Euphemia, and beneath it, the page remains ominously empty. He sighs, running a hand through his messy hair, feeling the weight of what he’s about to confess to his family pressing heavily on his chest.

On the bed next to him, Alvin finishes folding his own letter, a pleased smile on his face. He’s just penned a message to his brother, informing him that he’s safe now and requesting permission to court Jessica Sterling. Alvin’s energy is almost annoyingly light, as if he’s just crossed the biggest hurdle of his life. Harry, meanwhile, feels like he’s trying to explain why he thought having tea with a dragon was a good idea.

Harry groans softly and glances at Regulus, who sits in a nearby chair, cool and collected as always. "Regulus," Harry begins, desperation clear in his voice. "How in Merlin’s name do you tell your family that you made Voldy sane again, and now he wants to take the political route and named you his heir? Which you accepted in return for him making an Unbreakable Vow not to harm anyone? And that I may or may not have dared him to take his seats at the Wizengamot and attend Dumbledore’s trial… just because I want to see the look on Dumbledore’s face?"

Regulus raises an eyebrow, lips twitching as though he’s suppressing a smile. Before he can respond, Alvin chimes in from his bed. "Yeah, when you word it like that, it does sound bad."

Harry scowls, kicking Alvin’s bed with his foot. "That’s why I asked for help making it sound better."

Regulus leans forward, a thoughtful look on his face. "You might want to… ease them into it. Start with the positive, then carefully get into the, well, heir business. That’s not something you just drop on them."

"Positive," Harry mutters, tapping his quill against the desk. "Like… ‘Hey, good news, I fixed Voldy’?"

"Not quite," Regulus says, shaking his head with a smirk. "Try something like, ‘I have important news regarding the dark Lord’s current state, and I believe it’s for the better. He is no longer the man you knew.’"

"That sounds better." Harry jots down the first line and reads aloud: "I have important news regarding Voldemort's current state, and I believe it's for the better. He is no longer the man you knew." He pauses. "Now what?"

Regulus tilts his head, thinking. "Next, explain the Unbreakable Vow. You know, before you drop the heir bit. Lead with the fact that he can’t hurt anyone anymore."

"Right," Harry nods, scribbling furiously.

Thanks to certain circumstances, I was able to have a conversation with him—don't worry, it wasn’t under duress—and I managed to convince him to make an Unbreakable Vow never to harm anyone again unless it’s in self-defense or to protect someone else. He’s also agreed to dissolve the Death Eaters and never make another Horcrux.

Alvin makes a face. "Isn’t that too straightforward? I mean, they might still think you’re crazy."

"I am crazy," Harry mutters. "They know that. By now. Hopefully."

"But you're alive," Regulus points out. "That’s what they’ll care about most. They’ll be worried, sure, but as long as you stress that he can’t do any damage now, they'll understand."

"Okay." Harry reads over his work again. "Now… the heir part."

Regulus’ mouth twists into a wry smile. "You’re on your own with that one."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Very helpful."

Alvin shrugs, grinning. "Maybe tell them you’re still processing it, which you are. Say something like, ‘In an unexpected turn of events, Voldemort—sorry, Tom Riddle—has named me his heir. It was a strategic decision on his part, one I didn’t expect, but it’s tied to his new political aspirations. I haven’t accepted it in the way you might think.’ That sounds… diplomatic."

Harry raises an eyebrow at Alvin, impressed. "You’re shockingly good at this."

"Well," Alvin leans back, hands behind his head, "I’m not the one telling my family I’m the heir to Lord Voldemort, so it's easier for me."

Harry snorts, but writes down Alvin’s suggestion anyway.

In an unexpected turn of events, Tom Riddle—Voldy’s real name—has named me his heir. It was a strategic decision on his part, tied to his new political aspirations. I didn’t see this coming, and I’m still processing it, but I’m hoping it will help keep him in check. I want you to know I’m handling it, and I didn’t accept it lightly.

Harry sets his quill down, reading over the letter. "That’ll have to do. I can’t make it sound any better than that."

Regulus nods approvingly. "It’s honest, which is the best approach."

"And don’t forget the part about daring him to show up at Dumbledore’s trial," Alvin reminds him with a mischievous grin. "That’s the best bit."

Harry chuckles. "Yeah, they’re going to love that."

He adds the final line.

I may or may not have dared him to attend Dumbledore’s trial as Lord Slytherin Gaunt Peverell, just because I want to see Dumbledore’s face when he realizes who he’s dealing with.

Finally, Harry leans back in his chair, exhaling. "There. I think it’s done."

Regulus glances over at Harry, a rare softness in his gaze. "They’ll understand, Harry. They trust you."

"I hope so," Harry says quietly, sealing the letter.

With a snap of his fingers, he calls, "Mippy!"

A small, eager house-elf appears with a pop. "Mippy is here, Master Harry! What can Mippy be doing for you?"

"Can you deliver this letter to the Potters? And Alvin’s too, please?" Harry asks, handing over both letters.

Mippy’s wide eyes shine with excitement. "Mippy is so happy to help! Right away, Master Harry!" She takes the letters and disappears with a pop.

As the room settles back into quiet, Harry stares at the empty desk in front of him. His heart races with anxiety, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he feels a little lighter. At least the hardest part—telling them—was done.

"Well, that’s over," he mutters, leaning back.

Regulus smirks. "Now we wait for the inevitable response. Should be fun."

Harry groans. He knows, deep down, Regulus is right, but he doesn’t want to admit it. So instead he grabs his pillow and throws it at Regulus.

As soon as the pillow leaves Harry’s hand, time seems to slow down. Regulus, sitting in his chair with that smug little smirk of his, has no idea what’s coming. The pillow sails through the air, a direct hit, right to Regulus’ face.

There’s a moment of stunned silence as Regulus blinks, the pillow falling into his lap. Then his silver eyes narrow in mock offense.

“Oh, Potter,” Regulus says in a low, dangerous voice. “You’ve just made a grave mistake.”

Harry bursts into laughter, a sense of freedom flooding him after the weight of writing that letter. "Come on, Reg, you had that coming!"

Regulus stands up slowly, his expression calm and calculated. "If you think you can start a fight with me and get away with it, you’re severely mistaken."

Alvin, watching from his bed, grins widely. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Before Harry can react, Regulus grabs the pillow from his chair and launches it at him. Harry barely has time to duck, the pillow whizzing past his ear. He dives to the side, grabbing another pillow from his bed and clutching it to his chest like a shield.

“Is that all you’ve got, Black?” Harry teases, tossing the pillow up and down, ready for the next attack.

Regulus cocks an eyebrow, rolling his sleeves up like he’s preparing for battle. “You’re going to regret those words.”

In an instant, Regulus lunges, catching Harry off guard with his surprising speed. Harry barely manages to block Regulus’ next swing with his own pillow, the force of the hit sending feathers flying through the air. The two of them are in a flurry of motion, pillows colliding with soft thuds and feathers exploding around them like snowflakes.

Alvin’s laughter echoes in the background, and he cheers them on. “Get him, Harry! Don’t let Regulus win! Come on, Regulus, show him who’s boss!”

Harry dodges a particularly well-aimed swing from Regulus and, with a mischievous grin, swings his pillow at Regulus’ midsection. It connects, and Regulus lets out a startled grunt before he falls back onto the bed.

“Ha!” Harry exclaims, a sense of victory swelling in his chest. “Got you!”

But the triumph is short-lived. Regulus, determined and relentless, grabs the pillow and rolls off the bed in one swift motion, using the momentum to smack Harry square in the chest, sending him tumbling backward.

“Oh, you’re going down now, Potter,” Regulus growls, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

Harry laughs, scrambling to his feet and throwing himself back into the fray. The room is chaos now—pillows flying, feathers swirling in the air like some enchanted snowstorm, the two of them chasing each other around the small dorm room.

Regulus feints to the left, causing Harry to stumble and leave his side exposed. With a victorious grin, Regulus grabs Harry’s arm, spins him around, and tackles him onto the bed, pinning him down with his weight.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. His heart is pounding, not from the pillow fight, but from the way Regulus is suddenly so close. They’re both breathing hard, faces inches apart, and Harry feels the sudden shift in the air between them. The laughter dies down, leaving a quiet, charged space in its wake.

Regulus stares down at him, his eyes still glittering with amusement, but there’s something else there now—something softer, something more intense. Harry feels his stomach flip as the reality of the moment sinks in.

“You always have to win, don’t you?” Harry says, his voice coming out quieter than he intended.

Regulus smiles, but it’s gentler now, his gaze never leaving Harry’s. “Maybe. But sometimes… it’s worth letting someone else win.”

Harry doesn’t even have time to process what Regulus means by that before Regulus leans down, closing the gap between them. Their lips meet softly at first, a hesitant touch that quickly deepens into something more. Harry’s heart is racing, and his hands find their way to Regulus’ back, pulling him closer.

It’s like everything around them fades away—the room, the chaos, even Alvin’s cheers. All that exists is the warmth of Regulus’ lips against his, the way their bodies seem to fit together, the undeniable electricity that’s been building between them for weeks.

When they finally pull apart, Harry’s breath is shaky, his mind spinning. He blinks up at Regulus, wide-eyed, and sees the same breathless surprise reflected back at him.

“I—" Harry starts, but he’s cut off by Alvin’s loud whoop from the other side of the room.

“YES! Finally!” Alvin exclaims, jumping off the bed and pumping his fist in the air. “I knew this was going to happen eventually!” He’s grinning so widely, it’s like he’s just witnessed his favorite team win a championship.

Harry’s face flushes, and he covers it with his hand, laughing despite himself. "Alvin, seriously?"

Regulus sits up, still perched on Harry’s bed, but there’s no embarrassment in his expression—just a calm, satisfied look as he watches Harry with a glimmer of amusement. "Well, that was unexpected," Regulus says, though his tone suggests he isn’t entirely surprised.

Alvin bounces on his heels, clearly thrilled. “I’ve been waiting for this. Do you know how painful it’s been watching you two act like oblivious idiots for weeks? I thought you finally got it out of your systems when you got engaged. But no, you acted worse than before. I deserve a medal for putting up with you guys!”

Harry throws a pillow at Alvin, still blushing, but his smile is wide and genuine. "Alright, alright, calm down. It’s not like we’re putting on a show here."

Regulus chuckles softly, brushing a stray feather from Harry’s hair. “Maybe not a show,” he says, his voice low, “but I have to admit, it was a bit dramatic.”

Harry shakes his head, still laughing, his heart lighter than it’s felt in days. "Drama’s in our blood, I suppose."

As Alvin continues to prattle on about how he called this weeks ago, Harry feels the tension from earlier melt away, replaced with a sense of peace he didn’t expect. There’s still so much to figure out—about Voldemort, the Potters, everything—but in this moment, with Regulus by his side and Alvin cheering like a lunatic, Harry feels like, maybe, things are going to be okay after all.

Chapter 50: Letters – Part II

Harry sits at the Slytherin table, poking absently at his bacon and eggs, his appetite is nowhere to be found. He glances up occasionally at the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, the morning sky outside mimicking the soft glow of early light. Normally, Harry would find the peacefulness of the morning soothing, but today? Today, he’s filled with dread.

Next to him, Alvin is practically vibrating with excitement. Every few seconds, Alvin glances toward the entrance of the hall, his eyes darting to the owls swooping in to deliver the morning post. He can’t sit still, tapping his foot under the table and nibbling on his toast with barely-contained energy.

“I wonder when it’ll get here,” Alvin muses aloud, bouncing in his seat. “Do you think he’s read my letter yet? What if he doesn’t like Jessica? Oh Merlin, what if he says no?”

Harry doesn’t respond right away, too caught up in his own swirling thoughts. He dreads the arrival of the letters almost as much as Alvin looks forward to them. Somewhere out there, a letter from the Potters is on its way, and Harry knows it’s going to be… difficult, to say the least.

“Harry,” Alvin calls out, nudging him with an elbow, “you okay? You’ve been stabbing that piece of bacon like it insulted your Quidditch skills.”

Harry blinks, realizing he’s indeed been repeatedly jabbing a fork into a piece of bacon that’s now torn to shreds. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he mutters, though it’s clear to Alvin and Regulus that he’s anything but.

Regulus, seated on Harry’s other side, raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been on edge since last night. If you’re that worried about the Potters’ reaction, just rip off the bandage and get it over with when their letter comes.”

“I’m not worried,” Harry lies, shoving a piece of toast into his mouth to avoid saying anything else. “Just… mentally preparing.”

Alvin snorts, clearly unconvinced. “Yeah, sure. Mentally preparing for Fleamont and Euphemia to hex you into oblivion when they find out about your little ‘heir of the Dark Lord’ situation, right?”

“Thanks for that, Alvin,” Harry grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Very reassuring.”

Before Alvin can respond, the unmistakable sound of owl wings fills the hall, and Alvin’s head snaps up like a shot. The morning post has arrived.

Dozens of owls swoop down from the rafters, delivering letters and parcels to students all over the hall. Alvin is practically perched on the edge of his seat, eyes darting between the owls with a level of anticipation Harry finds mildly exhausting.

Regulus, calm as ever, sips his tea and watches the display with amusement. “You’re going to explode if you don’t calm down.”

“I’m just—” Alvin starts, but stops mid-sentence as a barn owl lands gracefully in front of him, a letter tied to its leg. “Finally!” he exclaims, reaching eagerly for the letter.

Harry watches as Alvin tears it open with far too much enthusiasm, his eyes scanning the contents in a frenzy. Alvin’s face cycles through expressions—anxiety, curiosity, and then… relief.

“He said yes!” Alvin practically shouts, causing a few nearby students to glance over in mild annoyance. “He said it’s fine! Merlin, I thought he’d say no or give me some long lecture, but he actually said yes! I can court Jessica!”

As Alvin reads over the letter again, probably committing every word to memory, a new presence arrives at the table—Jessica Sterling. She slides in next to Alvin, her appearance drawing a few startled glances from the other Slytherins seated nearby.

The moment Jessica sits down, several pairs of eyes fix on her, glaring as though her mere presence at the Slytherin table is an offense. Harry shifts uncomfortably, noticing the icy looks, but before he can say anything, Regulus straightens in his seat. His cool gaze sweeps across the table, silencing the unspoken protest from their housemates with nothing more than a sharp, piercing look.

Alvin, oblivious to the tension, is already leaning toward Jessica with a bright smile. “Good morning!”

Jessica returns his smile, though she can’t ignore the glares being shot in her direction. “Morning,” she says softly, her gaze flickering to the Slytherins before turning back to Alvin. “Are you sure it’s alright for me to sit here? They look like they want to hex me.”

Before Alvin can reassure her, Regulus speaks, his tone clipped but commanding. “If anyone has a problem, they can take it up with me.” His words hang in the air like a challenge, and Harry notices several Slytherins immediately avert their eyes, clearly deciding that whatever issue they had wasn’t worth incurring Regulus’ wrath.

Jessica looks surprised for a moment, but grateful. “Thanks,” she says quietly, settling into her seat with a bit more ease.

Alvin beams. “See? You’re good. We’ve got you covered.”

Harry watches the exchange with a half-hearted smile, but his mind is elsewhere, still on edge as he waits for the inevitable arrival of his own letter. He stares at the other owls circling overhead, wondering which one carries the news he’s been dreading.

And then, as if on cue, an owl swoops down and lands directly in front of him, bearing the Potters' unmistakable seal on its letter.

Harry's stomach drops.

“Well,” Regulus says casually, noticing the sudden tension in Harry’s posture, “looks like your letter’s here.”

Alvin looks up from his own excitement, his face softening as he notices Harry’s dread. “You got this, Harry. It won’t be that bad, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, though he’s not entirely convinced. He takes a deep breath and reaches for the letter, his fingers trembling slightly as he breaks the seal.

Harry stares down at the parchment, eyes wide with disbelief. He can’t believe what he’s reading. Dorea’s handwriting is precise and elegant, yet the tone of the letter feels almost comically exasperated. He knows his family has a sometimes tendency toward eccentricity, but this… this is something else entirely.

Dear Harry,

Honestly, what were you thinking?

Charlus, Fleamont, and Cepheus are currently rolling around on the floor laughing. Euphemia is trying to remain composed, but every time she opens her mouth to comment, she ends up joining in. I’ve given up on trying to get a sensible conversation out of any of them. In fact, as I write this, I can still hear the lot of them cackling like schoolchildren from the next room. Cepheus, especially, finds this whole situation utterly hilarious.

It seems your brother has decided that you are now officially the funniest member of the family. Because you dared You-Know-Who to attend the Wizengamot and witness Dumbledore’s trial. And not just dared him—challenged him, really. What possessed you to do something so utterly ridiculous? Did you forget who you were talking to for a moment? I swear, Harry, my heart almost stopped when I read that part of your letter. Reckless doesn’t even begin to cover it.

But of course, this entire situation is positively absurd, so I can’t say I’m entirely surprised.

Now, let’s get to the matter of your new titles. Yes, it was shocking to learn that you are now heir to Slytherin, Gaunt, and Peverell. But—and please listen carefully here—there’s no need to panic. The situation is salvageable. You are last in line for the title of Lord Potter, so there is no conflict of interests there. As for Lord Black, well, Arcturus will hardly mind you having a few extra titles. In fact, I imagine he’ll be quite pleased, considering that you’re already tied to Regulus and the Blacks through the marriage contract. We’ll need to amend the contract to include these new titles, but that’s just paperwork—nothing to lose sleep over.

From what I gather, You-Know-Who—though I suppose we’ll have to start calling him Tom Riddle now—is no longer an immediate threat. You seem to have dealt with him in a way no one expected. He isn’t dead, and he isn’t imprisoned, but he also doesn’t seem as dangerous as before. Only time will tell how his political ambitions unfold, but for now, things are as fine as they can be under the circumstances.

Still, Harry, please, for the sake of my sanity, try not to pull any more reckless stunts. You’ve already given us enough excitement to last a lifetime. If you keep this up, you’ll have my hair turning gray before long, and then you’ll really be in trouble.

Take care of yourself, and know that we’re all here for you—despite the unbelievable amount of chaos you seem determined to bring into our lives.

With love,
Dorea Potter

Harry reads the letter twice, maybe three times, just to make sure he isn’t imagining it. Dorea’s exasperated tone rings loud and clear in his mind, and he can practically hear her voice chastising him gently but lovingly through the parchment. It takes him a moment to fully digest the fact that his family—rather than being furious—is apparently… laughing.

Laughing at the idea that he, Harry Potter, dared Voldemort—no, Tom Riddle—to take his seat in the Wizengamot.

"Are they serious?" Harry mutters to himself, still staring at the letter in disbelief.

Regulus, who had been quietly watching Harry’s reaction with growing concern, leans over. “What did they say?”

Harry doesn’t respond at first, still too caught up in the absurdity of it all. Regulus gently takes the letter from his hands, his eyes scanning the page. There’s a moment of silence as he reads, then…

Regulus bursts into laughter.

It’s not a quiet chuckle, either. He laughs so hard that he has to put down the letter and brace himself on the table. His usually calm and composed demeanor is completely shattered as he practically doubles over with laughter. “Oh… oh, Merlin,” Regulus manages between gasps. “They’re… they’re all laughing at you!”

Harry throws him a half-hearted glare.

“They think it’s hilarious!” Regulus grins, still laughing. “Charlus, Fleamont, Cepheus—they’re all on the floor, rolling in laughter! Because you… you… Of all the things—Harry—do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

“I—” Harry flounders, still trying to comprehend the reaction his family is having. “But… I didn’t think it was that funny.”

Regulus shakes his head, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Oh, it’s not just funny. It’s hysterical—and they can’t stop laughing about it.”

Harry groans, his head falling into his hands. “This can’t be real. I can’t be real.”

Regulus’ laughter finally begins to die down, though he’s still grinning broadly. “Honestly, Harry, I think your family is just relieved that you’re alright. And, well, I think they’ve come to terms with the fact that you have a talent for… let’s call it creative problem-solving.”

“Creative problem-solving?” Harry echoes, lifting his head to glare at Regulus.

Regulus shrugs, his grin still firmly in place. “That’s one way to put it.”

Harry lets out a long, exasperated sigh, but despite his earlier dread, he feels an odd sense of relief. The Potters weren’t furious with him. In fact, they were laughing. And somehow, despite the insanity of it all, things felt a little less overwhelming.

He looks at Regulus, who’s still smiling. “I can’t believe you’re finding this so amusing.”

Regulus leans closer, resting his chin on his hand. “You have to admit, Harry. You’ve done something that no one else has ever done. You made the Dark Lord—Tom Riddle—sane again. And now, you’ve got half the wizarding world on edge while your family is laughing themselves silly. If that’s not impressive, I don’t know what is.”

Harry can’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well… I guess it’s one way to make history.”

Regulus chuckles softly and hands the letter back to Harry. “Just don’t make a habit of it. I think Dorea’s serious about the gray hair.”

Harry groans again but can’t help laughing a little as well. Maybe, just maybe, things were going to be okay after all.

Chapter 51: Quidditch

The tension is evident in Slytherins dimly lit common room. Harry sits with his friends, flipping through his potions notes absentmindedly, though he can barely focus on anything. He’s been feeling restless all day, the upcoming Quidditch match between Slytherin and Ravenclaw looming large on the horizon. He isn’t part of the team, but the excitement in the common room is contagious. Everyone seems on edge, eager for victory.

Suddenly, the door to the common room bursts open, and George Goyle stumbles inside, his face flushed with fever and his usually sturdy frame swaying as if he’s about to collapse. Alvin, the Slytherin captain, stands up immediately, concern flashing across his face.

"What's wrong, Goyle?" Alvin asks in a worried yet irritated tone.

“I—” Goyle begins, his voice hoarse. “I’m sick. Fever… I can’t even walk straight. There’s no way I can play today.” He looks genuinely apologetic, wiping sweat from his brow. “I’m sorry, Rosier, I really am.”

Alvin curses under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “Bloody hell, we need you out there.”

One of Goyle’s dormmates pipes up, offering to take him to the hospital wing, but it’s clear to everyone that Goyle won’t be playing in the match. As Goyle is helped out of the common room, the silence that follows feels heavy.

Alvin turns to the rest of the team, eyes scanning them like he’s searching for an answer. “What about Crouch?” he asks, desperation creeping into his tone. “He’s the reserve.”

Franklin Greengrass snickers. “Crouch is still in the hospital wing, mate. Some idiot in Transfiguration gave him dog ears, a snout, and a tail. He’s not exactly in a state to be playing Quidditch.”

Several Slytherins chuckle at the image of Barty Crouch Jr. with canine features, but Alvin groans, clearly not in the mood for jokes.

A younger girl, sitting near the fireplace, adds in with a mischievous smirk, “He deserved it. The git was making advances on a classmate, wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Alvin scowls. “Idiot.”

Then, almost as if a lightbulb has gone off in his head, Alvin’s gaze lands squarely on Harry, who’s watching the exchange with quiet curiosity.

“Harry,” Alvin says, his voice firm with sudden purpose. “We need your help.”

Harry looks up, startled. “Me? I’m a seeker, Alvin. I’ve almost never played chaser, and I haven’t trained with the team. You can’t just throw me in there.”

Alvin shakes his head, a determined glint in his eye. “No, you won’t play chaser. Regulus will.”

At this, Regulus raises his eyebrows but says nothing, clearly waiting for Alvin to explain.

“Regulus can handle both positions—he’s solid as both a chaser and a seeker,” Alvin continues. “You, Harry, will play seeker for us.”

The room falls into stunned silence. A few of the Slytherins openly gape at Alvin, shock and disbelief written on their faces. Someone near the back even mutters, “Potter, on our team?”

A murmur of protest ripples through the common room. Several students look ready to argue, but Alvin silences them with a sharp wave of his hand.

“I know what you’re all thinking,” Alvin says, his tone brooking no argument. “But I’ve seen Harry play. He’s one of the best seekers I’ve ever seen—far better than Regulus.”

A chorus of shocked gasps fills the room. Regulus, for his part, doesn’t look offended, just slightly amused. The tension hangs thick as Alvin waits for the protests to die down.

From the corner of the room, a sneer slices through the air.

“And why, pray tell,” says Severus Snape, arms crossed and eyes glittering with disdain, “has Potter never joined the team if he’s such a talent?”

Harry feels the weight of Snape’s glare, but Alvin answers before he has to.

“Because,” Alvin says, his voice hard, “when he first came to Hogwarts, everyone in this house, including myself, treated him like shit. Of course he wouldn’t want to join the team.”

Snape’s expression falters slightly, as if he wasn’t expecting such an honest answer. For a moment, there’s a heavy, uncomfortable silence. No one seems to know what to say. Even the usual sneering faces seem to quiet down at Alvin’s blunt confession.

Harry glances at Alvin, feeling a mix of emotions—gratitude, surprise, and a bit of awkwardness at being thrust into the spotlight. His heart races at the idea of playing for Slytherin, a house that had once been so hostile toward him. But as he looks around, he can tell the mood has shifted. Alvin’s words, direct and unapologetic, seem to have calmed the crowd.

Regulus steps forward, standing next to Harry. “It’s the right choice,” he says calmly. “Harry’s the best seeker we’ve got. With him, we can win.”

The confidence in Regulus’ voice reassures Harry in a way he hadn’t expected. He meets Regulus’ gaze and finds a quiet certainty there. Regulus believes in him. Alvin believes in him. And that’s enough.

Finally, Harry nods, his decision made. “Alright,” he says, his voice steady despite the nerves twisting in his stomach. “I’ll play seeker.”

Alvin claps him on the back, a grin breaking across his face. “That’s the spirit. Now let’s win this thing.”

The room is still filled with tension, but there’s no more protest. The Slytherins, though reluctant, seem to accept that Harry will be their seeker for the match. Some of them even look curious, as if wondering what exactly Harry can do on a broom.

As the students begin to file out of the common room to head toward the pitch, Harry stays behind for a moment, feeling the weight of the upcoming game settle on his shoulders. Regulus lingers beside him, a soft smile on his lips.

“You’ll do great,” Regulus says quietly, his voice low and soothing. “I’ve seen you fly, Harry. You’re brilliant.”

Harry offers a small, grateful smile in return. “Thanks, Regulus. I’ll do my best.”

With that, they follow the rest of the house toward the pitch, ready to take on Ravenclaw.

***

The Quidditch pitch hums with anticipation as Harry stands with the Slytherin team, fully suited up in a uniform that, miraculously, fits him perfectly. The weight of the green and silver robes feels foreign on him, like wearing a second skin that doesn't quite belong—but he pushes the thought aside. His heart pounds in his chest as he looks across the pitch at the Ravenclaw team, their sharp blue-and-bronze uniforms fluttering in the light breeze. He adjusts his gloves, trying to steady his nerves. He’s not playing for Gryffindor anymore. He’s playing for Slytherin.

The crowd buzzes with excitement, and Harry can see familiar faces scattered throughout the stands. Some students look at him with wide eyes, shocked to see him on the field. Others whisper among themselves, their gazes flickering between him and Regulus.

And then there’s James.

“Alright, folks, let’s get this started!” James' voice crackles with passion and intensity as it explodes across the Quidditch pitch. He is clearly in his element as the game's announcer for today. “For Ravenclaw, we have—Keeper: Emily Clearwater, Chasers: Raven Avery, Alan Boot, and Marla Corner. Beaters: Liam O’Connell and Amelia Baddock, and their Seeker, Lee Davies!”

The Ravenclaw crowd cheers loudly as their team is introduced. The players wave to their housemates, clearly pumped for the match.

James’ voice falters slightly as he moves on to the Slytherin lineup. “And for Slytherin, Keeper: Walter Flint, Chasers: Scarlette Rookwood, Franklin Greengrass, and Regulus Black.” The names roll off his tongue smoothly, but when James reaches the last name, his voice stumbles. “Uh… Beaters: Victor Crabbe and Alvin Rosier… and Seeker: Harry Potter?”

The entire stadium erupts in gasps, whispers, and incredulous murmurs. Students from all houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and even some Slytherins—look around in disbelief. Harry can almost hear the collective thought: Harry Potter, playing for Slytherin?

Harry keeps his face impassive, though he feels the weight of every eye on him. Beside him, Alvin gives him a reassuring nod, and Regulus flashes him a brief, supportive smile.

“Let’s do this,” Alvin mutters to the team, a determined gleam in his eyes.

Madam Hooch steps into the center of the pitch, her sharp eyes scanning the players. “Mount your brooms!” she calls, and Harry takes a deep breath, gripping his broom – for a moment wishing he had his Firebolt. The familiar sensation of mounting his broom brings a rush of confidence. This—this is what he’s good at.

The whistle blows, and they’re off.

The sky becomes a blur of green and blue as the players soar into the air. The Quaffle is immediately snapped up by Scarlette Rookwood, who darts forward with astonishing speed. The Ravenclaw Chasers scramble to intercept her, but Rookwood is fast and determined, weaving through the air like a serpent.

Harry shoots upwards, instinctively climbing higher than the rest of the players. His eyes scan the field for the Golden Snitch, but he’s also keeping an eye on Lee Davies, Ravenclaw’s Seeker. Davies is good, but Harry knows he’s faster. He’s been through too many life-and-death situations to let a simple game rattle him.

James’ voice echoes through the stadium. “Rookwood passes to Greengrass—he’s going for it—oh, nice block by Clearwater! Ravenclaw takes possession!”

The game unfolds quickly, with the Quaffle changing hands multiple times as the teams vie for control. Regulus, playing as Chaser, is fluid and graceful, darting between the other players with ease. At one point, he snatches the Quaffle from Marla Corner’s grip and makes a beeline for the Ravenclaw goalposts.

“And Regulus Black—he’s got the Quaffle—he shoots—AND HE SCORES! Ten points to Slytherin! Wow, who knew he could shoot like that!”

The Slytherin side of the stands erupts in cheers, while Ravenclaw groans. Harry can’t help but smirk. He knew Regulus was good, but seeing him in action makes him appreciate his skills even more.

Meanwhile, Harry’s eyes are constantly sweeping the pitch, searching for that flash of gold. Davies hovers not far from him, looking tense, his eyes also scanning the sky. Harry watches him out of the corner of his eye, trying to anticipate any sudden movements.

Down below, the Bludgers are wreaking havoc, with Alvin and Crabbe doing their best to keep them away from their teammates. Alvin bats one towards a Ravenclaw Beater, grinning as it veers dangerously close to their Chasers.

“Nice hit!” Alvin shouts, clearly pleased with himself.

Another round of play goes by, with both teams scoring in quick succession. Ravenclaw’s Alan Boot manages to slip past Flint and score a goal, bringing the score to 40-30 in Ravenclaw’s favor. But Slytherin doesn’t let up. Greengrass and Rookwood work together seamlessly, executing a flawless play that results in another goal for Slytherin.

Suddenly, Harry spots it—a glint of gold near the Ravenclaw goalposts. His heart leaps in his chest as his Seeker instincts kick in. Without a second thought, he dives.

“AND POTTER’S GOING FOR THE SNITCH!” James yells, excitement rising in his voice. “Davies is right behind him, but—Merlin’s beard, look at Potter go!”

Harry pushes his bloom to its limit, the wind whipping through his hair as he streaks toward the Snitch. Lee Davies is hot on his tail, but Harry knows he has the edge. He can feel it—the broom responding to his every command, cutting through the air like a knife.

The Snitch is closer now, fluttering just out of reach. Harry stretches his hand out, fingers brushing the cool metal. But Davies isn’t far behind—Harry can hear the Ravenclaw Seeker’s labored breathing as he tries to close the gap.

"Come on." Harry whispers to himself as his hand gets closer and closer.

Harry quickly stretches out and closes his hand around the Snitch, encircling the little, fluttering ball with his fingers.

“POTTER CATCHES THE SNITCH! SLYTHERIN WINS!”

The stadium explodes with noise—Slytherin’s section roaring in triumph, while Ravenclaw lets out a collective groan of defeat. Harry, still gripping the Snitch tightly, raises his hand in victory as he lands on the pitch. His teammates swarm him, cheers and laughter ringing in his ears.

Alvin claps him on the back, grinning from ear to ear. “I knew you could do it, Harry!”

Regulus, landing beside him, gives Harry a small, proud smile. “Well done,” he says quietly, and Harry feels a warmth in his chest at the praise.

As the crowd continues to cheer, Harry glances up at the announcer’s booth. James is watching him with a mixture of pride and bewilderment. He shakes his head, clearly still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that his cousin just won a match for Slytherin.

Harry smirks and gives him a small, cheeky wave, feeling lighter than he has in days.

Chapter 52: Dumbledore’s Trial – Part I

The day of Dumbledore’s trial arrives, and Harry feels a growing sense of anticipation bubbling inside him. This is the moment he's been waiting for, especially after the headline in the Daily Prophet a few days prior. The article had sent shockwaves through the wizarding world, announcing that not only was Evan Rosier alive and claiming the title of Lord Rosier, but that Tom Marvolo Riddle, now Lord Slytherin Gaunt Peverell, would also be taking his seats in the Wizengamot.

Harry sits in the courtroom, his hands resting tensely on his lap, glancing around the room. Regulus sits next to him, both of them present as witnesses for the trial. Alvin Rosier, seated next to his brother, is watching silently, his expression unreadable, as befits Heir Rosier. Heirs are allowed to observe, provided they remain silent and do not interfere with the proceedings, and Alvin looks every bit the poised heir as he takes in everything happening around him.

Harry’s gaze shifts to Tom Riddle, now Lord Slytherin Gaunt Peverell. Riddle’s appearance has changed in subtle ways—he seems calmer, almost elegant, but no less intimidating. Harry watches as Tom, feeling his gaze, looks over and meets his eyes. A slow, knowing smile spreads across Tom’s face, and he winks.

Harry groans inwardly, quickly looking away, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Great, he thinks, just what I needed—Riddle to be cheeky at a trial of all things.

The courtroom quiets as the large wooden doors at the front creak open. All heads turn as Albus Dumbledore, still wearing his characteristic purple robes, is led into the room. His long, silver beard flows over the chains that bind him as he sits in the high-backed chair in the center of the courtroom. At first, Dumbledore appears calm, his piercing blue eyes scanning the room. But Harry notices when Dumbledore’s gaze falls on the Wizengamot members—and more specifically, when it lands on Evan Rosier.

A flicker of surprise crosses Dumbledore's face, but that is nothing compared to the look of sheer shock that seizes his features when his eyes lock onto Tom Riddle. Dumbledore freezes, his mouth opening slightly as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Harry almost bursts into laughter—Dumbledore, for the first time in Harry’s memory, looks completely blindsided. If only I had a camera, Harry thinks, I’d frame this moment.

At the head of the courtroom, the Chief Warlock clears his throat and begins the trial, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged chamber. “We are gathered today for the trial of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. The charges are as follows: endangering students under his care by knowingly allowing an individual access to a student, despite the express wishes of the student’s legal guardians forbidding such contact, and using Legilimency—an invasive form of mind magic—on an under-aged student without consent.”

The words ring out clearly, and Harry feels a surge of satisfaction as he watches Dumbledore's face. His former headmaster looks paler than usual, his hands gripping the arms of the chair.

“I plead innocence,” Dumbledore says smoothly, his voice calm and composed, as if this were some simple misunderstanding. But Harry can see the tension beneath his calm exterior.

The Chief Warlock nods and gestures toward Regulus. “We now call Heir Regulus Arcturus Black to the stand.”

Regulus stands, his expression cool and collected, and steps forward. His dark hair falls neatly into place as he takes his seat at the witness stand, his gray eyes sharp and focused. Harry can sense the tight control Regulus is exerting over himself, the calm exterior hiding the storm brewing underneath.

“Heir Black,” the Chief Warlock begins, “please recount the events surrounding the day when you were attacked by your mother.”

Regulus takes a slow breath, then speaks in a controlled, precise tone. “It was the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, who called me out of class. He mentioned something about urgent family business. I was confused but went with him, assuming it was important. He brought me to my mother, Walburga—who has since then been stripped of her family name – and was no longer allowed on school grounds.”

There is a murmur in the room as Regulus continues. “He left me alone with her. She raised her wand at me almost immediately. Dumbledore didn’t intervene—he simply walked away, leaving me to face her alone.”

There’s a pause as the room absorbs this information. The Chief Warlock turns his attention back to Dumbledore. “Albus Dumbledore, how do you respond to these claims?”

Dumbledore straightens, his expression one of careful neutrality. “I was not informed that Regulus’ mother had been barred from seeing him. As far as I was aware, she was still his mother, and I did not see her raise her wand. What is wrong with allowing a mother to visit her son?”

Harry clenches his fists, biting back a sarcastic remark. Not informed? Really?

Regulus’ eyes narrow ever so slightly. His voice remains steady as he replies, “My grandfather, Lord Arcturus Black, sent you a letter informing you that Walburga was not permitted to contact me. A letter to which you replied to, promising you would not allow her onto school grounds.”

The Chief Warlock raises a hand, and an attendant steps forward with a parchment. “We have that letter here, written in your own hand, Professor Dumbledore. It bears your signature and your official seal. There is no question of its authenticity.”

The letter is held up for the court to see, and murmurs ripple through the room. Harry watches Dumbledore’s face carefully, noting the tightening of his jaw.

The Chief Warlock leans forward. “Do you wish to amend your statement, Professor Dumbledore, now that we have the letter proving you were informed of the situation?”

Dumbledore’s silence stretches for a moment too long before he answers. “No, I do not wish to change my statement.”

The murmurs grow louder, disapproval evident in the air. Dumbledore’s unwavering response is met with raised eyebrows from the Wizengamot members, some of whom exchange knowing glances. Harry feels a flicker of triumph—Dumbledore’s calm façade is cracking.

As Regulus returns to his seat, he passes Harry and gives him a brief nod, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Harry grins back, feeling a surge of pride for Regulus’ composed testimony.

Harry can tell the tide is turning against Dumbledore. He sneaks another glance at Tom Riddle, who sits with an air of mild amusement, clearly enjoying the unfolding drama.

The Chief Warlock gestures toward Harry. “We now call Mr. Harry Potter to the stand.”

The tension in the room heightens as all eyes turn toward him. He swallows hard, trying to calm the nerves dancing in his chest. Stepping forward, he takes his place at the witness chair, but before the Chief Warlock can even begin, a polite voice interrupts the proceedings.

"Excuse me, Chief Warlock," Tom Riddle stands, his presence commanding the attention of the entire courtroom. "You are addressing my heir incorrectly. It is Heir Slytherin Gaunt Peverell."

A wave of shocked murmurs sweeps through the room like wildfire. The weight of hundreds of eyes immediately shifts to Harry, disbelief clear on many faces. He can feel their stares, the scrutiny as they take in the ring on his finger—a visible symbol of his new titles. His heart pounds louder as he instinctively grips the armrests of the chair, trying to ground himself amidst the rising tension.

The Chief Warlock, his expression momentarily startled, glances down at Harry's hands before nodding in recognition of the heir ring. "My apologies. Heir Slytherin Gaunt Peverell, please proceed."

But before Harry can even open his mouth, Dumbledore cuts in, his voice a bit too casual. "I had no idea you were related to Harry, Tom." There is something off about his tone, as if he's trying to disarm the situation with familiarity, but the informality only earns him disapproving glances from the Wizengamot members.

Tom’s voice, sharp and cold, cuts through the room again. "Address me properly, Mr. Dumbledore. It is Lord Slytherin Gaunt Peverell. And the same courtesy applies to my heir. It is not your concern how we are related, but since everyone seems so curious..." He pauses, letting the weight of his words hang in the air before continuing, "Heir Slytherin Gaunt Peverell and I are second cousins, once removed. Harry’s great-grandmother, Vanessa Evans, née Gaunt, was the younger sister of my grandfather, Marvolo Gaunt."

The revelation falls like a thunderclap. The entire room plunges into stunned silence. Wizengamot members exchange wide-eyed glances, while the gallery shifts uncomfortably. Harry feels the eyes on him intensify, their weight pressing down on him as if they could crush him where he sits.

The Chief Warlock, visibly trying to collect himself, clears his throat. “Very well... Heir Slytherin Gaunt Peverell, please state your age and birth date.”

“July 31st, 1961,” Harry answers, keeping his voice steady despite the nervous energy coursing through him. “I’m 16.”

The Chief Warlock nods and continues, “Now, please recount the events of the day in which Professor Dumbledore used Legilimency on you.”

Harry draws a deep breath, steadying himself as he remembers that day. “It was the same day Dumbledore allowed Walburga to take Regulus. She had just held me under two Unforgivable Curses—the Imperius and the Cruciatus.”

Gasps ripple through the chamber, and Harry can sense the shifting mood of the room. The Chief Warlock raises a hand, signaling for silence before turning back to Harry. “Is it true that you threw off the Imperius Curse?”

Harry shrugs, trying to downplay it. “I’m pretty stubborn,” he replies dryly, drawing a few amused chuckles from the gallery. He takes another breath and continues, “I was in a lot of pain, and I was angry. So I might’ve been... well, slightly rude to Professor Dumbledore. I accused him of not caring about his students—at least not the ones he couldn’t recruit for his Order of the Phoenix.”

Harry can feel Dumbledore’s eyes on him, but he avoids his gaze, pressing on. The Chief Warlock remains impassive, but Harry senses that his words are hitting home. There’s no sympathy for Dumbledore today.

Dumbledore interrupts, his voice gentle but firm, “That was a misunderstanding.”

Harry feels the heat rise in his chest as the memory surges back. “A misunderstanding?” he repeats, his tone skeptical. “Maybe. But a moment later, I felt a strange pressure in my head. My thoughts—they weren’t right. They felt... wrong. That’s when I realized he was using Legilimency on me.”

The room goes still, the weight of Harry’s words hanging heavily in the air. He can see the shift in the faces of the Wizengamot—anger, disbelief, and a growing sense of unease.

Harry leans forward slightly, his voice steady but sharp. “So I did what I was taught. I used the spell I’d learned to protect my mind: Animus Protégé. The force of it knocked Dumbledore off his feet. He was thrown backward. That’s when the Aurors arrested him.”

The courtroom remains silent for a long, heavy moment. Harry watches the faces of the Wizengamot, the realization dawning in their eyes. He can feel the rising tension as the narrative shifts—Dumbledore, the beloved leader, had not only allowed a dangerous situation to unfold but had actively violated the mind of a student.

The Chief Warlock’s gaze sharpens, his eyes flicking to Dumbledore before returning to Harry. “You were justified in defending yourself, Heir Slytherin Gaunt Peverell. We will deliberate on this matter further, but for now, you may return to your seat.”

Harry nods, relief washing over him as he steps down from the stand. His legs feel a little shaky, but as he returns to his seat beside Regulus, he catches Tom’s eye. Riddle’s lips curl into a satisfied, almost approving smile.

After Harry returns to his seat, the next few hours pass in a blur as witness after witness is called to the stand. The Aurors, who were present when Dumbledore used Legilimency on Harry, each recount their version of events. Their stories line up perfectly with Harry’s, describing how Dumbledore was blasted back by Harry’s spell and how they immediately arrested him for his actions.

The tension in the room thickens with every testimony. Harry sits next to Regulus, who offers him quiet support. Alvin watches intently from the stands, his gaze occasionally flickering to Lord Rosier, who remains impassive but clearly focused.

After the last Auror leaves the stand, the Chief Warlock rises. His voice booms throughout the chamber, solemn and measured. “Albus Dumbledore, after hearing the testimonies of the witnesses, we are now to deliver the sentence. You stand accused of using Legilimency on a minor, a crime punishable by up to twelve years in Azkaban. You are also charged with endangering a magical child, specifically Heir Regulus Black, which can result in up to three years of imprisonment. The proposed sentence is fifteen years.”

The murmurs rise again. Harry’s heart races as he watches the room fill with uncertainty. The Chief Warlock raises his hand, signaling for order.

“The Wizengamot will now vote. All those in favor of the proposed sentence, please raise your hands.”

For a moment, there is silence. Then, one by one, hands begin to rise. Harry feels the air thicken as he watches the numbers grow—more than half the room raises their hands, casting their votes for Dumbledore’s imprisonment. It feels surreal, watching the once-revered headmaster be brought down by his own actions.

But Dumbledore is not ready to accept defeat. His voice rings out, strong and commanding, filled with desperation. “Members of the Wizengamot, you are making a grave mistake!” He says, his eyes wide with fervor. “Do you not understand? Tom Riddle is Voldemort!”

Chapter 53: Dumbledore’s Trial – Part II

The name hangs in the air like a curse, and the chamber freezes. A collective shudder passes through the room as the word Voldemort strikes a chord of fear and uncertainty in everyone present. Harry feels his stomach drop. But before he can react, Tom rises from his seat.

Tom’s voice cuts through the fear like a knife. “That claim,” he says, his tone calm yet biting, “is utterly ridiculous.”

All eyes are now on Tom Riddle, and Harry can feel the growing divide in the room. People look from Tom to Dumbledore, unsure of what to believe. Dumbledore, undeterred by Tom’s dismissal, presses on.

“As Voldemort’s heir,” Dumbledore points at Harry, “he cannot be trusted! He’s dangerous, and if we leave him unchecked, disaster will follow!”

Harry feels the familiar sting of injustice, his emotions churning as he’s reduced to a threat in front of everyone. He opens his mouth to defend himself, but Tom beats him to it.

“That’s slander,” Tom says sharply, his eyes locking onto Dumbledore with an almost predatory gleam. “Where is your proof, Mr. Dumbledore? You throw accusations as if the world should bow to your assumptions, yet you have nothing to show for it.”

Dumbledore’s face flushes with frustration. “He has already commanded Slytherin’s monster! The basilisk—yes, the one from the legend—exists! A thousand-year-old, enormous basilisk that has been hidden beneath this castle!”

The collective shock in the room is palpable. Gasps echo through the chamber as people shift in their seats. Harry tenses, his mind racing. Of course Dumbledore would bring this up.

Tom, however, remains perfectly composed. “Yes,” he says smoothly, “I am aware of the basilisk. Slytherin left it in the Chamber to protect the school should it ever be attacked by Muggles. Back when Hogwarts was founded, such attacks were a real fear. Fortunately, one never occurred, and the basilisk has remained dormant for centuries.”

He pauses, letting the room absorb his words before continuing. “The school board has already been informed of the basilisk’s presence. They have inspected it and found that it has never harmed a single student in the entire time it has been here. It remains as a precaution, as it always has.”

There is a murmur of agreement among the older members of the Wizengamot. The room shifts again, less fearful and more curious now. Tom’s calm, logical explanation has soothed the initial panic, but Dumbledore is still not finished.

Harry feels a pang of guilt, though not for commanding Shia, but for the fact that he is helping Tom Riddle cover up the fact, that he used Shia to kill Myrtle.

“He—he’s dangerous!” Dumbledore stammers, his desperation now evident. “You must see that!”

But Tom cuts him off with finality. “You are flailing, Mr. Dumbledore. You have no proof, only slander. You have slandered both me and my heir before this entire court. For that, I expect a public apology.”

The demand hangs in the air, and Harry watches as Dumbledore’s face tightens, his composure fraying. Now the once-respected headmaster appears to be in a tight spot. The room is devoid of any sympathy for him. The harsh truth of his circumstances is all that remains. Tom's words have weight. It is clear to Harry that Dumbledore is no longer in the driver's seat.

Chief Warlock's face is stern and determined as he counts the raised arms. The majority of the Wizengamot has voted, and the room holds its breath as he stands to deliver the final verdict.

“Albus Dumbledore,” the Chief Warlock announces, his voice echoing throughout the chamber, “you are hereby sentenced to fifteen years in Azkaban for your crimes of using Legilimency on a minor and endangering a magical child.”

Harry feels a surge of relief mixed with disbelief. He watches as Dumbledore’s face crumples in shock, desperation flickering in his eyes. The once untouchable headmaster opens his mouth to plead.

“You cannot do this!” Dumbledore insists, his voice cracking slightly. “You need me to fight Voldemort!”

A murmur of discontent ripples through the room, but no one seems moved by his argument. A Lord Harry doesn’t recognize speaks up, his voice cutting through Dumbledore’s plea. “You should not have committed these crimes if you didn’t want to face the consequences, Dumbledore. Do you believe yourself above the law?”

Dumbledore straightens, clearly offended. “Of course not,” he says quickly.

The Lord raises an eyebrow, his expression cold. “Then why are you making such a fuss about being sentenced?”

Dumbledore remains silent, his defiance deflating as the Aurors move in. They take him by the arms, leading him out of the chamber. Harry watches as the door closes behind them, his mind racing. This man, who had once been held in such high esteem, was now nothing more than a criminal. It’s strange, seeing the fall of someone so powerful.

With the trial officially over, the Chief Warlock declares the session closed, and people begin to file out of the room. Harry sits back, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Beside him, Regulus places a hand on his shoulder, offering silent support.

As the room empties, Alvin walks over to Harry, a broad smile on his face. Behind him is Evan, who looks far more composed, though there’s a sharpness in his gaze that shows he’s assessing everything.

Before Alvin can say a word, Tom Riddle approaches, his presence commanding as always. He smiles—a chillingly polite smile—as he looks at Harry. “Well, Heir Slytherin Gaunt Peverell, was my performance satisfactory?” he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Harry can’t help but roll his eyes. “There was no need to publicly announce that I’m your heir,” he grumbles, folding his arms. “Now everyone’s going to try and get on my good side, which I find incredibly annoying.”

Tom chuckles softly, his eyes gleaming with something almost akin to pride. “It was necessary. I had to make it clear where you stand.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice, though there’s no need—most of the room is empty now. “Besides, I thought you enjoyed watching the chaos.”

Harry huffs but doesn’t deny it. “Fine. I’ll be calling you ‘Tom’ from now on.”

“Good,” Tom says, clearly amused by Harry's annoyance.

Fleamont Potter, who had been silently watching the conversation, takes a step forward. He tilts his head respectfully in Tom's direction. “Lord Slytherin Gaunt Peverell, might I have a word?”

Tom’s eyes flick to Fleamont, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he nods. “Of course, Lord Potter. Let’s speak privately.” With one last look at Harry, Tom turns and follows Fleamont out of the room.

The door closes behind them, and the air seems to loosen as the tension dissipates. Evan, who had been holding himself rigidly in Tom’s presence, lets out a long breath of relief. “Merlin’s beard,” he mutters. “You really are insane, Harry.”

Harry blinks, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Before he can say more, both Regulus and Alvin chime in at the same time, their voices laced with teasing humor. “You’re definitely insane, Harry.”

Harry pouts, crossing his arms as he glares at his friends. “I am not insane. I just know how to handle Tom.”

Evan bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Handle him? You address him like he’s just another bloke, not the most dangerous man in Britain.”

“I mean,” Harry starts, his voice defensive, “he’s not that bad yet—"

Regulus interrupts, smirking. “Yes, he is.”

Alvin joins in, his grin widening. “And you’re the only one insane enough to think he’s not.”

Harry groans in frustration, but there’s no malice in the teasing. It feels good, in a way, to be with people who understand him, who aren’t afraid to joke about things that would terrify others. A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as the tension in his shoulders eases.

As they leave the room, their banter is suddenly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps. A young woman runs toward them, her fine robes  shimmering in the half-light. Her eyes glisten with tears, and before anyone can react, she throws herself into Evan’s arms, crying out, “Evan!”

Harry tenses, caught off guard by the unexpected scene. The woman, clearly distressed, clings to Evan as if her life depends on it. She’s undeniably beautiful, with her dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders, but it’s the raw emotion on her face that draws his attention.

Evan’s expression softens immediately. His usual icy demeanor melts away as he holds the woman close, his voice gentle. “Aveline, are you alright?”

She sobs into his robes, her voice thick with her French accent. “I thought you were dead,” she says, her words nearly lost in her tears. “I was so worried… they said you’d disappeared. I thought I lost you.”

Harry feels a pang of discomfort, unsure of what to do in the face of such an emotional display. It’s strange, seeing Evan like this—so unguarded, so human. The man who normally radiates cold confidence now seems vulnerable as he comforts Aveline.

“I’m sorry, Aveline,” Evan murmurs, his hand gently stroking her hair. “I didn’t have a choice. If I hadn’t disappeared, I’d be dead by now. It was too dangerous to send a message—any communication could have been intercepted. I couldn’t risk it. You could have been targeted, too.”

As Evan continues to console her, Alvin leans over to Harry and quietly explains, “That’s Aveline Laurent, Evan’s fiancée. They’re getting married this summer.”

Harry’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, and he glances back at Evan and Aveline. It feels strange to think of Evan as someone who is engaged, preparing for marriage. He’s always seemed so untouchable, as though nothing could ever reach him. But here he is, holding Aveline like she’s the most important person in the world.

It takes a few moments for Aveline to calm down. With a trembling sigh, she pulls away from Evan and wipes her tear-streaked face. She mutters something in French, and with a quick flick of her wand, she casts a charm that smooths her features and fixes her hair. Instantly, she looks composed again, though her hand remains clasped in Evan’s as they continue down the corridor.

The group heads toward the Floo station, but just as they near the fireplace, hurried footsteps echo behind them. Fleamont Potter catches up, slightly out of breath but looking pleased with himself.

“Everything alright, Uncle?” Harry asks, curiosity creeping into his voice as he studies his grandfather’s face.

Fleamont nods, still catching his breath. “Yes, everything’s fine,” he replies, waving off Harry’s concern. “Your… cousin is quite an interesting conversationalist.” His voice is neutral, but Harry detects a subtle edge behind his words.

Harry raises an eyebrow, stifling a laugh. Regulus and Alvin exchange amused looks, both of them clearly finding the idea of anyone having a casual conversation with Tom Riddle absurd.

“I’ll bet,” Harry says, smirking slightly.

Fleamont’s smile widens, his eyes twinkling with a knowing look. “You’re not wrong, Harry. But it was productive, don’t worry.”

Before Harry can press further, they reach the fireplace. Fleamont ruffles Harry’s hair in a fond gesture. “Take care, Harry.”

Harry grins, playfully swatting at his hair. “You too, Uncle.”

One by one, they step into the Floo. Alvin goes first, disappearing in a swirl of green flames, moving with his usual effortless grace. Regulus follows next, calling out “Hogwarts!” with the same confident poise.

Harry lingers for a moment, watching the flames flicker after Regulus disappears. His mind buzzes with everything that’s happened—Evan’s tenderness with Aveline, Fleamont’s cryptic conversation with Tom Riddle, the strange mix of banter and underlying tension that seems to define every interaction these days.

He inhales deeply before moving in the direction of the fireplace. Harry takes one last look at the others, then he enters the Floo and the green flames erupt all around him. His last image before being whisked away is of Evan and Aveline, standing side by side, their hands intertwined, as if holding onto each other was the only way to keep from being swept away by the currents of their world.

The second he arrives at Hogwarts, however, the graceful landing he hopes for goes entirely wrong. Harry stumbles out of the fireplace, his feet tangled beneath him, and he falls forward, barely catching himself with his hands before hitting the ground entirely. A cloud of soot bursts up around him, covering him in ash.

Laughter erupts around him. Regulus and Alvin, both standing nearby looking as pristine as ever, burst out laughing, their amusement impossible to contain. Alvin actually doubles over, gripping his stomach as he laughs uncontrollably.

“Merlin, Harry!” Alvin manages to gasp between his laughter. “How do you always manage to fall like that?”

Regulus, grinning widely, kneels beside Harry, offering him a hand. “You know,” he says, amusement sparkling in his eyes, “you’re supposed to step out, not collapse out of the fireplace.”

Harry groans, accepting Regulus’ hand and pulling himself to his feet. His face is warm with embarrassment, but he can’t help but crack a smile. “I hate the Floo,” he mutters, brushing off the soot from his robes. “Why can’t I just apparate like a normal wizard?”

“Because you’re still sixteen,” Alvin teases, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. “And also, you’d probably splinch yourself the first time if you’re this bad with a fireplace.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but even he can’t deny how ridiculous he must look, covered in soot. “Very funny.”

Regulus, still smiling, pulls out his wand and waves it with a flick. The soot on Harry’s robes vanishes instantly. “There,” he says, eyeing Harry with satisfaction.

“Thanks,” Harry says with a sheepish grin. He glances between Regulus and Alvin, grateful for the lightness they’ve brought him after such an intense day.

They head toward the dungeons, their steps echoing off the stone walls as they continue to chat and laugh. Despite the tension of the trial earlier, Harry feels a warmth spread through him. In moments like this, surrounded by friends who genuinely care for him, he feels like everything will be okay—no matter how chaotic his life may get.

Even if he still hasn’t figured out how to land properly from the Floo.

Chapter 54: Reality check – Part I

It’s Sunday after breakfast, and Jessica Sterling steps into a world she hardly recognizes. Alvin Rosier, her ever-composed boyfriend, steps gracefully out of the Floo network into the luxurious restaurant with ease, as though he were gliding on air. He quickly dusts himself off and extends his hand just in time to catch Jessica as she stumbles out of the fireplace.

“Thanks,” she mutters, trying to straighten her skirt and pat down her hair, which seems determined to stick up in odd places. Her fingers fumble nervously, a stark contrast to Alvin’s composed elegance.

Before she can fuss any further, Alvin waves his wand. In an instant, her clothes are smoothed, and her hair neatly styled.

“Perfect,” he says with a reassuring smile, his voice calm against her nerves.

Jessica gives him a grateful smile, but beneath it, her eyes betray her uncertainty. “Are you sure this will go well? I mean... it’s so formal. And this place is...” She glances around the opulent restaurant with wide eyes. Everything is elegant, grand—the kind of place where the Rosiers belong and where she feels distinctly out of place.

Alvin chuckles, though his gaze softens. “Evan picked this place. He has a flair for the dramatic. But don’t worry—he’s handling everything. You don’t need to think about the details.”

Jessica nods, but her unease lingers. It’s not just the money—it’s the customs, the tradition, the fact that today, they would be discussing a marriage contract. The word alone sounds like something out of another century.

As they walk through the restaurant, Jessica takes in the surroundings with a mixture of awe and trepidation. The building is beautiful, a blend of old-world charm and modern sophistication. The first floor caters to Muggles—ordinary people who have no idea that magic exists. They eat their meals peacefully, oblivious to the magical world hidden just above them. On the third floor, witches and wizards dine freely, able to use magic in a more open setting, but still carefully concealed from the Muggle world. And the second floor, where they’re headed, is reserved for private meetings—important, often life-changing events, like the one awaiting them.

They ascend the plush-carpeted staircase, Alvin’s footsteps steady. Jessica trails behind, her thoughts a blur.

“Are all magical marriages like this?” she blurts out as they reach the landing. “Contracts? Ministry officials?”

“Not all,” Alvin says. “But in families like mine, it’s tradition. It ensures clarity—roles, responsibilities, expectations.”

Jessica mutters, “Right,” still struggling to reconcile her idea of marriage with this reality.

Alvin opens a door, revealing a softly lit room. Inside, Evan Rosier sits with perfect posture beside a stern-looking witch with a Ministry badge.

“Alvin,” Evan says, nodding before turning to Jessica. “Ms. Sterling, you look lovely.”

“Thank you,” she replies, cheeks warm. Evan’s intensity always makes her feel like she’s being evaluated.

“This is Madam Carroway from the Ministry,” Evan continues. “She’ll oversee the formalities, especially given your parents’ background.”

Jessica’s eyes widen, the reality of the moment sinking deeper. The air feels heavier.

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sterling,” says Madam Carroway, her voice crisp. “We’re here to ensure transparency and fairness, particularly in cross-world unions.”

Jessica swallows hard, trying to stay composed. Alvin gives her hand a gentle squeeze.

She nods and sits beside him, the plush chair a jarring contrast to her tension. The chandelier sparkles above them, but she can’t focus. The upper tiers of the wizarding world still feel like another planet.

A waiter approaches, dressed impeccably in formal black robes, and bows slightly. “Good morning, Heir Rosier, Ms. Sterling,” he says with a respectful nod, offering them menus printed on parchment instead of regular paper. Even that detail feels alien to her. "May I take your drink orders?"

“Water, please,” Jessica says softly, barely glancing at the menu. She can feel her hands trembling slightly and grips the edges of it tighter.

 “Butterbeer for me,” Alvin says smoothly, flashing a smile as if this were just another casual outing.

The waiter nods and disappears just as swiftly as he came, leaving Jessica to fumble through the intricately laid-out menu. She stares at the words, but they swim before her eyes.

Her gaze drifts across the ornate room, trying not to drown in the enormity of it all.

The door creaks open again, and her heart skips a beat as her parents step into the room. Her mother’s eyes widen, taking in the grandeur with the same awe Jessica feels, while her father tugs uncomfortably at his tie, his brow furrowed in a way that betrays his discomfort.

“Jessica!” her mother exclaims, her voice a hushed whisper of surprise as she hurries over, wide-eyed. "This place is... I’ve never seen anything like it."

Jessica quickly embraces her. The gesture is familiar, but the space around it feels surreal.

“Mum, Dad—this is Lord Evan Rosier, Alvin’s brother. And Madam Carroway from the Ministry.”

Her father nods stiffly. “Pleasure to meet you, Lord Rosier.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Sterling,” Evan replies smoothly. “Thank you for coming.”

Jessica watches her parents take their seats, noting how tightly her mother clutches her purse, how her father’s fingers drum against the table. The whole situation seems as foreign to them as it feels to her.

Once everyone is seated, the waiter returns with their drinks, setting them down with impeccable precision. "If there's anything else you need, don't hesitate to call me," he says smoothly. "I will return at eleven to take your orders for lunch. Until then, I wish you success with your business."

With that, the door closes softly behind him, leaving a quiet tension hanging in the room.

Her mother looks at her, concern flickering in her eyes. Her father clears his throat. “So, uh... marriage contract, is it?”

“Yes,” Evan says. “A tradition in our world—especially among old families. It’s a serious commitment, and both Ms. Sterling and Alvin have had time to consider it.”

Madam Carroway adds, “It ensures clarity and protection for both parties, especially when cultural expectations differ.”

Jessica’s father nods slowly. “Well... we trust Jessica’s judgment.”

Her mother leans closer. “Is this really how things work here?”

Jessica hesitates. “It’s tradition,” she says quietly. “For families like theirs.”

Madam Carroway nods. “The contract helps bridge the gap between customs. It may seem unfamiliar, but it’s well-established.”

Her mother’s expression softens slightly, but her confusion doesn’t entirely fade. “I just don’t want you to be... pressured into anything, Jessica.”

“I’m not,” Jessica says quickly, though her voice wavers slightly. “It’s just... different.”

That word lingers. Different. Everything about this world is different—its rules, its expectations, even how it defines love and commitment. Jessica cares deeply for Alvin, but as Madam Carroway unfurls the thick scroll of parchment, and the quill begins to hover in wait, she can’t help but wonder how she’ll ever feel at home in a world that wasn’t made for her.

“Let’s start with your expectations and desires for this marriage,” Madam Carroway says crisply. “I’ll take detailed notes for the contract." Her tone is businesslike, but her eyes flick between Alvin and Jessica, watching them closely.

Jessica feels a tightening in her chest. She’s heard Alvin speak about the seriousness of pureblood marriage contracts before, but sitting here, experiencing it firsthand, is something else entirely. She glances at Alvin for reassurance, but before he can speak, Evan takes control.

"Ms. Sterling will marry into the Rosier family and take our name," Evan begins, his voice steady and authoritative. "I expect the standard fidelity clauses. No infidelity. And the treatment clauses—no abuse, physical, verbal, or magical—should be outlined."

Jessica's heart skips at the mention of infidelity. She knows it’s standard, but hearing it aloud stings. She sneaks a glance at Alvin, who remains quiet, his brow slightly furrowed. This isn’t like the future they used to talk about—hopeful and warm. Now, everything feels clinical.

“And what are your thoughts on children?” Evan asks, turning to the pair of them.

Alvin flushes. "Uh... I like kids," he says awkwardly. "We’d eventually have children. Yes."

Jessica stares at her lap. "I’d like to have them in the future," she murmurs.

Evan nods. "The number of children will not be specified, nor a timeline. However, unless Ms. Sterling loses the ability to bear children, she will be required to give Alvin at least one child. Gender is not specified."

Jessica stiffens. The phrasing—required—lands with a weight she hadn’t prepared for. She’s aware this is how wizarding families operate, but hearing it makes it real in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

Evan’s tone softens slightly as he continues. "I will arrange for an etiquette tutor to guide Ms. Sterling in the customs of our world. It’s important she understands her responsibilities as Alvin’s wife, especially in high society."

Jessica feels her throat tighten. She expected a learning curve, but being told outright she might otherwise embarrass herself is suffocating. What if she messes up?

Alvin must sense her unease because his hand, warm and steady, slips into hers under the table. He squeezes gently, and the small gesture offers her a moment of relief. Still, the weight of Evan’s words hangs in the air, a stark reminder of how much she will have to change to fit into their world.

They continue discussing other terms—finances, a substantial monthly allowance for her, stipulations about assets, and even family traditions. It all feels overwhelming, the legal language swirling around her like a fog she can’t quite see through.

Finally, Madam Carroway clears her throat. "Now, since both of you are of age," she says, "you could, in theory, marry as soon as the contract is finalized. Have you given any thought to the timing?"

Evan gestures loosely. "That decision is theirs."

Jessica meets Alvin’s gaze, her heart pounding. Alvin speaks calmly. " We’ve talked about it. We’d like to wait until after graduation. It gives us time to finish school and… just be together without pressure."

Jessica nods, relieved. At least that part still feels like a choice.

Madam Carroway makes a note. "Very well. After graduation it is." She pauses, offering them a brief smile. "It’s good to give yourselves time. These things… they’re a lot to take in."

Jessica glances at Alvin, her hand still in his. A lot to take in feels like an understatement.

Madam Carroway’s quill stills, then she glances at Evan. “Now,” she says briskly, “we must discuss the matter of divorce.”

The room freezes. Jessica’s parents shift in their seats. Her mother’s eyes widen. Her father frowns deeply. Jessica herself is stunned. Divorce hadn't even crossed her mind.

Evan’s expression turns cold. “Divorce,” he repeats, like the word leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “In our world, it’s almost unheard of. However, I understand the need to include a clause, given Ms. Sterling’s background.”

His next words are sharp. “If a divorce occurs, and Alvin has not violated the contract, Ms. Sterling will lose the Rosier name, receive no financial support, and have no claim to assets gained through the family. Full custody of any children would go to Alvin.”

Jessica feels as though the air’s been sucked from the room. Her parents look stunned—her mother instinctively reaches for Jessica’s hand, her father barely containing his outrage.

Chapter 55: Reality check – Part II

Madam Carroway interjects calmly. “This may seem severe, Mr. and Mrs. Sterling,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact, “but you must understand that wizards and witches, particularly those from noble families, marry for life. If your daughter were from a wizarding family, we wouldn’t even be discussing this. There would be no divorce clause at all.”

Jessica’s heart pounds in her chest, her mind swirling with confusion and shock. She knows the wizarding world is different, that they have their own customs and traditions, but this—this feels brutal. The idea that divorce would strip her of everything, even her children, feels suffocating. She glances at Alvin, hoping for some sort of reassurance, but he’s looking down at the table, his expression unreadable.

Her father, less restrained than her mother, leans forward slightly, his voice tight. “But… what if things change? What if Alvin turns out to be—well, not the man we think he is?”

“That,” Evan replies evenly, “is what the fidelity and non-abuse clauses are for. If either party violates these terms, the marriage can be annulled. But if Alvin remains loyal, faithful, and adheres to the contract, the marriage is binding. We do not marry lightly, Mr. Sterling. In our world, someone who chooses to walk away from a loyal spouse, forfeits any right to leniency.”

Jessica’s father looks as though he’s about to argue, his mouth tightening, but he glances at his daughter and holds back. The weight of Evan’s words presses heavily on everyone in the room. Jessica’s mother, still visibly disturbed, reaches out and places her hand over Jessica’s, her concern palpable.

Jessica sits still, overwhelmed. The Rosiers may live by ancient traditions, but this—this is her life. And it’s beginning to feel like she’s part of some old, unchangeable system, one that doesn’t care about individual feelings or personal happiness.

Her mother, voice uncertain, asks, "And what if Alvin wants out?"

Evan and Alvin both glance at her, puzzled—as if the idea itself is foreign.

Madam Carroway leans in. "Heir Rosier will not have that option. Unless Ms. Sterling breaches the contract, he cannot seek divorce. In families like his, the contract is for life."

Jessica’s parents exchange stunned looks. Her father asks, “But what if it doesn’t work out?”

“If, at some point in the future, they fall out of love, Ms. Sterling can move into a separate bedroom. She is entitled to her own rooms.” Evan says matter of fact, “And if she wants to spend time away from Alvin, as long as she doesn’t break the infidelity or non-abuse clauses, she is free to travel the world on our money.”

Madam Carroway offers a thin, almost mechanical smile. "This contract is modeled after ancient arrangements. Marriage among noble families was—and often still is—a matter of legacy, not love. Both parties are expected to honor it.”

Jessica shivers. She looks to Alvin, hoping for reassurance.

Alvin finally speaks, his voice quiet. “If this were a truly old-fashioned contract,” he says, “it would be even stricter.”

Jessica’s attention sharpens at Alvin’s words, a cold knot forming in her chest. "Stricter?" she echoes, barely above a whisper. The idea that it could get worse seems absurd—until she sees the heaviness in his expression.

"In traditional contracts," Alvin says carefully, "the wife had to bear at least two sons. One to inherit, one as backup. And… there were no protections—no safeguards against mistreatment. It was never about love. Just legacy."

Jessica’s breath catches. "No clause against abuse?" she asks, horrified. "How could anyone agree to that?"

Alvin’s expression darkens, and he lets out a quiet sigh. "They didn’t really have a choice," he says softly. "In those times, especially in noble families, marriages were treated like business transactions. They weren’t about love or even mutual respect. They were about power, wealth, and securing alliances. It didn’t matter how the individuals felt. The family’s reputation and legacy were all that mattered."

A thick silence falls. Jessica’s parents exchange a stricken look. It’s clear now: this world operates by rules they don’t understand—and never imagined they’d have to.

Her mother speaks next, voice tight. "But you’re not like that. This contract—it isn’t one of those, is it?"

Alvin shakes his head quickly. "No. Ours is modern. It has protections. I’d never ask Jessica to live under something like that." He pauses, then adds, "But the old ways still linger. They shape expectations—even if we don't follow them exactly."

Jessica’s chest tightens. She believes him—feels his sincerity—but still, the weight of this world presses down. It’s like stepping into a role she doesn’t know the script for.

Alvin shifts uncomfortably again, clearly struggling to find the right words. "If my father were still alive," he continues, his voice tight with emotion, "I wouldn’t even have this much say in who I marry. He would have already started arranging a marriage for me with a girl from a family with a good name and standing. It wouldn’t have mattered who I loved or what I wanted. That’s how it’s been for centuries. And unless I brought someone equally respected to him before graduation, I wouldn’t have had a choice."

Jessica listens intently, her mind racing as Alvin’s words sink in. She feels a tightening in her chest, and her hands tremble slightly, though she fights to keep her voice steady. "So… you would’ve been… sold off, essentially? Like a transaction?" she asks, her blunt phrasing hanging in the air.

Alvin winces, visibly uncomfortable with her choice of words but nods slowly. "In a way, yes," he admits. "It would’ve been more about what was best for the family than what I wanted. Evan or my father wouldn’t have forced me to marry someone I truly couldn’t stand— in most families there’s always some attempt at finding common ground. But, ultimately, it wasn’t about love. It was about alliances, reputation, and preserving the bloodline."

She feels a chill run down her spine. "Is that why girls follow you and Regulus around?" She had always noticed how certain girls seemed to orbit around Alvin and Regulus, almost like they were competing for something—something more than just teenage crushes.

Alvin groans, rubbing his temples. "Yeah. They’re after marriage contracts," he says, his tone filled with frustration. "Either with me or with Regulus. They don’t care about us as people, just what we represent." He pauses, then adds with a wry smile, "Except for Rookwood. She’s the only girl I can actually tolerate because she’s too obsessed with Quidditch to bother. She never tried to get close to me or Regulus for a contract."

Jessica murmurs, "That’s... intense." It feels like something from a different century.

"Many of your classmates would kill for the contract you’re being offered," Evan, who had been quietly observing the conversation, interjects "That’s why you’ll be wearing an engagement ring with protective charms and the Rosier family crest. It’s a public declaration. You won’t take it off until the wedding day, at which point you’ll receive the wedding ring."

Jessica frowns. "Protective charms?"

Alvin leans forward slightly, his gaze softening as he explains. "It’s as much a show of love as it is a show of protection," he says gently. "By giving you the ring, we’re basically claiming you as a member of the Rosier family. It’s a signal to anyone with ill intentions that you’re under our protection. If someone dared to attack you, they’d be facing the full force of the Rosiers. "

"Why would anyone try to hurt me?" she asks, voice rising.

Alvin squeezes her hand reassuringly. "Most people wouldn’t be stupid enough to try," he says quickly, trying to calm her down. "The Rosier name carries a lot of weight, and most families wouldn’t survive the consequences of crossing us. The Potters and the Blacks are two of the few families with enough power to withstand that kind of conflict, but we don’t have to worry about them."

Jessica tries to absorb it all. Engagement rings as wards, family names as shields, girls vying for magical alliances. It’s overwhelming. But Alvin’s hand in hers steadies her.

"I know it’s a lot," he says gently. "But this isn’t to trap you. It’s to protect you. I chose you. Not because I had to—but because I want to."

Jessica’s heart swells at his words, and though the anxiety still lingers, a part of her feels reassured. Alvin wasn’t like the others. He didn’t want to use her for some twisted sense of duty or power. He was different. And that made this whole situation a little easier to bear.

Her parents relax slightly—uncertainty still on their faces, but with the edges softened. Her father nods. Her mother reaches out and gives Jessica’s hand a squeeze.

Madam Carroway, who had been quietly taking notes, breaks the silence with the scratching of her quill on the parchment. "We’ll move forward with the contract, then," she says briskly. "Both parties have agreed to the terms regarding children and fidelity, and I will add clauses to ensure that Ms. Sterling receives appropriate education in wizarding customs."

Jessica stiffens. Another reminder of all she doesn’t know. But she only nods.

Madam Carroway pauses for a moment, glancing over her parchment before looking at Evan. "Shall we proceed with the signing once I have everything written out?" she asks, her tone crisp and professional.

Evan nods, his face calm but focused. "Yes," he says firmly. "I believe everything has been covered to our satisfaction."

Jessica glances at Alvin. Despite everything, she smiles—nervous but genuine. This is terrifying. But he’s worth it.

Madam Carroway excuses herself to prepare the final version. "I will bring it to you after the meal," she says, giving a polite nod before retreating into the next room.

As if on cue, another presence enters the dining room. A young woman, appearing to be a couple of years older than Jessica, steps gracefully toward them. She’s dressed in elegant traditional wizarding robes, her dark hair cascading in waves over her shoulders. Everything about her, from the way she moves to the way she holds herself, radiates poise.

Evan stands up and gestures toward the newcomer. “This is Aveline Laurent, my fiancée,” he introduces her. “Aveline will be Ms. Sterling’s etiquette teacher.”

Jessica feels a flicker of surprise. His fiancée? She glances between Aveline and Evan, noting the genuine fondness in his expression. There’s an undeniable beauty and grace about Aveline, and Jessica can’t help but feel a bit out of place. Aveline seems to fit so perfectly into this world—into their world.

Aveline offers Jessica a smile, her French accent lilting as she speaks. “Ms. Sterling,” she begins, stepping forward and extending her hand, “I am so pleased to meet you. Evan has told me much about you.” Her smile deepens as she adds, “I will be your etiquette teacher. Normally, it would have been Alvin’s and Evan’s mother, but… as you may know, she passed away some years ago. With no other women in the immediate family, the responsibility falls to me.”

Jessica shakes her hand, unsure how to respond under that warm, practiced gaze.

Sensing her unease, Aveline quickly waves off any formality. “Oh, but I assure you, it’s no duty,” she says with a light laugh. “We are to be family, after all. I would love to get to know you better.” She gives Jessica an encouraging nod. “We’ll make a proper young lady out of you in no time. I’m sure of it.”

Jessica smiles awkwardly. A proper young lady? She glances at Alvin, silently asking for reassurance, and he gives her a quick, reassuring smile.

As they sit for lunch, Alvin helps her and her mother with the menu, her father defaulting to copy her order—an oddly comforting detail.

The food is exquisite, nothing like what she’s used to. Jessica takes careful bites, trying to keep up appearances. Aveline nods approvingly. “You’re doing well. I can see that Alvin has been teaching you.”

Jessica smiles. “A little.”

As they continue eating, the conversation shifts naturally to lighter topics—fashion being one of them. Jessica listens intently as Aveline talks about wizarding attire.

“Makeup,” Aveline says thoughtfully, “isn’t something we typically wear in the same way Muggles do. We use potions and charms to enhance our appearance. I could teach you, if you’d like.”

Jessica nods, intrigued. “I’d love that.”

Aveline continues, explaining what’s considered proper attire. “Skirts should never be shorter than knee-length, and tops shouldn’t show too much skin. If the neckline is low, you can wear something underneath to cover up. Modesty is important in traditional circles.”

Jessica nods, mentally scanning her Muggle wardrobe. Definitely not up to code. She wonders if her favorite clothes can be altered.

Hair, too, comes up. “Shoulder-length at minimum, unless the chosen profession demands it shorter” Aveline advises. “And tied up for professional settings.”

Jessica swallows. “So… if I’m going to work?” she asks hesitantly.

“You don’t need to unless you want to,” Aveline assures her. “But there are expectations either way.”

It’s a lot. No makeup. Modest clothing. Long hair. The unspoken assumption of motherhood. Jessica nods, not trusting herself to speak. But she’s determined. She’ll figure it out.

After a decadent dessert, Jessica leans back, feeling pleasantly full, but also aware that if meals like this become the norm, she might need to start exercising more regularly. She can’t imagine indulging like this all the time without gaining weight.

After dessert, Madam Carroway returns. She reads the contract aloud. Jessica’s heart thunders, but she listens.

Evan and her father review and sign first, then her and Alvin.

With the contract signed, Alvin turns to Jessica, his expression soft but serious. “There’s one more thing,” he says quietly.

He pulls out a velvet box and opens it. Inside is a delicate ring bearing the Rosier crest. Gently, he slides it onto her finger.

“This is our commitment,” he whispers. “You’re part of my family now.”

Jessica stares at the ring, emotions swirling—fear, awe, hope. She’s still unsure of the world she’s entering, but of one thing, she is certain.

She’s in this for Alvin.

And when she looks up, she sees it reflected back in his eyes—he’s in this for her too.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Harry’s time travel adventures