The Name in the Fire

by NeglectfulVoid

Summary:

Some truths refuse to stay buried.

***

What starts as a simple “Harry is a Malfoy” twist explodes into the story of Castor Malfoy—a creature-loving, rule-defying wizard making waves in the Triwizard Tournament and beyond. With a family he’s only just met, friends both human and not, a stack of jobs, and more secrets than he knows what to do with, Castor’s life is anything but ordinary. But in a world where lies travel faster than the truth and even a Dark Lord can’t decide whether to fear him or use him, one thing is certain: history will remember both his names.

***

Mostly canon until the Goblet of Fire, aside from the whole kidnapping thing.

Notes:

First post. Be gentle. Would love some feed back though. See if it's worth continuing with this story or not. Let me know!

Chapter 1

Harry Potter had never been especially fortunate. His parents, Lily and James Potter, were murdered by Voldemort when he was just a baby, leaving him orphaned and alone. The Dark Lord’s killing curse, meant to end his life, rebounded instead—leaving Harry with nothing but a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead and a legacy he never asked for. Protected by his mother’s sacrificial magic, he survived—but the price was immeasurable.

Afterward, Harry was placed in the care of his only living relatives: the Dursleys, a Muggle family who loathed anything to do with magic. They kept the truth about his past hidden, lied about how his parents died, and tried relentlessly to squash any sign of his magical heritage. For ten long years at Number Four Privet Drive, Harry endured neglect, cruelty, and complete isolation—until, on his eleventh birthday, everything changed.

That was the day he received his Hogwarts letter.

At Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry finally found the closest thing he’d ever had to a real home. There, he made his first friends—Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger—and their first year ended with them unraveling the mystery of the Philosopher’s Stone. It also brought Harry face-to-face with a still-weakened Voldemort, who was already plotting his return.

In second year, the nightmare of the Chamber of Secrets unfolded. Lucius Malfoy, underhanded as ever, slipped a cursed diary into Ginny Weasley’s belongings. The diary, it turned out, had belonged to Tom Riddle—Voldemort himself. It possessed Ginny, reopened the Chamber, and unleashed a deadly Basilisk. Harry risked everything to stop it. He killed the serpent and destroyed the diary, ending the threat.

Third year brought more startling revelations. Harry learned that Sirius Black—his godfather—had not betrayed his parents, as everyone believed. Thanks to the use of a time-turner, Harry and Hermione managed to rescue Sirius from a fate worse than death, but he still remained on the run, branded a criminal.

By the time his fourth year rolled around, Harry was ready for a quiet term. With the Triwizard Tournament being hosted at Hogwarts, all attention shifted to the visiting schools and, in particular, Viktor Krum, the Quidditch star from Durmstrang. For once, Harry relished being out of the spotlight. He wasn’t eligible to enter the competition, and he had no desire to.

That evening, Harry nearly skipped the Goblet of Fire selection ceremony. After spending the afternoon with Hagrid, he’d felt tempted to head to bed early—but chose to stay and support Angelina Johnson, his friend and fellow Gryffindor, who had entered her name. All of Gryffindor House turned out to cheer her on.

Harry half-listened as Dumbledore addressed the crowd and watched with mild interest as the Goblet began to glow. First up was Viktor Krum—no surprise there. Even the Durmstrang students barely reacted, clearly expecting the outcome. Karkaroff looked positively smug, and Harry wondered if the results had been nudged in someone’s favor.

Next came Fleur Delacour, representing Beauxbatons. Harry recognized her at once—she had the ethereal beauty of a Veela, and it showed in the way she carried herself.

“It’s her!” Ron blurted, awestruck. Hermione, unimpressed, noted how blasé the other Beauxbatons students looked with the choice.

Harry noticed that their Headmistress seemed particularly satisfied too. Could she have had a hand in the selection? Maybe he was overthinking it. Perhaps the Goblet simply picked the most remarkable candidates—the kind who would make for a good show. Because in the end, that’s what the Tournament was: dangerous, yes, but still a performance.

With that logic, Harry tried to guess who Hogwarts’ champion would be. Had he entered, he was fairly certain he would’ve been chosen. But among the actual candidates, Cedric Diggory seemed the obvious choice. Both Cedric and Angelina were prefects and skilled Quidditch players. Still, Cedric had a broader reputation—he was the only person to ever beat Harry to the Snitch, even if Dementors had helped. He was well-liked across the houses. Angelina, while respected, didn’t quite have the same cross-house appeal.

The Goblet flared again.

“Cedric Diggory!”

Harry grinned slightly—he’d been right. He gave Angelina a quick word of consolation before beginning to stand. With all the champions chosen, there was no reason to stay.

But then the Goblet sparked again.

Another name.

Harry froze.

He looked toward the front just in time to see Dumbledore catch the parchment. For a heartbeat, the Headmaster stood completely still, eyes locked on the paper in surprise.

“What eez ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-door?” Madame Maxime demanded, rising from her seat.

It was the first time Harry had ever seen Dumbledore look truly thrown off balance.

“It appears... a fourth name has been selected,” the old man said, his voice quieter than usual.

“From which school?” Karkaroff asked sharply.

“That,” Dumbledore said slowly, “is where things become complicated. I know the name... but the child never attended Hogwarts. In fact, they were presumed dead years ago.”

“The Goblet wouldn’t pick a dead name,” Ludo Bagman pointed out.

“No, it wouldn’t,” Dumbledore agreed gravely. Then, turning back toward the Hall, he raised his voice.

“Is Castor Malfoy present?”

The room erupted in noise.

Harry’s eyes darted to the Slytherin table. He found Malfoy instantly—pale, wide-eyed, and visibly shaken.

“Who’s Castor Malfoy?” Harry asked, genuinely puzzled.

“You haven’t heard?” Hermione responded, brows raised.

“You have?” Ron asked, sounding surprised.

Hermione gave him a familiar eye roll. “Of course I have. It’s only the most famous missing persons case in the wizarding world. Harry, Castor Malfoy is Draco’s twin brother.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. He instinctively glanced around the Great Hall for Draco, catching a glimpse of him just as he slipped out the door with Snape following closely behind.

Hermione pressed on. “He vanished from his crib when he was just a baby. One day he was there, and the next—gone. The DMLE was contacted immediately. Aurors investigated and found all the house-elves unconscious. They even brought in Unspeakables from the Department of Mysteries to analyze the wards, looking for traces of strange magical interference. But no unknown individuals had entered—only people already authorized to be there.”

“How long ago?” Harry asked, still processing.

“They were born June fifth,” Ron answered. “He disappeared exactly one month later.”

Harry inhaled sharply. “A month? I don’t like the Malfoys, but... a baby? Why would anyone take a baby?”

Hermione’s gaze was sharp. “Why would anyone try to kill one?” she countered, pointedly.

That shut Harry up.

“Most people believed it was tied to the war,” she continued. “They suspected Voldemort’s followers were behind it, though the Malfoys insisted the Aurors broaden the investigation. They didn’t think it was related to him.”

“Yeah,” Ron added bitterly. “That’s actually how the rumors started—about Lucius being a Death Eater. He was pushing the Ministry to look in all kinds of shady places. Claimed You-Know-Who didn’t have the kid, so it had to be someone else.”

Hermione nodded. “The search slowed down after the war ended. Lucius testified before the Wizengamot that he was not a real Death Eater but had been cursed into taking the mark. The prevailing theory became that Voldemort wanted the child for some specific purpose, and under the curse, Mr. Malfoy handed over the baby and had his memory altered.”

“That’s awful,” Harry murmured, feeling a strange pang of sympathy for a man he’d long despised. No child should be caught in a war.

“Yes,” Hermione said quietly, “but now there’s evidence he’s alive.”

“But he never came forward,” Ron argued. “It could just be a cruel joke.”

“Maybe,” Hermione said. “But as Bagman said, the Goblet wouldn’t select a dead name. The enchantments are ancient and precise.”

Harry turned his eyes back to the adults in the room. The three heads of school were huddled with Bagman, Moody, and Crouch. Bagman was flipping through a rulebook, looking increasingly frantic. Moody and Karkaroff seemed to be arguing. Professors McGonagall and Sprout were speaking to the champions who’d come out to investigate the delay.

A moment later, Snape returned, trailed by Draco—and behind them, a group of people swept into the hall with quiet urgency.

Harry recognized Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy immediately, and at their side was none other than the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. The others, dressed in matching uniforms, looked serious and alert.

“Aurors,” Hermione murmured, though Harry hadn’t asked. “And that woman with the monocle is Amelia Bones—Susan’s aunt. She runs the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Mr. Malfoy didn’t wait to approach fully before demanding, “You have proof that our son is alive?”

“Castor Malfoy’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire,” Dumbledore explained, uncharacteristically direct. “No one has claimed to enter it, and we have no student enrolled under that name. The Goblet cannot choose a deceased individual. The enchantments ensure that only a living witch or wizard with a valid entry may be selected.”

Narcissa’s calm mask cracked slightly. “Someone entered him into the Tournament?”

Amelia Bones worried, “But what happens if we can’t find him? The Tournament is magically binding. If he’s not even here…”

Bagman interrupted, still frantically flipping through the rulebook. “That’s exactly why it requires a genuine signature. The contract can't be forged. It’s bound to the person who signed it.”

Lucius’s brows drew together. “Genuine… signature?”

Dumbledore nodded. “We believe someone obtained Castor’s signature—possibly through a document or object—and submitted it on his behalf. The enchantment bound the name as long as it was authentic. We first thought perhaps it came from homework, but Castor isn’t a student. The specifics are unclear. All we know is that the magic is holding—and it recognized him.”

Bagman suddenly looked up from the book with a gasp. “Here! In 1604, there was a dispute when two cousins—Samuel Descenders and Sam Descenders—both entered the Goblet. Since both were known by the same name, the enchantment was altered to automatically glamour the paper with a participant’s true name. If there’s ever confusion, a simple Revelio can strip the charm and reveal the original entry.”

Without hesitation, Lucius strode to Dumbledore and snatched the slip of parchment, and raised his wand.

“Revelio.”

The room held its breath.

As the glamour faded, the letters rearranged themselves on the parchment. Lucius Malfoy’s usually impassive face turned ghostly pale.

There, in unmistakable ink, were the words:

“Harry Potter.”

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Notes:

Yes, I had the first two chapters done. I wanted more feed back and the first one was rather short.

Chapter 2
Everyone turned to the Gryffindor table, looking for the boy who was quickly paling and trying to shrink. Hermione was urging Harry to move forward, but he was resistant to participating in any of it.

After all, he had not entered the tournament. Someone else had entered his name. Harry’s wide eyes never left Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy who had not seemed to find him yet.

Harry was vigorously shaking his head from side to side. None of it made any sense. Everyone knew who his parents were. He did not even look like a Malfoy. It had to be a mistake but how?

Hermione's insistence that Harry stand was ineffective until Ron intervened and essentially threw the smaller boy out of his seat. Harry glared at Ron for his rough treatment only to find the boy was already glaring at him while Hermione looked horrified when Harry barely caught himself and almost landed on the floor.

Having been forced to stand Harry was now seen by all and his breathing picked up in a panic. The head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement approached Harry with a composed demeanor and calmly said, "It's alright, Harry. We’re going to the antechamber to discuss everything that happened.” She gently placed an arm on his and guided him down the hall, away from the other students.

The boy lowered his head as he was escorted out, followed by a group of people.

Madam Bones guided Harry to a chair, noting his visible trembling. He sat quietly, not knowing what to say, and observing the chaos that surrounded him. As soon as the door closed, arguments erupted. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons heads claimed his entry was unfair, while Hogwarts professors sought a way out of it. Harry could feel the eyes of the Malfoy family burning into him, but he could not bare to look at them. Soon Lucius and the Minister, who had been quiet for most of the evening, began expressing their opinions when Dumbledore tried to ask Harry a couple of questions.

“Castor has clearly had no part of this,” Lucius scoffed.

“You had said it yourself, Albus,” Fudge added, “If an underage student had tried to get passed the age line you would have known.”

"I was simply inquiring if he had an older student do it on his behalf," Dumbledore stated calmly.

Fudge tutted, “Look at the boy, Albus. If he had any idea his name would come out of the goblet he would not look about ready to pass out.”

"It is possible the response is largely due to him not being Harry Potter rather than being entered in the tournament.”

It was both. Harry understood that it was both. His mind found it challenging to concentrate on one or the other as both were unfavorable.

Moody suggested that someone was trying to kill Harry, prompting Bagman to argue. Harry remained silent. He looked at the other Champions. Fleur appeared displeased with the situation, but Viktor and Cedric did not seem upset by his presence. Cedric looked concerned about him, while Viktor gave him a curious glance. Realizing the conversation was unproductive, those uninvolved in the Castor

Malfoy situation were asked to leave. The remaining group consisted of Harry, the Malfoys, Dumbledore, Snape, McGonagall, Bones, and Fudge.

There were still far too many people in the room for Harry’ s liking but it did not sound like they would be there much longer. Madam Bones was saying that they would take him someplace called St. Mungo’s though Dumbledore argued that Madam Pomfrey was more than capable of a thorough check up for there records. Lucius was having none of it.

“He will be seeing our personal healer at St. Mungo’s,” Mr. Malfoy stated leaving no room for arguments. “We’ll be taking Castor and Draco for a few days.”

Dumbledore made an attempt to intervene, but Madam Bones cut him off. “This is for the best,” she said firmly. “I may need to speak with Castor soon, and having him at Malfoy Manor makes that easier. Separating a family right after they've just met would be unnecessarily cruel. It’s only for a few days while things settle.”

With that, Madam Bones gently urged Harry from his chair, and together with the Malfoys, they followed Snape toward his office. From there, the group began flooing to St. Mungo’s.

Not wanting to risk losing Harry in the process, Madam Bones insisted he travel with someone. Harry chose her, still unable to bring himself to even look at the Malfoys—let alone touch one.

St. Mungo’s Hospital was bright, bustling, and slightly chaotic. The main reception area resembled a large, open atrium with polished floors and high ceilings, filled with the hum of chatter, footsteps, and occasional magical misfortune. Healers in lime-green robes move quickly between rooms, levitating charts or conjuring supplies with their wands. There’s a sense of warmth and care that permeates the hospital and makes Harry feel more at ease.

Harry lingered off to the side while Lucius spoke with the receptionist to request his usual healer. He wasn’t sure why he felt so nervous—he wasn’t hurt or anything. It was just a routine checkup, and from what he’d seen in the hospital wing, wizarding examinations were usually far less invasive than Muggle ones.

The Healer arrived swiftly introducing himself as Healer Jackson Redwood. The man asked Harry if he wanted to do the examination alone or have someone accompany him. Harry immediately chose to go alone without considering the other option.

Harry followed a quiet Healer into a softly lit examination room, the door clicking shut behind him with a gentle snick. The room was warmer than he expected, not cold and sterile like a Muggle clinic, but cozy in an odd, magical sort of way. Shelves lined with glowing potions and softly humming instruments floated lazily in the air, casting faint reflections on the polished floor.

The Healer—an older wizard with kind eyes—gave Harry a small smile before raising his wand. "Just a quick scan."

A ripple of golden light passed over him, tickling slightly as it moved from head to toe. Harry resisted the urge to shift his weight. He knew he wasn’t hurt, wasn’t even sick, but the faint prickling of nerves hadn't gone away.

As he waved his wand again, a translucent image of his body hovered in the air beside him, runes blinking softly along the edges. It looked like something out of one of Hermione’s more advanced books.

“Heart rate normal, magical core stable,” the Healer murmured, more to himself than to him. A tiny orb floated up from a tray, spinning gently before pressing itself to his wrist. It glowed blue, then green, then vanished with a soft pop. He made a note on a floating parchment.

"Any headaches? Sudden surges of uncontrolled magic? Trouble sleeping?" the Healer asked casually.

Harry hesitated. He wanted to say no—but that wouldn't be the truth. His scar still gave him headaches more often than he liked to admit. A year ago, he'd accidentally blown-up Aunt Marge—surely that counted as a magic surge. And the nightmares? He'd had them for years, but lately, they'd grown worse.

"Yes," he said quietly, choosing honesty.

The Healer glanced up from his notes. "Which one?"

Harry gave a small shrug. "All of them."

“Well, Mr. Malfoy,” the Healer began—Harry winced at the name— “there are a few concerns in your medical history. You’re mildly malnourished—not severely, but enough that I’ll be recommending a high-protein, vitamin-rich diet. I’ll give the details to your parents. Do you have any idea what might have caused this?

Harry immediately thought of the Dursleys, but he wasn’t ready to share that. Instead, he gave a small shrug and replied, “I get stomach aches if I eat too much.” It wasn’t a lie—whenever he tried to match the appetite of the Weasley boys, he always ended up overeating and feeling sick.

Jotting something down on his clipboard, Healer Redwood muttered, “We can get you some stomach soothers—hopefully that’ll help you tolerate more calories.”

He moved on without pause, beginning to ask about past injuries: all broken bones, the arm that had been accidentally vanished by Gilderoy Lockhart, and even a trace of venom still lingering in his system—likely from the basilisk. And, of course, he eventually asked about the scar.

He waved off the broken bones as being clumsy, had no problem explaining what an idiot Lockhart was, and he just skipped over the basilisk bite not wanting to get into that whole thing. If the venom had not killed him yet he should be fine. He went onto his scar a decided to tell the healer about how it burns.

Healer Redwood didn’t bother to hide his displeasure at Harry’s evasive answers, but Harry didn’t care. He was certain everything he said would be passed on to the Malfoys and Madam Bones, and frankly, he didn’t see how any of it was their business. None of what he’d kept to himself had anything to do with the kidnapping.

After swishing his wand several more times, the healer suddenly straightened with a triumphant gleam in his eye. “Ah-ha! Finally figured you out.”

Harry jumped slightly at the outburst—it was a sharp contrast to the man’s previously calm demeanor. The healer seemed to notice and cleared his throat quickly. “Apologies, Mr. Malfoy. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just—I've been struggling to figure out why you appear the way you do. I ran every glamour diagnostic I know. So, I thought—it must be something stronger. A potion. Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, have you ever heard of Faciem Parentes?”

Harry shook his head silently.

“Not surprising,” the healer said with a nod. “I hadn’t heard of it myself until healer training. It’s very outdated and considered somewhat distasteful now. But centuries ago, it was commonly used—especially by those obsessed with producing the most attractive offspring. The idea was to blend two people’s hair in a potion to preview what a child might look like with their combined features.”

“Kind of like Polyjuice,” Harry muttered.

Redwood gave him a knowing look, one brow raised. “Exactly. Except while Polyjuice simply imitates someone’s form, this potion shows what a potential child would look like—though the result varies depending on the drinker’s age. For example, give it to a seventeen-year-old girl, and the result will be a seventeen-year-old girl. But if you give it to an infant boy and never administer the antidote…”

Harry glanced down at himself. “Wouldn’t it have worn off by now? Polyjuice only lasts an hour. Why hasn’t this?”

“Excellent observation, Mr. Malfoy,” the healer said, clearly impressed. “You’re right—the original potion was designed to last about an hour, or to be reversed with the antidote. But whoever made this version wasn’t using it as a temporary disguise. They altered the formula for permanence. Very creative, actually. I only found it because I was specifically looking for something obscure. I’m not even sure if the standard antidote would work anymore, and I won’t test that without a potions master’s approval.”

He smiled, clearly pleased. “Fortunately, your father keeps one of the best on hand. You’re in excellent care. He’s the most talented potioneer I work with. I only wish Severus would take on more clients—but of course, shaping young minds is a noble pursuit. Still, I’m sure he’ll come up with the proper antidote.”

It took Harry far too long to realize he was talking about Snape.

“You have also been on the receiving end of a charm known as Visio Confusa—a common dueling tactic that distorts vision to give the opponent an upper hand. Again, it had not been made with the purpose of disguising an identity. Fortunately, it’s easily dispelled if you know the proper counter, which I do."

With a flick of the healer’s wand, Harry’s vision swam. He instinctively removed his glasses to wipe them clean—only to realize that everything around him was already sharp and vivid.

A quiet sound of awe escaped him as he took in the room anew, seeing with a clarity he hadn’t even known he was missing.

After checking if Harry had any final questions, Healer Redwood continued, “Now, I need to speak with your parents and Madam Bones, as well as prepare your potion list and send copies of my notes to your potions master.” He stood up with a stretch. “You’re welcome to use the bed and get some rest. I may be a while, and you look absolutely exhausted.”

As the door closed behind him, Harry let out a slow sigh. He had wanted to go to bed early, but it felt like hours had passed since the champions were announced. He did want to rest, but the thought of Lucius Malfoy lurking nearby, seemingly in control of his life, made his skin crawl. Still, the healer had implied he wouldn’t be disturbed for some time. It was probably smarter to sleep now, safely tucked away in a hospital under the watchful eye of the head of the DMLE, than to wait until he was in the cold, unfamiliar confines of Malfoy Manor.

The thought made him shiver.

He slid beneath the thin, but surprisingly warm—perhaps even charmed—sheet and tried to imagine he was back in Gryffindor Tower. He couldn’t remember when sleep claimed him, but by the time he was woken by a gentle knock and Healer Redwood’s voice calling his name, he actually felt more rested.

“Ah, good. It looks like you managed to get a bit of sleep, Mr. Malfoy,” Redwood said with a kind smile. “Everything’s settled now. Your family is waiting just outside.”

After giving Harry a moment to gather himself, the healer led him to the door and continued, “I’ve provided your parents with a few potions for you to take with breakfast. One’s a nutrient draught—you’ll take it every morning until either I or Severus say otherwise. The second is a stomach soother. Use it as needed, especially when adjusting to larger meals. Severus will be keeping you stocked with both throughout the school year. Thankfully, the two of you will be in the same castle most of the time. And lastly, I sent a Pepperup Potion along—after everything that’s happened today, you might feel it tomorrow.”

As soon as they stepped into the hallway, Harry immediately noticed something was off—Bones was gone. He felt his guard rise instinctively. He glanced around without really looking at the Malfoys, avoiding eye contact but clearly searching for someone.

Lucius, picking up on it at once, responded smoothly. “Madam Bones has left. She got all the information she needed from Healer Redwood. Since it’s clear you don’t currently possess anything that could aid her investigation, she decided to get some rest before things begin in earnest tomorrow morning.”

Mr. Malfoy extended his cane, and to Harry’s confusion, both Draco and Narcissa grasped its base. He stared, baffled. He knew Lucius’s wand was hidden inside the cane, but why were they grabbing the bottom?

“It’s a portkey, Castor,” Draco explained. “When Father speaks the activation word, we’ll land just outside the manor gates.”

Regret hit Harry like a punch—he wished he hadn’t fallen asleep. Everything was moving too quickly now, and he barely had time to think, let alone prepare. Panic prickled at the edges of his mind, but he refused to show weakness. Not in front of the Malfoys.

With a steadying breath, he reached forward and grasped the cane’s base—farthest from the others, as if that would shield him somehow. Lucius muttered something under his breath, too soft to make out, and just like that, the world was yanked away.

That awful tug behind his navel returned as the portkey activated, and Harry’s feet left the ground. When he slammed back down moments later, he nearly fell—only managing to stay upright by catching himself on the cane. The others landed more gracefully but wavered when Harry nearly dragged them down with him. They held firm until he righted himself, after which he quickly stepped back and released the cane, cheeks burning with embarrassment. He was silently grateful for the veil of darkness, though glowing orbs were scattered around the grounds, casting soft light over the manicured estate.

Malfoy Manor loomed ahead—an imposing, stately fortress built from pale grey stone. Its tall windows reflected the moonlight like glassy eyes, and a steep slate roof rose sharply into the night. Wrought-iron fences and spiked gates surrounded the vast, pristine grounds. The winding path to the entrance was flanked by dark yew hedges, leading to a grand doorway adorned with intricate carvings of serpents and the Malfoy family crest. The whole place exuded wealth, legacy—and danger.

For a moment, no one spoke. The silence stretched uncomfortably, until Narcissa finally broke it. “There is much to discuss,” she said softly, “but perhaps it’s best to follow Madam Bones’s lead and rest for tonight. We’ll start fresh in the morning. Come, Castor—we’ll show you to your room.”

Without waiting, she turned toward the manor, her long cloak brushing the grass. Lucius gestured for Draco and Harry to follow. Harry obeyed, though he couldn’t help the tension in his shoulders as he walked with a Malfoy in front of him, beside him, and behind him. It felt less like being escorted and more like being herded.

The inside of the manor was every bit as imposing as its exterior—cold, grand, and meticulous. The halls were high-ceilinged, their dark wooden floors gleaming beneath soft carpets. Walls of grey stone were adorned with ancient tapestries and grim-looking oil portraits, mostly of stern ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow Harry as he passed. Everything was pristine. Every object had a place. The atmosphere was heavy with old magic and older expectations.

They passed through an echoing entrance hall, dominated by a sweeping staircase that led to the upper floors. Narcissa led the way, guiding Harry into a long corridor of polished stone and pale torchlight.

“This is the family wing,” she explained. She gestured to the first door on the right. “That’s our room. If you need us, we’re just here.”

Harry nearly scoffed at the idea that he would ever need them, but he kept quiet. Silence had always been safest.

She pointed to the door across the hall. “That’s Draco’s.” Draco gave a small, pointless nod of acknowledgment.

Then they stopped in front of the door just beside the Malfoys’ own. “And this is yours,” Narcissa said, opening it with a flick of her hand. “Come in.”

Harry hesitated, then stepped inside.

The room was breathtaking.

It looked as though it had been carved whole from a single block of enchanted grey stone—seamless, soft, and faintly aglow. Gentle orbs of light floated lazily across the ceiling, like stars slowly circling a midnight sky. Everything was elegant, quiet, and humming with restrained magic.

At the room’s center stood a towering four-poster bed of dark, polished wood, nearly black. Silver drapes hung from the canopy, shifting slightly as if touched by an invisible breeze. Meticulous tiny runes glimmered faintly along the bedposts where they had been carved. It was beautiful, regal—and just unsettling enough to make Harry wonder if it would reject him in his sleep.

Charcoal silk sheets were tucked in with geometric precision, accented with silver-threaded pillows. Above, the ceiling mirrored the night sky beyond the manor, constellations slowly shifting and reminding him of the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall.

To the right, a wide stone fireplace crackled with flickering firelight. Across from it, an arched window framed a cushioned seat nestled in an alcove. The glass shimmered faintly with enchantments to keep the cold at bay, offering a peaceful view of the shadowed gardens.

In one corner stood a sleek black desk, its surface immaculate. A quill hovered gently above a bottle of ink, waiting patiently. Two doors flanked the far wall—one, ajar, led to a private bathroom. The other opened when Narcissa stepped through and returned a moment later with folded pajamas.

“We’ve kept this room prepared for your return,” she said, holding them out. “Though we used Draco as a reference, so these may be a bit large. Once Severus completes your potion and we know your exact size, we’ll get you properly fitted.”

Harry took the clothes without a word, his mind still spinning from the whirlwind of it all. The room was stunning—more luxurious than anything he’d ever imagined for himself—and yet he had never felt more out of place.

When Harry neither spoke nor moved, the silence grew heavier by the second. It wasn't until Narcissa gently ushered Draco and Lucius out of the room that the awkwardness finally broke.

“We’ll let you rest,” she said, her voice soft and measured. “I’ll come get you at nine for breakfast. Let you have a bit of a lie-in after such a long day, all right?”

She extended a hand toward him—perhaps meant as a warm gesture—but Harry eyed it warily, uncertain. She hesitated, then opted instead to pat his shoulder. It was meant to be reassuring, but the touch felt stiff and formal, as though she didn’t quite know how to offer comfort and wasn’t used to trying. Her dainty fingers gripped just a bit too tightly before she seemed to realize it herself. She abruptly let go, then awkwardly smoothed the spot with her palm, as if to erase the moment. Without another word, she turned and took Lucius’s hand.

“Sleep well,” Lucius said, voice clipped and cold.

Draco, lingering in the hallway, gave a small nod. “Good night.”

Harry hesitated. The polite thing would be to say it back—but standing in a stranger’s home, especially this home, triggered something instinctual. Dursley mode: keep your head down, speak as little as possible. But just before the door shut fully behind Narcissa, he muttered quickly and quietly, “Good night.”

He wasn’t sure they even heard him—until Narcissa paused, ever so briefly, before pulling the door closed with a faint click.

Harry let out a long breath the moment he was alone. The silence was complete now, the tension easing only slightly. He was grateful for the nap earlier now, because there was no way he’d be sleeping again tonight. Not in this room. Especially not in that bed.

He eyed the four-poster warily. The runes etched into the posts gleamed faintly, and he didn’t know enough to guess what they meant. He hadn’t studied runes. For all he knew, that thing would hex him in his sleep. He wasn’t going to risk it.

His eyes dropped to the pajamas still folded in his hands—silver silk, perfectly pressed. So Malfoy. So not Harry. He laid them neatly on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the eerie, immaculate arrangement.

Then he crossed to the window seat. It felt safer there—less imposing, more grounded. A place he could keep watch if he needed to. After a moment, he stood again and began to pace.

What the bloody hell was he going to do?

More pressingly—what were they going to do?

Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater. That wasn’t rumor or suspicion—it was fact. And Harry was now spending the night in a room next to him. He wasn’t sleeping—couldn’t—and yet he’d be here for days. Eventually, he would have to sleep.

Just… not tonight.

His eyes drifted back to the window seat. It was decently sized—larger than the cot in his old cupboard—and well-padded. When the time came, it would do.

For now, it was just him, his thoughts, and a long night ahead.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Summary:

1/2 of Harry's first day as Castor Malfoy.

Notes:

I had way to much fun with this one so you'll need to tell me if that is a good or bad thing.

Chapter 3

Harry spent the rest of the night drifting between pacing the room and sitting silently on the window seat. When the first light of dawn began to creep across the sky, he finally settled into the cushions and watched the grounds in the pale morning glow. The view hadn't changed much from the night before, but something new caught his eye—strange shapes gliding across the lawn. He leaned forward, squinting to make them out.

 

They were large. White. And then, one turned and fanned out a magnificent tail.

 

Albino peacocks.

 

Of course.

 

Harry scoffed aloud. Only the Malfoys would choose white peacocks—normal ones probably clashed too much with the décor. The birds practically screamed Lucius Malfoy. He watched them in disbelief until a soft knock at the door pulled his attention away.

 

He sprang to his feet.

 

Narcissa peeked her head in, smiling gently as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Good morning, Castor,” she said warmly. “I’ve come a little earlier than planned—I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to make sure you found something to wear…”

 

Her gaze flicked to the crumpled clothes still on Harry and then to the untouched bed with its neatly folded pajamas. She trailed off mid-sentence, eyes briefly narrowing in thought.

 

“Oh… I thought the house elves would’ve taken those for laundering,” she murmured, clearly noting that nothing had been used but not drawing attention to it.

 

Harry shifted, unsure what to say. He probably should have pretended to use the bed—maybe even unfolded the pajamas—but he hadn’t wanted to go near either.

 

If Narcissa noticed the tension, she didn’t mention it. Instead, she moved on with practiced politeness. “No matter. Let’s find you something clean so we can send those out for washing.”

 

She opened the closet door again, but this time gestured for Harry to step inside.

 

It was bigger than the cupboard he used to sleep in—a lot bigger. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, with neatly arranged robes, shirts, and trousers hanging from silver rails. Everything looked pristine. Expensive. Wrong.

 

“I can shrink anything for you until we have your proper fit,” Narcissa said, watching him with calm expectation. “They’re yours, after all. Pick whatever you like.”

 

That name again—Castor. It still sounded alien to him.

 

Suppressing a sigh, Harry picked a plain black t-shirt and a pair of black trousers that reminded him of the uniforms from Madam Malkin’s. Narcissa pointed to a drawer, and when Harry opened it, he found it full of neatly folded socks and underwear. He quickly grabbed a set, his face flushing, and turned back toward her.

 

She led him back to the bedroom and gestured toward the adjoining washroom. “Please, take your time. There’s a bath if you’d prefer it. Everything you need should be inside. I’ll wait here.”

 

She settled onto the window seat, leaving him to the washroom.

 

The bathroom was gleaming white marble from floor to ceiling—bright, clean, and almost too polished. It looked like something out of a magazine. Instead of taking a bath, Harry opted for a quick shower, just as he was used to doing at the Dursleys’—fast, quiet, efficient. No wasting water. No drawing attention.

 

After drying off, he got dressed and found—unsurprisingly—that the clothes were far too big. They hung awkwardly on his thin frame and the pant legs little too long.

 

As he caught his reflection in the mirror, he hesitated.

 

Would he grow taller when the potion was removed? Would he even want the antidote?

 

He wasn’t sure. And it wasn’t like anyone was going to ask what he wanted.

 

He already felt strange without his glasses—like he was seeing the world from behind someone else’s eyes. The idea of being blonde on top of that? He wasn’t sure he could handle it.

 

Sighing, Harry tugged up the trousers, which were far too long, the hems pooling around his ankles. He bunched the fabric in one hand by the belt loop and stepped back into the bedroom, where Mrs. Malfoy was waiting precisely where he’d left her.

 

“Oh, that was quick,” she said gently, standing from the window seat. “Draco tends to take forever in the bathroom,” she added with a faint smile, then slowly withdrew her wand—deliberately calm, as if not to spook him. “Let me resize those for you.”

 

She pointed her wand toward him and cast the charm. The clothes immediately adjusted, hugging his frame properly. With another subtle flick, his damp hair dried in an instant, falling into place neatly.

 

“There,” Narcissa said, her smile soft. “Shall we go to breakfast?”

 

They walked together through the manor, Narcissa leading him at a graceful pace, occasionally pointing out features as they passed.

 

“That’s your grandfather in the portrait.”

“You can see the garden better from that window.”

“That room there is your father’s study.”

 

Each mention of father sent a twist of unease through Harry’s stomach. It was easier to be around Narcissa—she was still unfamiliar—but Lucius Malfoy was a different matter entirely. His presence came with the heavy weight of history and resentment.

 

When they arrived at the dining room, the other two were already seated at a long, empty table. Lucius sat at the head, Draco to his right. Narcissa took her seat on Lucius’s left and gestured for Harry to sit beside her.

 

Back straight, Harry quietly complied. As soon as he sat down, breakfast appeared with a whisper of magic, not unlike at Hogwarts—but here, instead of a shared feast, each person had their own individually plated meal. Harry would’ve bet his Gringotts vault that it had all been painstakingly prepared by house-elves like Dobby.

 

His own plate held a perfectly poached egg resting on a slice of crisp, dark bread. Beside it was a small bowl of warm porridge, creamy with honey and sprinkled with crushed almonds. A silver spoon stirred itself gently, as if nudging him to eat. An assortment of neatly sliced fruit was arranged in a fan on a side dish.

 

Above it all sat a goblet filled with a thick, dark green juice that shimmered faintly. Beside it, a delicate crystal vial glowed with a soft golden potion.

 

Narcissa gestured to them as she explained, “That’s your nutrient potion—the one Healer Redwood mentioned. I know it looks rather... intense, but it’s meant to taste pleasant. You’ll drink one every morning with breakfast to help your body absorb nutrients more efficiently. The vial is your stomach soother. If you begin to feel unwell, take it before trying to eat more. Everything has been portioned based on Healer Redwood’s recommendations—the elves prepared it just as he instructed.”

 

Harry picked up the goblet cautiously and sniffed it. To his surprise, the scent was fruity and faintly tart. Taking a sip, he found it thick, like a smoothie, but fresh and oddly satisfying. Encouraged, he dipped his spoon into the porridge and tasted it—it was actually quite good. Of course, his bar for "good" had been permanently lowered by a decade of Dursley cuisine.

 

As he quietly explored his breakfast, the other Malfoys carried on as if this were all perfectly ordinary.

 

“How did you sleep, Draco?” Lucius asked as he neatly sliced through his steak and eggs.

 

“Just fine, Father,” Draco replied smoothly. “I always sleep best in my own bed.”

 

Lucius gave a curt nod at Draco’s reply, then glanced toward Harry. “And you, Castor? Did you rest well?”

 

Harry hesitated, his spoon pausing halfway to his mouth. He wasn’t sure how to answer. Lying felt safest—too much honesty might invite questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

 

“Well enough,” he said carefully, eyes still on his porridge. “Thank you.”

 

Lucius studied him for a moment longer than necessary, but said nothing more. Harry felt the pressure ease slightly when Narcissa picked up the conversation again.

 

“If there’s anything you find uncomfortable about the room—lighting, bedding, temperature—do let me know,” she offered gently, placing her napkin in her lap. “It’s meant to be a space that feels yours.”

 

Harry nodded but didn’t answer. He couldn’t imagine the space ever feeling like his. The bed still looked like it might devour him whole, and the runes etched into the posts gave him an uneasy feeling. If he had a say, that would be the first thing to go—but even then, it wouldn’t make the room feel like it belonged to him.

 

“Mother had the elves stock the wardrobe with duplicates of everything I own,” Draco added, almost offhandedly.

 

“I noticed,” Harry replied simply. It had been hard to miss.

 

Draco gave a small, satisfied smirk.

 

Lucius, still composed but clearly measuring every response, dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin. “Madam Bones will be interviewing Dumbledore today,” he said, finally steering the conversation toward more serious matters.

 

“Dumbledore?” Harry startled, his spoon slipping from his fingers and clattering into the bowl. “Why?”

 

Lucius seemed slightly surprised at the sudden intensity from the otherwise reserved boy. “The Headmaster testified to the Wizengamot that your parents entrusted him with arranging your placement after their deaths. That’s the strongest lead we have regarding what happened the night you were taken. Madam Bones intends to question him thoroughly. She will also request your previous address—so she can investigate those who raised you and determine if they played any role.”

 

“They didn’t,” Harry said firmly, without hesitation.

 

Narcissa gave him a sympathetic look. “I understand that you want to believe the best of those who raised you… but it’s possible this was a coordinated effort. More than one person may have been involved.”

 

Harry couldn’t help it—he laughed. A sharp, unexpected sound. The image of Uncle Vernon breaking into Malfoy Manor, moustache bristling and red-faced with rage, was so absurd it tipped him into brief hysteria.

 

The Malfoys watched him with varying degrees of unease. Lucius and Narcissa did their best to maintain their carefully cultivated composure, their expressions schooled into polite neutrality—but their stiff posture and the flicker of tension in their eyes betrayed them. Draco, however, didn’t bother to hide his discomfort. His features were twisted in something between disbelief and revulsion as he muttered, “He’s cracked. The Black Madness has come early in that one.”

 

Harry barely registered the comment, nor the sharp hushes and disapproving glances Lucius and Narcissa shot at their son. His shoulders still shook with the remnants of laughter—wild, breathless, and just this side of hysterical. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hands, smothering the last few chuckles as though pushing them back where they belonged.

 

The silence that followed was tense and brittle.

 

Harry, determined to regain some semblance of dignity, took a long sip from his goblet. The thick, green potion slid down his throat, cooling the edge of whatever madness had gripped him. He lowered the glass and began prodding his poached egg with the side of his fork, not hungry in the slightest. Still feeling their stares, he spoke again—voice quieter now, steadier, as if the entire episode had never happened.

 

“It’s a waste of time,” he said simply. “Sending Aurors to question them. They don’t know anything.”

 

No one responded right away. The air was heavy with what had just occurred, and perhaps none of them quite knew how to proceed. Even Lucius—so often ready with a cutting remark—remained silent, his gaze unreadable. It was Narcissa who eventually broke the silence, her voice gentle but laced with subtle concern.

 

“Are you feeling alright, Castor? Your stomach... is it bothering you?”

 

Harry shrugged without looking up. “Just full.”

 

“Full?” Draco echoed incredulously, eyebrows raised. “There was barely anything on your plate. The meals are small on purpose. You’re meant to finish them.”

 

Harry gave another shrug, more dismissive this time. “I can’t eat much.”

 

“But—why not?” Draco persisted, confusion edging into irritation. “If you’re hungry—”

 

“Draco,” Narcissa interrupted, her tone soft but firm, “don’t press him. This is all new. He needs time to adjust. Let him come to things in his own time.”

 

Draco huffed but said nothing further, slouching slightly in his seat and stabbing at a piece of sausage with unnecessary force.

 

Across the table, Harry quietly resumed pushing food around his plate, grateful for the reprieve. He didn’t know how to explain the tight knot in his stomach—whether it came from the food, the anxiety, or the Malfoys themselves. But whatever the cause, he knew one thing for certain.

 

This wasn’t going to be easy.

 

“Try the stomach soother, Castor. It may help,” Narcissa said gently, her voice calm and unwavering. There was no pressure in her tone, no irritation—just quiet insistence. And Harry, who was far more used to orders barked and plates snatched away, found it oddly difficult to refuse her.

 

She had been kind to him since the moment they brought him here. Polite, patient—even warm in her own refined, slightly distant way. It was clear that Lucius and Draco had stepped back to let her take the lead with him. Perhaps because she had the softer touch… or perhaps because neither of the men knew quite what to do with him.

 

With a sigh of reluctant compliance, Harry picked up the tiny crystal vial and pulled out the stopper. The golden liquid inside shimmered faintly in the light, almost like molten sunlight. He hesitated only a moment before tossing it back. The potion warmed him as it slipped down his throat, soothing and almost buttery in texture. Within seconds, the ache in his stomach loosened—not gone, but dulled enough to try again.

 

With cautious movements, Harry resumed eating—small bites of toast and poached egg, alternating with porridge and the occasional sliver of fruit. The spoon stirred itself slowly at his side, coaxing him along. No one commented. The quiet clink of silverware and low, murmured conversation resumed around him, the Malfoys carefully pretending that nothing had happened.

 

Harry was grateful for that. Silence was familiar. Safer. After his strange outburst, after laughing like a lunatic at the idea of the Dursleys kidnapping a wizarding infant, he felt like he was tiptoeing on thin ice. He’d barely spoken to them and already they must think he was unhinged.

 

Still, he did his best. He managed more than he thought he could: most of the porridge, half the egg, a corner of the toast, and a few neat slices of fruit. It was more than he had eaten in a single sitting while not at the Burrow, but those times always made him ill. When he finally set his fork down and leaned back ever so slightly, feeling the familiar pressure rise in his belly, he knew not to push further.

 

He let out a small breath and glanced up—only to find three pairs of eyes discreetly assessing him.

 

They were trying to be subtle, but he could feel the weight of their scrutiny. Narcissa’s expression was gentle but watchful, Draco’s skeptical, and Lucius... unreadable, as always, save for the slight crease in his brow.

 

Harry’s chest tightened. He thought he’d done well, all things considered—but the look on their faces suggested otherwise. Maybe they were expecting him to polish off the plate.

 

He sat up straighter and reached for his goblet again, hoping to distract them. Hoping to act like someone more normal. But no matter how hard he tried, he still felt like an intruder in someone else’s life.

 

Setting the now-empty goblet down, Harry leaned back in his chair and realized he was the last one still eating. Narcissa remained beside him, quietly sipping her tea, but all other dishes had already vanished from the table—likely spirited away by unseen house elves. The only other activity in the room was Lucius and Draco watching him with unreadable expressions.

 

Feeling the weight of their attention, Harry glanced down awkwardly. Narcissa gently set her teacup on its saucer and offered a mild nod. “If that’s all you can manage this morning, it will suffice,” she said, her voice calm but firm. A moment later, his own dishes disappeared as though on cue.

 

With the table now cleared, Lucius reached to his side and unfolded a newspaper, placing it carefully in front of Harry. “I thought you might be interested in seeing how last night’s events were portrayed,” he said, his tone unreadable but deliberate.

 

SHOCKING REVELATIONS AT HOGWARTS: THE BOY WHO LIVED... A MALFOY?!

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

 

In a twist no crystal ball could have foretold, last night’s Triwizard Tournament selection ceremony ended not with cheers, but with gasps—as the Goblet of Fire expelled a fourth name, long believed lost to the annals of magical tragedy.

 

Castor Malfoy, presumed dead twin of Hogwarts golden boy Draco Malfoy, was announced by none other than Headmaster Dumbledore himself—who, sources say, appeared "more shaken than a Fizzing Whizzbee in a blender."

 

But the true shock came only moments later when Ministry officials, aided by a revealing charm, discovered the name was submitted under an alias—none other than Harry Potter, our own Boy Who Lived!

 

Yes, dear readers, you read correctly. Harry Potter is Castor Malfoy.

 

How did this stunning switch occur? Who kept the truth hidden for over fourteen years?

 

Questions abound, but one thing is clear: the wizarding world is reeling. Sources close to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement confirm an active investigation is underway, with several high-ranking officials—including Amelia Bones herself—on the case.

 

Meanwhile, the Malfoy family, long believed to have lost their second son as an infant, have—according to eyewitnesses—welcomed him home.

 

Is this the beginning of a new era for our misunderstood Malfoys?

 

One can only imagine what Potter—or should we say, Malfoy—will do next.

 

Stay tuned, dear readers. Rita Skeeter will bring you every scandalous detail.

 

After skimming the article, Harry concluded that it could have been far worse. It was certainly dramatized, but the details were mostly accurate. Rita Skeeter clearly hadn't had much information to work with, so she’d filled the gaps with flair and sentiment. Still, the story was closer to the truth than he had expected.

 

He quietly handed the paper back. “Thank you.”

 

“Well,” Narcissa began with a poised smile, “your father has some business to attend to this morning. How about Draco and I give you a proper tour of the manor and the grounds?”

 

Harry hesitated. Spending the morning in close company with Draco Malfoy wasn’t high on his list of enjoyable activities—but he reasoned it was better to become familiar with the estate. At least then he could navigate it on his own and, hopefully, avoid them when he wanted to.

 

With that, they exited the dining room, and Lucius gave a curt nod before peeling off toward his office, leaving the trio to their own devices.

 

Much of the manor looked much like the parts Harry had already seen—coldly elegant, meticulously maintained, and filled with an air of calculated prestige. The corridors stretched endlessly, adorned with portraits of ancestors who seemed to judge his every step.

 

Only one room truly caught his interest: the library. He wasn’t Hermione—but even he had to admit it was something extraordinary. A maze-like space of towering black shelves, secret alcoves, and enchanted windows, it felt less like a room and more like a relic from another time, humming quietly with old magic.

 

Hidden behind a subtly warded panel near the eastern wing of Malfoy Manor, the Personal Library was no grand hall of learning—it was smaller, more private, more dangerous. Circular in design but anything but simple, it unfolded like a maze of tall, curving bookshelves that spiraled inward with no clear pattern, crafted from blackened oak and trimmed in silver. The shelves themselves seemed to shift ever so slightly when not watched, creating ever-changing paths that responded to the reader's intent or magical signature. One could get lost in its twisting channels of knowledge—but never entirely against their will. The library knew its masters.

 

Between the rows of shelves were occasional niches—small reading alcoves just large enough to curl into, each with a cushioned window seat or a narrow, velvet-lined bench pressed beneath arched, stained-glass windows. Each alcove looked out onto magical illusions of serene gardens, distant mountains, or peaceful glades—chosen, perhaps, to contrast the brooding intensity of the room itself.

 

At the library’s heart, if one could navigate to it, sat a sunlit reading circle: a low silver table surrounded by three high-backed chairs draped in forest green velvet.

 

Harry would have liked nothing more than to lose himself in the library’s winding shelves for a few quiet hours, but Narcissa had other plans. With a polite insistence, she guided him out through the manor to explore the grounds.

 

He had to admit—they would be stunning in summer, if he lived long enough to see them in bloom. As it was, November had settled over the estate, casting everything in the muted tones of late autumn. Leaves burned in shades of rust and gold, and the once-lush gardens had begun to fade into brittle remnants. Still, there was an austere sort of beauty to it all—dormant, waiting.

 

Harry kept his distance from the albino peacocks strutting through the hedges. They radiated a haughty sort of menace, much like the manor itself. Beautiful, yes, but entirely uninviting.

 

By the time noon arrived, his legs were aching from the long trek. He was no stranger to walking—Hogwarts was vast, after all—but he’d never tried to cover the entire estate in one morning. From the sweeping lawns to the distant stables and owlery, they must have covered at least a kilometer.

 

When they reached the owlery, a pang of longing struck him at the sight of the birds perched in quiet observation. He wished Hedwig were here. It had only been a day since he left Hogwarts, and yet the absence of his snowy owl made everything feel that much more distant, more uncertain. It would’ve been nice to have at least one familiar presence—someone undoubtedly on his side.

Seeing the other owls made Harry a bit upset over not being able to collect his things before leaving Hogwarts. Yes it was only for a few day but he did wish he had Hedwig here. At least then he would feel as if someone here was on his side.

 

By the time they returned to the manor, Narcissa announced with a pleasant lift of her voice that it was already time for lunch. Harry realized, somewhat to his own surprise, that he had actually worked up an appetite. The long walk had stirred something in him—maybe it was the fresh air, or the slow, grounding rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other. Either way, he did feel better for it. He’d always preferred being outside—more space, more freedom... and, if necessary, more places to run.

 

Lucius was already seated when they entered the dining room, looking as composed as ever with the Daily Prophet folded beside his plate. As before, Harry took the seat beside Narcissa, across from Draco, and the moment he sat down, the meal appeared as if the manor itself had been waiting for him.

 

This time, however, Harry was relieved to see something far simpler than his elaborate breakfast. A gently steaming bowl of vegetable soup rested before him, its golden broth filled with tender slices of carrot, leek, and potato. The scent was mild but inviting. His drink was a familiar goblet of chilled pumpkin juice—no thick green potions in sight. And behind the soup, as though it had been placed for later, sat a delicate bowl of creamy yogurt topped with a scattering of small, bright teal berries.

 

Harry blinked at them. “What are those?”

 

He glanced up to find three Malfoys looking at him as though he’d just asked what a broomstick was.

 

“You’ve never had pumble berries?” Draco asked, his tone laced with disbelief. “Everyone had them growing up.”

 

“They're quite common in magical households,” Narcissa explained gently, noting the faint flicker of embarrassment on Harry’s face. “They're often given to children—they taste like sweets but are packed with magical nutrients. A clever way to keep little ones away from too much sugar.”

 

“Oh,” Harry muttered, feeling a bit foolish. He plucked one of the bright teal berries from the yogurt with his fingers, only to catch Draco openly grimacing at his lack of table manners. Harry ignored him. Neither Lucius nor Narcissa commented—though he was acutely aware of their silence—as he popped the berry into his mouth.

 

His eyes widened slightly. “Oh!” he repeated, this time with genuine surprise. “That’s actually really good.”

 

He returned to his soup without waiting for a response, focusing on his spoon and trying to pretend he didn’t feel their eyes on him. Again.

 

He wondered if this would become a pattern—being scrutinized through every bite, every breath. The Malfoys hadn’t done anything explicitly wrong since his arrival, but their constant attention was disarming. They watched him like he was both incredibly fragile and quietly dangerous.

 

To be fair, Harry was watching them too—but for different reasons. He was looking for tells, trying to anticipate what came next, while they... they seemed to be assessing something. Weighing him. Measuring him. For what purpose, he couldn’t yet say

 

But whatever it was, he doubted it had anything to do with lunch.

 

“Did the three of you enjoy your morning?” Lucius inquired, breaking the lull in conversation as he calmly sliced into his lunch.

 

“Oh yes,” Narcissa replied with a graceful nod. “We had quite the tour. We even made it all the way out to the stables. Castor seemed rather taken with the animals.”

 

Harry had, truthfully. Despite everything, he’d found himself quietly captivated. He’d seen magical creatures before—hippogriffs, centaurs, unicorns—but never something as ordinary as a horse. And somehow, the simplicity made it feel magical in its own right. He’d lingered longer than he meant to, brushing his fingers through its mane. Narcissa must’ve noticed his delight, despite how hard he tried to play it cool. She had been watching closely.

 

Not that the Malfoys lacked magical creatures. Between the neatly penned kneazles, the puffskeins that squeaked and wriggled like enchanted pillows, and a few nipping crups, Harry had done his best to look unimpressed. It hadn’t worked.

 

“And how was your morning?” Narcissa asked, turning the conversation back to her husband.

 

“Quite productive,” Lucius replied, taking a measured sip from his goblet. “I received word from Severus. He’ll be working on the potions today. He believes he can reverse the altered Faciem Parentes. He expects to have that, along with the other required potions, ready by tomorrow afternoon. He plans to stop by after his final class.”

 

Draco smirked with a gleam of curiosity. “Then we’ll see what you really look like. Do you think we’re identical?”

 

Harry did his best to keep a neutral expression, but could not. Draco caught it, of course. His smirk deepened into a sneer.

 

Eager to shift focus, Harry spooned up the rest of his soup and quickly moved on to the yogurt and berries. The pumble berries were sweet and slightly tangy, like candy but fresher. He couldn’t help but enjoy them—he’d always had a sweet tooth, even if he rarely got to indulge it. At the Dursleys’, sugar was considered a privilege, one he was rarely granted with Dudley always first in line.

 

Lucius glanced over again, setting down his goblet. “Any plans for the rest of the afternoon?”

 

Narcissa gave her son a sidelong look before answering. “I thought I’d let the boys choose for themselves today. Is there something you’d like to do, Castor?”

 

The answer came easily. He normally wouldn’t offer a request, but she had asked—and there was only one place he truly wanted to be. “Could I spend some time in the library?”

 

Narcissa smiled with a hint of amusement at his restraint. “Of course. You’re welcome to anything in there. If you find something you enjoy, feel free to bring it back to Hogwarts when you return. Just be cautious—some of the books on the higher levels might not align with school policy.”

 

Harry nodded seriously, making a silent note to avoid anything glowing, biting, or whispering.

 

Trying not to look too eager, he finished off his lunch—once again the last to finish—and pushed his empty dish away as it disappeared with the others. Lucius returned to his office with a final nod, and Draco, claiming boredom, excused himself to his room.

 

Narcissa escorted Harry to the library and, before parting, gestured gently down the corridor. “I’ll be in the sitting room if you need anything.”

 

The moment she was gone, Harry immersed himself in the maze of towering bookshelves. The place felt alive—like the walls shifted just slightly behind your back, revealing alcoves only when they wanted to be found. He weaved deeper through the rows until he discovered a shadowed corner near the back.

 

A tall window casted an illusion of crashing waves upon a distant rocky cliff. Beneath it, a dark green armchair waited, its cushions plush and inviting, with a matching ottoman nestled in front. It looked like it had been placed there just for him.

 

Harry sank into the chair, folding his knees to his chest. He hadn’t realized just how tired he was. The walk, the nerves, the weight of it all—he hadn’t slept properly since the hospital. His thoughts buzzed around the Tournament, around the Malfoys, around everything… but none of it mattered right now.

 

Sleep came faster than he expected, tugging him under like the waves outside the window. For the first time in what felt like ages, Harry allowed himself to rest.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Summary:

Not the longest chapter and there isn't much for Harry/Castor here but I felt I needed to give some insight on the Malfoy's while Harry got some rest.

Chapter 4

 

Narcissa had intended to give Castor some time to himself. After escorting him to the library, she retreated to the sitting room with a book in hand, hoping a quiet read would distract her. But it was no use. Her eyes kept drifting from the page to the ornate clock on the mantel, watching each minute tick by with growing restlessness. She told herself she needed to respect his space—but still, she counted down the moments until it would be acceptable to check in on him again.

 

Being around Castor was… complicated. Not unpleasant, just unpredictable. She never quite knew what he might say or do next. He wasn’t like Draco, whose moods she could read with a glance, or his Slytherin friends, whose behaviors followed well-worn social rules she understood. And while Narcissa had grown up with Gryffindors in her extended family—cousin Sirius most notably—Castor didn’t remind her of any of them. He was reserved yet intense, skittish but strangely bold in bursts. He carried himself like someone who expected the world to strike first.

 

Yes, Castor was different. Unlike anyone she'd ever known. And that made her want to understand him all the more.

 

Every time Castor glanced at them nervously or looked like he wanted to bolt from the room, it felt like a blow to Narcissa’s chest. She couldn’t blame him—it was entirely reasonable given the circumstances—but it still hurt. She had heard about Potter for years from Lucius, Draco, and even Severus, usually framed in exasperation or outright criticism. But none of that had prepared her for the reality of meeting him. Nothing could have.

 

She never knew what to expect from him, and that uncertainty gnawed at her constantly.

 

His fit of laughter at lunch, wild and unprompted, lingered in her thoughts more than she wanted to admit. She hated the thought, but Draco's sharp remark echoed in her mind. What if he had been right? What if the Black Madness had found its way into her youngest son?

 

Her family had never been known for their stability. The infamous Black temperament was a dangerous mix of brilliance and fragility, often worsened by exposure to Dark Magic and power. But it usually emerged later in life—after decades of pressure, not days. Castor, however, had already endured so much in such a short time. Trauma alone could unravel even the most grounded mind. What if, in him, the family legacy had simply awakened earlier?

 

The thought made her feel unbearably guilty. She had always known there was a risk. The Black bloodline carried its shadows, but she had hoped that marrying into the Malfoy family—so precise, composed, and controlled—might balance out her own lineage. Lucius came from a long line of refined, calculating minds; Draco, thankfully, seemed to have inherited more from his father.

 

But Castor… Castor might be more Black than Malfoy. And that terrified her.

 

Sighing, Narcissa glanced at the clock once more. Barely an hour had passed since she left Castor in the library, and already the urge to check on him tugged at her thoughts. She didn’t want to hover—knew better than to smother him so soon—but the instinct to ensure he was safe, settled, comfortable, was difficult to resist.

 

“Mipsy!” she called.

 

A moment later, a soft crack sounded, and an aged house-elf appeared, wearing her usual draped and yellowing pillowcase tunic. Mipsy, the eldest of the manor’s elves, bowed deeply, her large eyes blinking up at Narcissa with solemn attentiveness.

 

“Mistress calls for Mipsy?”

 

“Yes,” Narcissa said, smoothing a hand down the front of her robes. “What are the boys doing?”

 

Mipsy straightened a little, clearly proud of her post. After the tragedy of Castor’s disappearance, Narcissa had insisted that an elf be assigned to the children at all times—no exceptions. Mipsy, given her age and experience, had been appointed to oversee Draco growing up, and was now

alternating her attention based on need. She took her role with religious seriousness.

 

“Master Draco is in his rooms, drawing,” she replied dutifully.

 

Narcissa gave a small, fond nod. That was hardly unexpected—Draco had taken to sketching alone from a young age. It had been one of the few things that brought him comfort in the quiet halls of the manor. It still is, she thought.

 

“And Castor?”

 

“Master Castor is sleeping,” Mipsy said.

 

“Sleeping?” Narcissa’s brows rose. “I thought he was in the library.”

 

Mipsy bobbed her head. “Yes, Mistress. Master Castor be falling asleep in the green chair by the wave window. He be very tired. Did not sleep last night, not even a little. Mipsy thinks he needs rest.”

 

Narcissa’s chest tightened. She had noticed the nightclothes left folded and the untouched bedding this morning, but hadn’t pressed. Of course he hadn’t slept. The boy had been dropped into a new life, surrounded by strangers who shared his blood but not his memories. Sleep would have been a luxury in that state. Still… at least now he was getting some rest.

 

“Good,” she said softly. “Let him be for now. But if he stirs, or if he seems distressed, I want to know immediately.”

 

“Mipsy will tell Mistress right away,” the elf said with a bow, then disappeared with a sharp pop.

 

Left alone again, Narcissa sat back with her book open but unread. Her eyes flicked to the window, where golden autumn light filtered through crisp glass panes.

 

Let him rest, she told herself again. But even as she tried to return to her reading, her thoughts remained on the beside a boy curled in a chair, asleep beneath a storm-painted sky.

 

888

 

Lucius had spent the better part of the day cloistered in his study, sifting through an endless flood of correspondence delivered by increasingly irate owls. Ever since the latest Daily Prophet headline had hit the stands—blaring the astonishing revelation that Harry Potter was, in truth, Castor Malfoy—the entire wizarding world seemed to have developed a personal opinion on the matter.

 

Many of the letters were congratulatory, well-wishers offering stiffly-worded praise for the "miraculous reunion" and the return of the long-lost child. These received a standard reply—impersonal and polite. But far more numerous were the letters filled with venom, skepticism, and barely-veiled outrage. It seemed half the country believed the Malfoys had orchestrated some elaborate scheme to seize control over the Boy-Who-Lived.

 

Lucius snorted to himself at the notion. If only he had control over the boy—then perhaps he wouldn’t be left guessing what unpredictable move Castor might make next. The child was as unreadable as he was volatile, and Lucius found himself at a loss more often than he would admit.

 

He flicked his wand lazily and incinerated another letter—this one from Arthur Weasley, no doubt sanctimoniously worded and utterly useless. The Howler that followed shortly after received no response at all; it simply soared into the fireplace, shrieking itself into ashes. Lucius didn’t even flinch.

 

He leaned back in his chair, his hands briefly still. Something tugged at him—an unease that had simmered all day beneath the surface. Slowly, he pulled back his sleeve and stared down at the inside of his left arm.

 

The Dark Mark was darker than it had been in years.

 

Once little more than a faded scar, it had begun to stir with subtle intensity, deepening in hue for weeks now. Lucius could not ignore it. Nor could he ignore the question it raised—how would the Dark Lord react to Castor’s return?

 

The thought sent a ripple of old memory through him.

 

After Castor’s disappearance all those years ago—when the Aurors had combed the manor and found no trace of any intruder, when the wards had registered no foreign entry—Lucius had reached a damning, desperate conclusion. The wards only allowed trusted individuals to pass through, family and carefully vetted allies. In his grief, Lucius had believed what the Ministry feared: that the Dark Lord had been responsible.

 

He had gone to Him, that day, in a reckless act of defiance. Faced his master directly and demanded answers, consequences be damned.

 

He had expected punishment—Cruciatus at the very least. He would have accepted it. Anything, if it meant finding his son.

 

But to Lucius’ astonishment, the Dark Lord had not raised his wand. Instead, He had shown a rare sliver of mercy. He acknowledged Lucius’ anguish, forgave the accusation, and made a vow—one Lucius had never forgotten. A vow that He would never harm Lucius’ children. That magical children were sacred to Him. That no child of Lucius Malfoy would come to harm by His hand… unless that child betrayed Him.

 

Lucius had believed Him.

 

Now, years later, Lucius began to suspect the horrifying truth of the Dark Lord’s downfall.

 

It wasn’t the boy alone that destroyed the Dark Lord, as most suspected.

 

It was the vow.

 

The vow He had made to him.

 

Unknowingly, the Dark Lord had struck out at Castor Malfoy—Lucius’ child—and broken the oath he had sworn. The ancient magic had turned against him, and Lucius knew with quiet certainty that it was not Harry Potter who had ended his master’s reign, but the magic of his own promise. His mistake. His fault.

 

Now that Castor had returned, the question loomed larger than ever: what would Voldemort do with this knowledge? Could Lucius hope to remain in his good graces if—or when—He returned? Could he possibly explain away the chain of events?

 

Even if he could, Lucius doubted his son would ever forgive his past. There was no chance the boy would ever approve of Lucius' loyalties.

 

But still… he could not let go. Not of the Dark Lord’s ideology, not of the structure it promised, not of the identity that had defined him for so long. He would walk that razor’s edge for as long as he could. For power. For legacy. And now… for a son who didn’t know if he wanted to be his son at all.

 

888

 

Draco sat cross-legged on his ornate bed, the frame carved with ancient runes—not just for peaceful sleep, but as a powerful safeguard. The enchantments woven into the wood ensured that no one could be taken from it against their will. His mother had specially commissioned the protective ruins for every bed in the house after Castor vanished from his crib, determined that such a thing would never happen again.

 

A half-finished sketch lay open on his lap—today’s work focused on the Goblet of Fire. He had begun it during the chaos of the selection ceremony, capturing the flicker and flow of enchanted blue flames in deliberate strokes. Now, he added the final details: a scrap of parchment fluttering upward from the fire’s heart, his pencil lightly scripting a single name upon it—Castor Malfoy.

 

His fingers hesitated over the page as he stared at the name. Even now, days later, it didn’t feel entirely real.

 

The moment he’d heard Dumbledore read it aloud, something inside him had clenched. For one terrible second, he thought it was a sick joke—one made at his family’s expense. But when Uncle Severus immediately stood and ushered him from the Great Hall, whispering urgently about contacting his parents and the Aurors, it all clicked into place. Draco had felt it in his bones: they’d found him. The brother he'd always dreamed of.

 

Growing up in the Manor had been... lonely. Cold corridors and immaculate silence had been his companions more often than people. His parents loved him—he never doubted that—but they were often preoccupied, always attending to something or someone. He'd learned early to keep himself occupied. Drawing became a favorite pastime—something to do in the quiet hours. But still, he'd looked at others, the Weasley twins or the Patil sisters, with envy. They had someone with them. Someone who understood them in a way even the closest friend never could. Draco had longed for that kind of bond.

 

He’d imagined having a brother so many times. He’d imagined teaching him things. Taking him flying. Defending him in the halls. Introducing him to their family history—not the version told in schoolbooks, but the one whispered through portraits and traditions. He’d built a thousand versions of a sibling in his mind over the years.

 

None of them had looked like Harry Potter.

 

When Father had read Potter’s name from the letter—confirming the truth—Draco had felt something collapse inside him. All his fantasies came crashing down. That boy? The boy who’d spurned his friendship in first year? Who mocked him in the halls, defied him in class, and somehow made him feel small without even trying?

 

That night, Draco had gone to bed with a headache and a sinking heart.

 

And yet… the walk that morning had surprised him. It hadn’t been pleasant, exactly—Castor still acted like a feral cat, skittish and distant—but it hadn’t been a disaster either. He hadn’t bitten anyone. He’d even seemed interested in the animals. Draco had watched him pet the horses and pretend not to enjoy the puffskeins with the kind of secretive fondness that was easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. But Draco was looking.

 

For a moment, he allowed himself to feel hope.

 

But there was also what happened at breakfast.

 

Castor’s strange outburst of laughter had chilled him to the bone. It hadn’t been normal—it hadn’t even sounded like something he could control. Draco had sat stiffly in his chair, watching the boy who laughed and wiped at his eyes like something had cracked in his head.

 

He hadn’t said anything at the time. He didn’t dare. But in the back of his mind, a warning bell rang. It sounded eerily like the stories Mother told of her sister—Aunt Bellatrix. Unstable. Wild. Brilliant, once, but lost to madness and fire.

 

Was that what Castor was?

 

But no, Draco shook his head. That couldn’t be right. He was still Harry Potter—the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, the bane of the Dark Lord’s existence. Surely someone that powerful, that heroic, couldn’t be unhinged… could he?

 

Still, something nagged at Draco. Maybe he didn’t know Potter at all. He’d always assumed the boy was arrogant. Attention-seeking. Lucky. But that wasn’t what he saw now. Castor was guarded. Wary. Tired. And when he laughed, it wasn’t the sound of someone amused. It was the laugh of someone at the edge of something sharp.

 

Draco looked back down at his drawing, at the goblet and the single name rising from it. His brother’s name.

 

He pressed the pencil to the page again, hesitating.

 

Maybe he needed to stop expecting Castor to be the brother he imagined and start trying to understand the boy he’d gotten instead. If he would let them.

Notes:

I really am having fun with this. Which is why chapters are coming out so rapidly. I have so many ideas for this one and we have not even finished the first 24 hours of Harry being a Malfoy so this may end up being very long. Let me know what you think.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Summary:

Still day 1

Chapter 5

 

The darkness settled thick and heavy—so real it felt suffocating.

 

Harry was no longer in the library.

 

He stood in a crumbling room, dimly lit by a flickering fire in a soot-streaked hearth. The stone walls were damp, the plaster cracked like old skin. Something creaked above—a rat skittered across a broken beam. From the shadows came a soft hiss.

 

Nagini.

 

Harry felt the fire’s heat, though he wasn’t really there. He had no hands, no body—just presence, floating silently in the corner of the room like a ghost.

 

Footsteps pounded on ancient wooden floors.

 

The door to the sitting room slammed open.

 

A tall, ragged man burst in, his eyes wide with a frenzied gleam. His dark hair clung to his sweat-slicked forehead, and his travel-worn robes were torn at the shoulder.

 

“My Lord,” he gasped, falling to one knee.

 

A sound answered him—a faint rustle of cloth.

 

The fire flared, revealing a small figure slumped in a high-backed chair. Not slumped—folded in on itself.

 

A child’s shape, but twisted. Dwarfish and skeletal, its skin pale and waxy, stretched thin over brittle bones. Fingers like spider legs tapped against the blanket pooled around its form. From the recess of a skull-like face, two glowing red eyes gleamed. A slit for a nose sniffed the air.

 

Nagini slid from the shadows, her scales glinting in the firelight as she slithered closer to the hearth.

 

“You’ve returned,” the thing in the chair rasped, voice like wind scraping over broken glass.

 

The man swallowed hard. “I—I had to be sure before I came. There were rumors after the Tournament ceremony… but now it’s confirmed.”

 

He pulled a folded newspaper from inside his robes, his fingers trembling.

 

The creature didn’t reach for it. One withered hand lifted.

 

The paper flew into the air and hovered.

 

Its red eyes scanned the headline.

 

BOY WHO LIVED, SON WHO RETURNED?

CASTOR MALFOY REVEALED TO BE HARRY POTTER

 

“Impossible,” the figure murmured. Then, slowly, “And yet… not.”

 

The man waited a beat, then said, “He didn’t know, my Lord. Neither did they. No one knew.”

 

A silence followed, drawn taut with tension.

 

“You sound... conflicted,” Voldemort hissed, almost idly.

 

The man faltered. “He was only a boy, my Lord. Lost. Small. Untouched.”

 

“Untouched?” Voldemort repeated, the word wrapping around the room like smoke. “You speak of him as though you pity him.”

 

“No, my Lord,” the man said quickly. “Only… it’s strange. The child once taken from you... now sleeps beneath the Malfoys’ roof.”

 

Silence again.

 

Then, almost absently, Voldemort murmured, “Blood complicates things.”

 

The gnarled hand flexed slightly, casting claw-like shadows across the firelit floor.

 

“He is more than blood... more than prophecy. What he becomes,” Voldemort mused, “remains to be seen.”

 

Nagini stirred, her tongue flickering to taste the air.

 

“I made a vow,” Voldemort whispered, as if to himself. “Rare... but not unbreakable. Magic remembers. Even when we wish it wouldn’t.”

 

A breath. A pause.

 

“But some vows... fray.”

 

The words drifted through the room like smoke from the dying fire—thin, but full of threat.

 

He did not say he would kill Harry.

 

He did not say he wouldn’t.

 

The newspaper ignited midair, curling to ash in a blink. The embers floated down like dying stars.

 

“We wait,” Voldemort said at last. “The world watches. So shall we. Let the boy believe in peace… a little longer.”

 

His gaze turned to the flames.

 

And then, almost gently:

“I will be watching.”

 

888

 

Narcissa startled as Mipsy reappeared in the sitting room with a loud *crack*, wringing her small hands in distress.

 

“Mistress! Mistress, something be wrong with Master Castor!” the elf wailed. “He be fretting in his sleep—thrashing, moaning! Mipsy tried to calm him but he not wake!”

 

The book slid from Narcissa’s lap as she shot to her feet, her heart seizing. “Where?”

 

“In the back of the library—same place he fall asleep!”

 

Without another word, Narcissa swept from the room, her robes billowing behind her as she raced down the corridor. The echo of her footsteps was joined by the soft patter of Mipsy hurrying to keep up.

 

When she reached the hidden alcove, the sight that greeted her stole the breath from her lungs.

 

Castor was no longer curled in the soft green chair. He had slipped from it entirely, sprawled on the rug in a tangle of limbs, his face contorted in fear. His body jerked violently, as if fighting some invisible assailant. His lips moved soundlessly, eyes darting beneath closed lids. Sweat clung to his brow.

 

“Castor!” she gasped, dropping to her knees beside him.

 

Careful to avoid his flailing arms and legs, she reached for his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. “Wake up, darling—it’s just a dream.”

 

There was no response. His breathing came in short gasps now, panic painted across his features.

 

“Castor!” she said louder, giving him a firmer shake. When that, too, failed, she turned to Mipsy, her voice sharp with urgency. “Fetch Lucius. Now!”

 

Mipsy vanished with a soft *pop*.

 

Narcissa turned back to her son, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. She could feel the tension radiating off him like heat. Her voice trembled despite her efforts to stay calm. “It’s all right. You’re safe. Please wake up…”

 

Moments later, Lucius arrived, his steps halting as he entered the alcove. For a moment, he simply stood there, stunned by the sight of his normally composed wife crouched beside their son, panic etched into every line of her face.

 

“Narcissa—what happened?” he asked, crossing the room quickly.

 

“I don’t know,” she whispered, still trying to rouse Castor. “Mipsy said he’d been asleep for a few hours, and then suddenly—this. He’s thrashing. Moaning. He won’t wake up.”

 

Lucius dropped to one knee opposite her, eyes scanning the boy’s trembling form. “A nightmare?” he ventured, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

 

Before either could speak again, Castor’s eyes snapped open.

 

He gasped as if surfacing from deep water, his chest heaving. Wildly, his gaze flicked around the room, disoriented, until it landed on the two Malfoy adults hovering over him.

 

For a moment, none of them moved.

 

Then Harry blinked—once, twice—and realized exactly where he was. On the floor. In the Malfoy library. And they were both watching him.

 

Narcissa reached for his hand, her voice gentle but strained. “You’re all right, darling. You’re safe. It was a bad dream.”

 

Harry was sure it had not been just a dream.

 

The memory of red eyes and a voice like splintered glass still echoed in the back of his mind.

 

Harry slowly pushed himself upright, wincing as his muscles protested. His limbs felt leaden, and his heart was still thudding in his chest, but he tried to steady himself. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, then scrubbed his face with both palms as if he could wipe away the remnants of the dream.

 

“Must’ve... must’ve dozed off,” he muttered hoarsely, his voice strained from uneven breathing. He attempted a weak shrug, like it was nothing—like he hadn’t just been screaming silently into a void.

 

He didn’t realize how pale he looked. Or how soaked his shirt was at the collar. Or how wide his eyes still were, darting unconsciously around the room as if checking to make sure the nightmare hadn’t followed him.

 

Narcissa, kneeling just a foot away, hadn’t moved since he woke. She was staring at him, frozen in place. Her usually composed face was pale, her mouth parted slightly in a silent breath she’d forgotten to release.

 

She had seen the way he’d thrashed—heard the soft cries slipping from his lips, seen the terror etched into every line of his young face. Now, to watch him sit up and pretend it hadn’t happened felt… jarring. Traumatizing, even.

 

Her son—her lost, stolen, returned son—had lain in front of her like someone fighting off death itself, and now he was rubbing sleep from his eyes and acting like he’d simply nodded off during a dull lesson.

 

“Castor,” she said softly, barely above a whisper.

 

He glanced at her, and for just a moment, she thought she saw it—behind the wall he was so quickly rebuilding—fear. Shame. Confusion.

 

“You were… screaming,” she said, more gently this time. “Thrashing. You fell from the chair.”

 

Harry blinked at her, swallowing thickly. “It was just a dream.”

 

“No, darling,” Narcissa said, reaching out but stopping just short of touching him. “It wasn’t just a dream.”

 

Behind her, Lucius remained silent, watching with a carefully guarded expression. But even he couldn’t entirely hide the unease in his stance.

 

Harry shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

 

But the lie felt heavy. And the truth—whatever it was—still lingered in the dark corners of his mind, coiled like a snake waiting to strike again.

 

And for the first time, Narcissa began to wonder if what haunted her son was more than memory.

 

“You know,” Narcissa said gently, breaking the thick silence, “you can tell us. I understand we’re practically strangers to you, Castor, but please believe me when I say—we would do anything for you. You’re our son.”

 

Her voice was calm, her eyes earnest, but there was a tremor just beneath the surface—a quiet plea for trust she hadn’t yet earned.

 

Harry gave a practiced shrug, one he had used many times before with teachers and well-meaning adults. “Really, it’s nothing,” he lied smoothly. “Just a dream. I don’t even remember it.”

 

The lie sat bitter in his mouth. But if he told the truth—about the flickering firelight, the ratty man, that awful thing in the chair—it would only make things worse.

 

Lucius and Narcissa didn’t look convinced. Lucius’s eyes narrowed slightly in quiet assessment, while Narcissa’s lips pressed into a line that barely concealed her worry. Still, neither pushed. That, at least, was a mercy.

 

Trying to redirect the conversation, Harry swayed slightly as he stood with the help of the ottoman, brushing his fringe from his damp forehead. “What were you looking for me for, anyway?” he asked, forcing casualness into his tone, as if he hadn't just been found convulsing on the floor.

 

Narcissa blinked at the question. For a brief second, she looked almost embarrassed—as if she’d been caught in a fib, which, in a way, she had.

 

He thought they’d just found him here. He didn’t know she’d come racing in the moment Mipsy alerted her.

 

Realizing she wasn’t going to get anywhere with him right now—not when he was building walls so quickly it almost impressed her—she let out a soft sigh and smoothed the folds of her gown. “Well,” she said, smoothly falling into a motherly tone, “you’ve been asleep for a while, and it’s still a few hours before supper. You’re supposed to eat smaller, more frequent meals for now, remember?”

 

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, awkward and uncertain. “Oh. Uh… I’m not really hungry.”

 

“Just a snack,” Narcissa coaxed, slipping into the same tone she’d once used to bribe a sulking Draco out of his room as a toddler. “Something light. Maybe a few of those pumble berries you liked earlier?”

 

Before he could argue, her hand gently but firmly guided him toward the carved reading table near the center of the library. Harry sat reluctantly, shifting in the chair as if trying to make himself smaller. The exhaustion from the dream still clung to him like damp fog.

 

Narcissa called, “Mipsy,” and with a soft pop, the elderly house-elf appeared.

 

Harry looked at her and immediately felt a pang in his chest. Her bat-like ears twitched, and she bowed so low her nose touched the rug. She wore an old pillowcase with lace edges, clearly cared for despite the wear.

 

She reminded him too much of Dobby.

 

He looked away quickly.

 

A small silver dish appeared on the table, filled with bright teal pumble berries, glistening like candies.

 

“Thank you, Mipsy,” Narcissa said gently.

 

“Mipsy is honored to serve, Mistress,” the elf chirped, then glanced once at Harry—her expression unreadable—and vanished again.

 

Harry watched the space she’d disappeared from and swallowed hard. The idea of freeing every house elf in the manor was ridiculous, impossible. Even if he did, what would happen? Lucius would just buy more—or worse, they could turn into the Dursley’s and make him do everything.

 

The whole thing made his stomach turn.

 

Still, he plucked one of the berries from the dish and popped it into his mouth. The burst of sweetness was immediate, followed by a cooling tang.

 

He didn’t smile.

 

Noticing the way his son had looked at Mipsy—guarded, pained, almost guilty—Lucius, too, was reminded of the end of Castor’s second year at Hogwarts. The chaos, the accusations, the house-elf that had thrown everything into disarray.

 

He decided not to dwell on it—not aloud, and hopefully not for Castor either.

 

Instead, Lucius cleared his throat and moved the conversation forward. “Mipsy will primarily be assigned to you for the time being,” he explained in a neutral tone, as if assigning a tutor. “She may still assist Draco occasionally, but her main duty will be your care. She’ll be accompanying you back to Hogwarts to ensure your potion regimen is followed properly and that your meals are brought to you directly. The aim, of course, is to help you regain strength and maintain your new diet.”

 

Harry blinked, surprised—but oddly comforted. Knowing Mipsy would be with him at school… it felt safer. Familiar, in a strange way. It meant she wouldn’t be left behind to suffer in silence. She would have a purpose, and she would be away from the shadows of this house.

 

The tension in his shoulders eased a little. He looked down at the bowl of pumble berries, the vibrant teal glinting in the candlelight, and found himself enjoying them more now that he didn’t feel quite so unsettled. One by one, he polished them off.

 

As soon as the final berry was gone, the silver dish vanished with a soft pop. Harry wondered if that had been Mipsy, watching from somewhere unseen.

 

With the small comfort of food now gone, and nothing left to fidget with, the silence at the table deepened. The three of them sat there—Lucius, Narcissa, and Harry—each unsure of what to say next. Whatever fragile ease had existed while he was chewing had vanished along with the bowl.

 

Now there was only the quiet, and the strange awareness that they still didn’t quite know how to be around one another.

 

As usual Narcissa was the first to attempt to start a conversation, “Do you read much? I know it’s not everyone’s preference, but you seemed interested in the library earlier.”

 

Harry looked down at his hands. “Sometimes. Depends on the book.”

 

“Any favourites?” Lucius asked, his tone polite but clearly fishing.

 

“Not really,” Harry replied quickly, the answer short enough to discourage follow-up.

 

A small silence settled over the table.

 

“Do you have any close friends at school?” Narcissa tried again, her voice still light, but with a hopeful edge.

 

Harry hesitated. “Yeah.”

 

When no names followed, Lucius tilted his head slightly. “Anyone we might know?”

 

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Probably.”

 

There was a pause. Then:

 

“Are they… treating you well?” Narcissa asked, her voice just a little quieter now. “Your friends, I mean.”

 

Harry blinked. That wasn’t the question he’d expected. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “They’re… good to me.”

 

Still, a flicker of doubt crept in as his mind wandered—just briefly—to the memory of Ron’s face in the Great Hall, twisted with anger, shoving him so that he almost hit the floor.

 

What had that been about? He couldn’t remember ever seeing Ron look at him like that.

 

Narcissa nodded slowly, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table. “That’s all I care about,” she said softly.

 

Lucius looked as if he wanted to say more but thought better of it.

 

Narcissa was spared the awkward task of digging for another question when the tall library doors creaked open with a familiar groan and Draco strolled in, all swagger and smirk.

 

“What, no one invited me to the family meeting?” he drawled, arching a brow dramatically as he leaned against one of the tall shelves with practiced ease, arms folding across his chest like he belonged in a portrait.

 

Lucius didn’t quite sigh, but the way his fingers tapped once against the armrest of his chair betrayed the sentiment. “Castor was simply having a snack,” he said mildly, though there was a subtle note of warning in his tone, meant to remind his son not to push too far.

 

“Sure, sure,” Draco muttered, waving the comment away as though it didn’t matter, though his eyes flicked toward the now-empty table where the bowl had been. He pushed off the shelf and meandered toward the table, tossing a casual glance at Harry. “Hope you saved some for me, brother.”

 

Harry eyed him warily, unsure if it was meant to be a joke or a jab. “Wasn’t much to save,” he replied, tone carefully neutral.

 

Draco grinned at that, but something about his expression was more thoughtful than smug. “They’re always trying to fatten people up around here. Mum used to sneak cream into my porridge when I was little.”

 

“And yet you were still picky as a pixie,” Narcissa said lightly, rising from her chair to smooth a crease in her skirt. “Castor, on the other hand, is polite enough to eat what’s offered.”

 

Harry blinked at the unexpected praise, unsure if she was trying to encourage him or guilt Draco—or maybe both.

 

Draco feigned a deep wound, clutching his chest. “Wounded by my own mother,” he said dramatically before collapsing into the chair beside Harry. “See if I ever draw you anything flattering again.”

 

“Flattering?” Lucius repeated with faint amusement. “When have your portraits ever been flattering? The last one you gave your mother made her look like she was plotting regicide.”

 

“Maybe she was,” Draco said with a sly grin.

 

Narcissa rolled her eyes, but there was warmth in the gesture. Still, she subtly glanced at Harry, watching how he reacted to the family banter. He seemed more relaxed now, if only a little—shoulders not quite so tight, gaze not quite so guarded.

 

Draco gave Harry another look, one that was harder to interpret. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… measuring.

 

“So,” he said more seriously, “what do you think of the library?”

 

Harry hesitated a second before answering. “It’s... nice. Big. Easy to get lost in.”

 

“That’s the point,” Draco said with a smirk. “Mother says the best thinking happens in places where no one can find you.”

 

Narcissa smiled faintly at that, and Harry found himself—just for a moment—wondering what this family might’ve been like in a different life, if things hadn’t gone so wrong.

 

But the moment passed. And the silence that followed settled in again—thick, cautious, and uncertain, like a glass surface none of them dared to shatter too suddenly. They were all still orbiting around each other, trying to make sense of new roles in a very old house.

 

Harry shifted in his seat, the weight of their quiet attention starting to itch at the back of his neck. He figured he ought to try saying something—if only to test the waters. Ask the wrong thing, and he’d know how far they were willing to let him go. Ask something safe, and he might start to map the edges of whatever strange new reality he was now part of.

 

His eyes slid toward Draco, who was leaning back lazily in his chair, fingers idly drumming on the wood as if the silence didn't bother him in the slightest.

 

“You draw portraits?” Harry asked, keeping his voice casual, as if he wasn’t worried about whether it was a dumb question. It seemed like the safest thing to comment on—a topic handed to him on a silver platter that, hopefully, wouldn’t set off any emotional landmines.

 

Draco blinked in mild surprise, and Narcissa answered before he could, her tone proud but not overbearing. “He draws everything,” she corrected smoothly, a small smile curling at her lips. “Creatures, people, buildings… even food, sometimes.”

 

Harry raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. “Food?”

 

“Only when the elves outdo themselves,” Draco said with a shrug, though the faintest flush touched his cheeks. “It helps me remember the scene. It’s about more than just the thing itself—drawing catches the feeling, too.”

 

“You’ve never noticed?” Narcissa asked, her tone playfully chiding. “He always carries his sketch pad around.”

 

Draco gave his brother a pointed look. “It’s practically glued to my hand. How have you not seen me with it?”

 

Harry tilted his head slightly, giving a lopsided half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I feel like you think I pay more attention to you than I actually do.”

 

Draco’s mouth dropped open in mock offense. “Charming,” he deadpanned. “Truly. I can see this brotherly bond will be forged on the battlefield of sarcasm.”

 

Narcissa chuckled lightly, clearly pleased to see them exchanging more than one-word replies and awkward glances. Even Lucius, though quieter than the rest, allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward in what might’ve been the beginning of a smirk.

 

Harry, meanwhile, leaned slightly forward in his seat, curiosity creeping into his tone. “So do you, like… study art or something? Or is it just a hobby?”

 

Draco gave a nonchalant shrug, but there was something a bit shy behind the gesture—almost defensive. “It’s not really about studying. I mean, I’ve had tutors and some proper lessons—Mother made sure of that. But it’s just… something I do. When I was little, there wasn’t always someone around to play with. Drawing filled the gaps.”

 

There was a beat of silence, softer this time.

 

Harry understood that kind of loneliness. Too well.

 

He glanced away, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. “Yeah. I get that.”

 

And, for just a moment, the silence didn’t feel so heavy. Just shared.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Summary:

Finally the end of the first day!

Chapter 6

“Muggles,” Amelia Bones muttered under her breath as she adjusted the hem of her muggle style uniform and glanced sidelong at the tidy row of identical houses. “Why do I always forget how… sterile their neighborhoods are?”

Kingsley Shacklebolt stood to her right, arms folded across his chest, his face unreadable as usual. “It’s important we confirm everything,” he said evenly, his deep voice cutting through the warm afternoon air. “Even if they’re Muggles.”

Amelia sighed. “I know. I just—Albus said he’d placed the boy with relatives. Blood protection, he called it. It was supposed to be safe.” Her voice turned grim. “But I’ve learned not to rely on what Dumbledore deems safe.”

The other Aurors fanned out discreetly as they approached Number Four, Privet Drive. Amelia took the lead, her boots clicking sharply on the pavement. She knocked three times on the door, brisk and purposeful.

It opened to a doughy-faced man with a comb-over and a mustache that seemed far too proud of itself.

“Mr. Dursley?” Amelia asked, flipping open her badge. “Madam Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We need a few minutes of your time.”

Vernon Dursley blinked at the sight of her wand holster and Kingsley’s imposing stature behind her. “That boy isn’t here anymore,” he grunted, trying to close the door.

Amelia wedged her boot against it without hesitation. “That’s not why we’re here.”

With a flick of her wand, the door gave way, and they stepped inside, sweeping past a spluttering Vernon.

Petunia Dursley peeked in from the kitchen, pale and tight-lipped. “Is this about that boy?”

“It is,” Amelia said, already surveying the hallway. “We have questions about him being raise by you.”

Vernon spluttered, “We have done nothing wrong! We took that ungrateful brat into our home. We fed and clothed him. Whatever he is telling you is a lie!”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. That was suspicious. What was the muggle man afraid Castor might have told them? Now she was looking around the house as an investigator and rather quickly she noted some suspicions.

First the walls were littered with photos of the couple and a large round boy but she never saw a single one of Castor.

Then her eyes settled on the cupboard door beneath the staircase.

It had a bolt on the outside.

She stared at it.

What were they trying to keep in?

“What’s this?”

Petunia stiffened. “Just storage.”

“Open it,” Amelia ordered.

When no one moved, Kingsley stepped forward and wrenched the cupboard open.

Amelia’s stomach turned.

Inside was a thin mattress on a camping cot. A child’s broken toy soldier. A spider scuttled across the dusty wood. The space was barely large enough for one of them to step in completely.

She stepped back, her voice low and cold. “How long did he sleep in there?”

Neither Dursley answered. Vernon had gone red, puffing like a kettle, and Petunia looked as though she might faint.

“Answer me!” Amelia’s voice cracked like a whip.

Petunia stammered, “W–when he was young. Before his room upstairs.”

“Show me that room,” Amelia demanded and turned toward the stairs and marched up with only Petunia. She had not actually needed her to find the bedroom. The door bore a cat flap and many locks. On the outside.

She stared for a long moment, then whispered a preservation charm and summoned a quill and parchment from her robes.

She descended slowly, each step heavier than the last.

“The cupboard. The locks. The neglect.” Her tone left no room for argument. “You are under investigation for the abuse and endangerment of a magical child. I will be filing a report with both the Muggle and Wizarding Child Welfare Offices. If you attempt to flee or tamper with the property, you will be arrested.”

Vernon exploded. “This is preposterous! He’s a freak! We were doing you a favor—”

Kingsley stepped forward, looming over him. “Say another word, and I’ll see you detained for obstruction.”

Amelia took one last look at the cupboard.

The boy had lived here for years. The Boy Who Lived… in a cupboard.

She turned to Kingsley, her voice quiet but resolute. “Get photographs. Document everything. I want this report on my desk tonight.”

She looked back at the Dursleys with open disdain.

“I suggest you find a wizarding solicitor.”

Then she swept out of the house, her cloak snapping behind her like thunder.

888

Dinner had passed in relative quiet. Not nearly as tense as the earlier meals that day but still shadowed by a peculiar sense of restraint. Conversation was light and sporadic, as though everyone were waiting for something else to happen.

Harry’s meal had been simple but thoughtfully prepared: a grilled chicken breast, lightly seasoned, with a side of steamed green beans and a warm dish of stewed pear drizzled in honey for dessert. Though it was good—and far gentler on his stomach than breakfast—he still required another vial of stomach soother midway through and left a portion untouched.

The Malfoys, to their credit, didn’t press him. Though a flicker of disappointment crossed their faces, they acknowledged his effort with quiet nods.

The plates had only just vanished when a new house-elf appeared, this one unfamiliar to Harry. Dressed in a forest-green tea towel and clearly in a hurry, it bowed low and announced in a high, squeaky voice, “Madam Bones is here to speak with you. Pinzy has brought her to the sitting room.”

Lucius rose to his feet immediately, straightening his cuffs. “Thank you, Pinzy. That will be all.” The elf bowed again and popped away with a crack.

Without needing to be asked, Harry also stood, trailing the adults as the group moved from the dining room to the nearby sitting room.

Amelia Bones stood waiting for them when they arrived, composed and patient. She was a sturdy woman, dressed in deep blue robes, her monocle gleaming in the soft light. Despite her long day, she carried herself with calm authority.

Lucius stepped forward and offered his hand with his usual aristocratic poise. “Apologies for the delay, Madam Bones. We had just finished our evening meal when we were informed of your arrival.”

Amelia gave a faint smile and waved off the apology. “Think nothing of it, Mr. Malfoy. I’ve been running from office to office all day—sitting quietly for a few minutes was a welcome change. I’m here to speak primarily with Castor, if that’s acceptable.”

“Of course,” Lucius said with a small nod, glancing toward Harry. “Though we would like to be present for the conversation.”

“I see no objection,” Amelia replied, shifting her attention to the boy. “Unless, of course, Castor would prefer privacy?”

Harry blinked at her, then gave a small shrug. “It’s fine.” He figured there wasn’t much point in having them leave—anything he said would make its way back to them eventually.

“Shall we sit?” Narcissa offered smoothly, already gesturing toward the armchairs arranged near the fireplace, though Draco selected to stand leaning in the corner of the room as if afraid to be kicked out if noticed. “Would you care for some evening tea, Madam Bones?”

“Actually, that would be lovely,” Amelia replied. “I have a feeling this may be a long night.”

At her cue, the same elf—Pinzy, apparently—returned, levitating a silver tea tray into the room. Cups and saucers floated neatly to each guest as the elf made a circular pass, offering honey, cream, and sugar with a practiced sweep of her hand.

When the elf vanished once again, Narcissa gently guided Harry toward the chair directly across from Amelia, leaving no ambiguity about who the conversation would focus on.

Amelia regarded Harry with a softened expression and leaned forward slightly, resting her teacup in her saucer. “How are you, Castor?” she asked, her tone calm and careful.

Harry glanced between the adults and shrugged. “Alright.”

“And how has your first day here been?” she asked, aiming for something casual.

Harry had to stop himself from laughing. It felt impossible that it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since his name had come out of the Goblet of Fire. “Busy,” he answered truthfully.

Amelia nodded slowly, noting his reluctance. She knew it might take more than polite conversation to get through to him—but after what she had seen at the Dursleys’ earlier, she was determined to try.

“I’m not sure if your parents mentioned it,” Madam Bones began, her voice calm but deliberate, “but I paid a visit to the Headmaster earlier today.”

Harry gave a small nod. “Yeah, they told me.”

“Well, it didn’t go quite how I expected,” she admitted, folding her hands in her lap. “I had been under the impression you’d been raised in a wizarding household.”

That earned a brief, muffled laugh from Harry before he reined it in. “Yeah… I don’t think you’d get much out of the people who raised me.”

Lucius cut in sharply, his eyes narrowing. “I was under the impression Dumbledore placed you with relatives of the Potters.”

“That’s what I believed too,” Madam Bones replied with a note of frustration. “But in truth, he meant relatives of Lily Potter. As she was Muggle-born, that left only her sister—Petunia Dursley—and her family.”

Draco suddenly stood straighter. “You were raised by Muggles?” he asked, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

His parents shot him twin glances of warning, though neither of them entirely masked their own flickers of surprise.

“Yeah,” Harry said with a shrug, as though it didn’t matter. “I didn’t think it was a secret. All of Gryffindor knows. It’s not exactly shocking, is it? Everyone knew my mum was Muggle-born.”

He didn’t notice the way Narcissa visibly flinched at his words—as though they had struck her like a physical blow. The word mum, spoken with such ease and familiarity, did something strange to her. She folded her hands more tightly in her lap, eyes fixed not on the boy, but somewhere just past him.

It wasn’t the fact that Lily had been Muggle-born that bothered her most. It was hearing her son—her baby—refer to that woman as his mother.

“Yes, well,” Amelia said, pressing on, her tone measured but edged with something sharper now. “Initially, I believed as you did, Castor—that there was little point in pursuing them. But I’m a thorough woman, and protocol demanded we at least verify the Headmaster’s claims. So I brought a few Aurors along and paid them a visit… just in case.”

She paused briefly, letting that sink in.

“And while we found nothing to suggest they were involved in your disappearance all those years ago, what we did uncover was… troubling, to say the least. So troubling, in fact, that we’ve had to open a second investigation—one unrelated to the kidnapping entirely.”

The Malfoys exchanged looks, all composure momentarily shaken. Narcissa’s lips parted slightly, eyes darting between Amelia and Harry, while Lucius’s brow furrowed deeply, clearly blindsided.

“A second investigation?” Narcissa repeated, her voice quiet but tight.

“You’re investigating the Dursleys?” Harry asked, stunned. Even with everything, it hadn’t crossed his mind anyone would care enough to follow up on that part of his past. His disbelief came out as a half-laugh. “Seriously?”

Amelia nodded grimly. “I’m afraid so. Their treatment of you while you lived under their roof… it raises significant legal concerns. The cupboard, the locks, the… neglect. Castor, what we saw—what we documented—it was not merely unkind. It was criminal.”

Silence followed.

And this time, it wasn’t awkward—it was heavy.

The kind of silence that wrapped around a room and held tight, waiting for someone to acknowledge what couldn’t be brushed aside anymore.

Narcissa’s fingers, which had been delicately wrapped around her teacup, clenched with such force the porcelain gave a faint creak in protest. She set it down quickly before it could shatter. Her face remained composed, but only barely—her knuckles white, jaw taut. The image of her son—her baby—crammed into a cupboard flashed in her mind unbidden, and for the first time in years, she felt sick to her stomach in a way not even war had managed.
Lucius, beside her, had gone rigid. His spine was straight, shoulders squared, but his eyes had lost focus for a moment. That mask of aristocratic disdain he wore so easily had cracked—not fully, but enough to expose the fury simmering just beneath. A cupboard? These Dursleys had dared. Dared. There was a cold, methodical part of him already cataloguing what legal ruin could befall the family, and another, darker part contemplating actions well beyond parchment and courtrooms.

Draco was silent, for once not offering a sarcastic comment or derisive laugh. He was staring at Harry—Castor—with wide eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. His mouth opened, then closed again. What did you say to someone who’d lived like that? The thought made his chest tight. He had always assumed Harry Potter’s life had been full of praise and gifts and annoying Gryffindor attention. Not… not cupboards.

Only Harry, the boy at the center of it all, looked unmoved—at least on the surface. His expression was carefully blank, his posture defensive, like he was used to people reacting this way, like he didn’t want to be pitied but also didn’t know what to do when people did care. That, more than anything, made Narcissa ache.

Amelia watched them all, lips pressed into a firm line, letting the weight of her words settle.

Finally, she added, quieter now, “I’m sorry, Castor. You should never have been left there.”

And this time, Harry didn’t say anything at all.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright,” Amelia said gently. “If anything feels too difficult, just say so and we’ll move on. All I ask is that you’re honest with me. Is that fair?”

Harry sighed and nodded; shoulders tense. He didn’t really feel like talking—but this was official. It felt like something he wasn’t allowed to refuse. Probably was illegal to lie, right?

The questioning began. Lucius and Narcissa stayed quiet, but their eyes flicked back and forth between Amelia and Harry with the focus of spectators at a Quidditch match.

“Where did you sleep when you lived with them?” Amelia began. “Did you have your own room?”

Harry gave a half-shrug. “Eventually. But you said you saw the cupboard. That was mine until I was almost eleven. My Hogwarts letter that year was addressed to ‘The Cupboard Under the Stairs.’ The Dursleys freaked out when they saw that—said someone must be watching the house. That’s when they gave me Dudley’s second bedroom.”

Amelia’s quill paused briefly on her parchment, surprise flickering in her eyes. She made a note, then looked back up. “Were you ever locked in—or out—of rooms? How often did that happen?”

“Every night,” Harry said plainly. “Always locked in. Sometimes for a few days straight, if I’d upset them.”

He leaned back slightly, tapping his fingers against the chair arm. “Before second year, a house elf—Dobby—broke into my room. He was trying to stop me from going back to Hogwarts. When I refused, he smashed a pudding my aunt had made for my uncle’s business guests. They blamed me. Locked me in my room for days. I only got let out twice a day for bathroom breaks—five minutes, tops.”

Lucius stiffened. Dobby. The elf he’d freed—accidentally—over with sock. Why had he gone to Castor?

Narcissa, meanwhile, had gone pale. Her son—her baby—had been locked in a room like a prisoner for days, because of a pudding?

Amelia continued with quiet professionalism, though her jaw was tight. “Can you describe your typical day while living with the Dursleys?”

Harry frowned. “Depends. On school days, I cooked breakfast. After school I had chores—sometimes I had to skip homework if I wasn’t fast enough. On weekends, I usually made all the meals. After chores, I’d go to my room… or the cupboard, depending on the year.”

“Were you punished often?” she asked. “If so, how—and for what?”

“Mostly for doing magic.” Harry said it like it was obvious.

Lucius made a strangled noise in his throat. “They punished you for being a wizard?”

Harry glanced at him and nodded. “One time, before I knew I was magical, I was running from Dudley and his gang, and I somehow ended up on the school roof. The teachers thought I’d climbed it. When I got home and explained what really happened, they locked me in for the weekend. No meals.”

Narcissa blinked back tears.

“Were you given enough food?” Amelia asked carefully. “Were you allowed seconds? Snacks?”

Harry hesitated. “They didn’t starve me… not really. They gave me enough to keep me going, especially if I had chores. But meals were a common punishment. No food for a day or two if I’d done something ‘wrong.’ On school days they’d send me with lunch, but that usually meant no breakfast. I’d make dinner most nights—unless we had guests, then I’d be hidden away. I’d sneak extra vegetables because only my aunt ate them, and I’d get to eat the leftovers.”

Amelia nodded, noting all of it down while the Malfoys sat in stunned silence.

“What about how they spoke to you?” she continued. “Compared to how they spoke to their son?”

Harry gave a bitter laugh. “They adored Dudley. He was their perfect little prince. I thought my name was ‘Freak’ until I started school.”

Narcissa winced visibly.

“Did they ever physically harm you?” Amelia asked carefully.

Harry hesitated.

Not in the way people expected, he thought. Not beatings. But that didn’t mean it had been okay.

“Not really,” he said at first, then frowned. “Well—Dudley and his mates used to beat me up a lot and would not be punished. My aunt and uncle… not so much direct hits. Petunia would slap me or hit me with a frying pan if I got too close while she was angry or if did something ‘freaky’. My uncle preferred… throwing me. If I made him mad, he’d grab me and toss me into my cupboard. Sometimes across the room. Once he pushed me down the stairs.”

Narcissa covered her mouth. Lucius’s fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

Harry sat back, arms crossed over his stomach, avoiding all their eyes. “But it wasn’t, like… real abuse or anything,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a glance. They’d seen children raised harshly before—by pure-blood families with rigid expectations and strict discipline. But this wasn’t that. This was something colder, crueler, and completely unjustified.

And it had happened to their son.

Their flesh and blood.

The silence that followed was heavy, full of realization and fury and something dangerously close to guilt.

Did they ever threaten you not to tell anyone how they treated you?” Amelia asked gently.

Harry let out a sharp, humorless laugh—something bitter and unhinged. “I did tell. That’s the part that blows my mind. The second I’m not living with them anymore, suddenly it’s an issue.” He leaned forward, voice laced with disbelief. “I had two teachers in primary school who were worried. They called family services. Twice. The social workers came. And nothing changed. I just got punished for drawing too much attention—for being a ‘freak.’”

The room had gone very still.

Harry looked down, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “Then I got to Hogwarts. I asked Dumbledore if I could stay over the summer, said I didn’t want to go back to the Dursleys. He told me I had to. Said it was for my own protection. Because of some blood wards.”

Amelia straightened instantly. “So, he mentioned the blood wards to you directly.”

Harry nodded. “Multiple times.”

Lucius narrowed his eyes, shifting forward in his seat. “Blood wards? On a muggle residence? That shouldn’t be possible.”

Amelia sighed, crossing her legs and setting down her teacup with a faint clink. “Dumbledore’s explanation is that Lily Potter’s sacrifice—her death to protect her child—created a magical bond tied to her bloodline. He claimed that as long as Harry lived under the same roof as someone with her blood—her sister, in this case—the wards would sustain themselves and shield him from Voldemort.”

Lucius looked skeptical. “But the sister is a Muggle. That kind of blood magic is old—primal. How could it hold on Muggle ground? And Castor has no actually blood relation to either of them!”

“Exactly my concern,” Amelia said darkly. “Initially, Dumbledore believed the wards weren’t strengthening properly because Castor never truly viewed the Dursleys' home as his own. But because of recent events he’s suggested it could be due to a lack of authentic familial connection—that the magic may not have properly recognized the Dursleys as ‘kin.’”

She paused, her voice lowering. “When I visited the home myself, I did feel something—ancient, residual. But it didn’t feel like blood-based protection. If I had to guess… I’d say it was sacrificial magic. Not something Dumbledore created, but something left behind by Lily’s death. A lingering shield of her own making, not tied to Petunia at all.”

Narcissa drew in a quiet breath, her hand moving instinctively to touch Harry’s shoulder.

Lucius’s brow furrowed, not with confusion but fury. “And he let that determine whether our son spent his formative years in a locked cupboard?”

Amelia met his eyes without flinching. “It seems… he did.”
Lucius frowned. “Surely Albus would know the difference?”

“One would certainly hope so,” Amelia said, her voice edged with skepticism. “But sacrificial wards are... trickier. Rarer. And considerably darker in nature. Blood wards are controversial enough in polite circles, but sacrificial wards—those involve death, willing or otherwise. They can bind deeply and powerfully, but they’re unpredictable. Messy.”

Narcissa’s expression tightened at that, and Lucius leaned back in his chair, processing the implication. The idea that their son had been protected not by careful design, but by some chaotic tangle of sacrifice and guesswork, left a sour taste in both their mouths.

Amelia continued, “Whatever was used, it may have offered some protection, but clearly not enough—not from neglect. Which raises the question: how much of Dumbledore’s plan was based on theory... and how much on wishful thinking?”

Harry shifted in his seat, unease prickling along his spine. It felt like everyone in the room was turning against Dumbledore.

He had expected this kind of reaction from the Malfoys—Lucius in particular had made no secret of his disdain for the headmaster—but what caught Harry off guard was Amelia Bones. She didn’t seem like the type to speak harshly without reason. She was calm, professional, and had shown him nothing but kindness and patience. That made her quiet criticism sting even more.

Hearing her question Dumbledore’s choices so openly shook something in Harry. The headmaster had always been a figure of trust and safety in his life—even when he didn’t fully understand him. Dumbledore had believed in him, protected him, guided him through more than one crisis.

And yet… part of him couldn’t help but wonder if there was truth in their words.

He glanced between Amelia, Lucius, and Narcissa, their faces shadowed with concern, frustration, and something else he couldn’t name. They weren’t yelling or attacking, but there was a weight to their judgment, a growing doubt that seemed to press in around him.

For the first time, Harry felt truly torn—caught between the man he’d trusted for so long and the reality being laid bare before him, piece by painful piece.

“Speaking of Dumbledore, did he ever visit the Dursleys while you lived there? Did he speak with you?”

Feeling as though this answer might offer the headmaster some small defense — at the very least proving he hadn’t witnessed any of the worst treatment — Harry answered firmly, “No. I didn’t meet him until my first year at Hogwarts. I only saw him from a distance at first, during the welcoming feast, but near the end of the year, I ended up in the hospital wing, and he came to visit me. That’s when I asked him if I could stay at Hogwarts over the summer… so I wouldn’t have to go back to the Dursleys.”

He glanced around, unsure if that detail would help or hurt.

“We’ve talked a bit more since then — a few times a year, maybe — but no, he never came to the house. He never saw how they treated me. Actually, Hagrid told me he was with Dumbledore the night they dropped me off — him and Professor McGonagall. It’s not safe to Apparate with babies, so Hagrid flew me there on a motorcycle. They didn’t knock. They didn’t talk to the Dursleys. They just… left me on the doorstep.”

He said it matter-of-factly, as if reciting a story he’d told himself often enough that it had worn smooth. But the moment the words left his mouth, he noticed the room had gone very still.

Narcissa had gone stiff. Lucius looked like someone had slapped him. Even Amelia Bones, who had seemed composed through much of the interview, leaned back with a look of pure disbelief, her quill momentarily still.

Harry blinked at them. He had meant it as a kind of explanation — not an accusation. But they all looked horrified.

He frowned faintly. “What?”

No one answered right away.

They didn’t have to.

Apparently, what Harry had taken as normal — or at least unchangeable — was, to everyone else in the room, utterly unthinkable.

Making some more notes Amelia muttered, “Looks like will need to speak to Dumbledore again… Along with some of the other professors… Maybe we should speak with them all just in case.” She was speaking more to herself than anyone else but continued with her list of questions she had made before coming.

“Can you try to think of your earliest memory? How old were you when it happened?” Amelia asked softly.

The question seemed simple — but it twisted in the air like smoke. Harry blinked once, twice, trying to reach through the fog in his mind. And then, without warning, it hit him.

A flash of green light.

A scream — bone-deep, raw, and endless.

“October thirty-first,” Harry said quietly, voice distant. “Nineteen eighty-one.”

The room shifted. No one moved. The fire crackled faintly in the hearth, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Narcissa went very still, her teacup trembling slightly in her grip before she set it down. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

“You… remember that?” she whispered, barely audible.

Draco’s reaction was sharper. Defensive. Disbelieving.

“No,” he said quickly, his voice too loud in the hush. “You said you didn’t even know about magic. How could you remember something like that… and not know?”

It was a fair question. Harry nodded faintly, eyes fixed on the floor as he began to explain.

“I didn’t understand what I was remembering. Not for a long time. I thought it was something else. I—” he paused, bracing himself. “I asked Aunt Petunia once, when I was young… why I didn’t have parents.”

He hesitated, ashamed even now of what came next.

“She told me… that my mum was a prostitute. And my dad was just some drunk who knocked her up. That they got married because of it, but one night he got behind the wheel pissed out of his mind and drove us into a wall. That’s what gave me the scar.”

He said it without inflection — flat, cold, practiced — but the silence that followed was horrified. Narcissa raised a hand to her mouth. Lucius’s jaw clenched. Draco looked stunned.

“But I kept remembering it — not the story she told me, but that moment. The green light. My mum’s scream. I thought maybe I’d imagined it. That it was just some warped memory of the crash. But it never made sense — green light? If it had been fire, it would’ve been red. Or orange. But green?”

He gave a mirthless laugh, short and brittle.

“Then I turned eleven. Found out I was a wizard. Suddenly people were swarming me, calling me The Boy Who Lived, reaching for my scar like it meant something. I didn’t understand a word of it, so I asked Hagrid. He explained… everything.”

Harry's hands had tightened in his lap now, knuckles pale.

“And it all started to make sense.”

He looked at Draco again — answering him now, not just the room.

“But last year, when the dementors came to Hogwarts looking for Sirius… that’s when I started to really remember.”

Amelia silently scribbled a note — he had spoken Sirius Black’s name without fear or hatred — but she didn’t interrupt.

“The dementors — they feed on pain. Fear. And I guess… that night was the worst thing I had.”

He drew in a shaking breath.

“I remembered Dad telling Mum to take me and run. He stayed behind to hold off Voldemort. I think he died on the stairs — I remember the sound of him falling after the curse hit.”

Harry’s voice had gone thin now, as though part of him were no longer speaking from the present, but reliving every second of the past.

“Mum ran. Tried the Floo, I think — but we were trapped. She couldn’t get out. She put me in my crib, kissed me… told me she loved me.”

A beat of silence.

“Then I heard his laugh. Voldemort. Coming up the stairs.”

The Malfoys sat frozen. Even Lucius, composed as he usually was, had gone pale beneath his usual mask of indifference. Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“Mum stood between us. I couldn’t see her really — it’s more the sounds. The feelings. Voldemort offered her mercy. Told her to step aside. Again and again. He just wanted me.”

Harry blinked hard. His voice cracked.

“She said no. Over and over again.”

A long silence.

“And then… the scream.”

The room felt colder. Even the fire seemed dimmer now.

“Her scream. The green light. And then laughter. And another curse. It hit me. There was pain. And silence.”

He reached up and absently touched the lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

“I woke up crying in my cupboard, and I never forgot that shade of green,” Harry said quietly. “It’s always been burned into my mind, even when I didn’t know what it meant.”

He paused, swallowing hard.

“I saw it again just a few days ago. In class—when Professor Moody demonstrated the Unforgivable Curses. That’s when I realized what it was. What he used on me.”

His voice dropped even lower.

“The Killing Curse.”

The room sat in stunned stillness — like something ancient had passed through it.

No one spoke for several long seconds.

Then, quietly, almost reverently, Amelia Bones wrote one more thing in her file.

But even without words, it was clear — nothing about this boy’s life had been simple. And nothing about what he remembered should have been forgotten.

Feeling nauseous and drained, Harry swallowed hard before whispering, “Can we be done now?”

Amelia gave him a sympathetic nod. “Yes, of course, Castor. I’m truly sorry if the questions caused you distress—but I’m incredibly grateful for your honesty and your time.”

Harry turned to Narcissa, his voice barely above a murmur. “May I go to my room now?”

Narcissa, eyes still glistening with unshed tears, gave a gentle smile as she wiped her cheek. “Yes, darling. Of course. You were incredibly brave.”

Without another word, Harry slipped away to his room, curled up on the window seat, and stared out at the night sky—blinking hard against the tears that refused to fall.

Notes:

Let me know what you think—was it too dark?
I’ve also never written romance before, but I imagine it’ll come up eventually, especially with the Yule Ball later in the story. I know it’s still a long way off, but if anyone has suggestions for that aspect—or ideas about who Harry might end up with—I’d really appreciate the input. I’m completely undecided at this point!

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Summary:

Okay I lied now the first day is done! I felt guilty about being so hard on Harry I needed to give him a good night sleep.

Chapter 7

As the door closed softly behind Castor, the silence that followed was heavy—somber, but charged.

 

Amelia set her teacup down with a soft clink. “He’s stronger than I expected,” she said quietly, “but more fragile than he realizes.”

 

Narcissa nodded, her hands trembling slightly in her lap. “I thought I was prepared… but hearing it in his own words—what they did to him—it’s worse than I imagined. They locked him in a cupboard, Amelia.”

 

Lucius had been standing behind his wife, his arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. But at that, his composure cracked. “If I had known,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “I would have burned that house to the ground.”

 

“We’ll deal with them legally,” Amelia said firmly, eyes sharp. “The Ministry has already opened an abuse case. I’ll be overseeing it personally. Given the evidence, they’ll be prosecuted. But more importantly—” she paused, leveling her gaze at the couple, “—you need to understand how deep this goes. That boy has never been protected. Not by the people who raised him. Not by the school. Not even by the man who was supposed to watch over him.”

 

“Dumbledore,” Lucius muttered with disgust.

 

Amelia nodded grimly. “He placed an infant on a doorstep. Without even speaking to the people inside. That is not protection. That is negligence disguised as faith in ancient magic.”

 

Narcissa swallowed, still shaken. “You said the wards weren’t what he claimed?”

 

“I believe he invoked a sacrificial ward,” Amelia explained. “Not a blood-based one. The strength of those spells depends on intent and understanding. But even if it had worked exactly as he claimed—magic alone doesn’t raise a child.”

 

She looked at them all in turn.

 

“The three of you are all he has now. I don’t say that lightly. You have to build trust with him. Real trust. That will take time.”

 

Lucius gave a tight nod. “He is… guarded.”

 

“He’s been trained to be,” Amelia replied. “Survival instinct. Don’t push him to heal on your schedule.”

 

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “He doesn’t even want to talk to us.”

 

“Then be someone worth talking to,” Amelia said, not unkindly. “He needs normalcy. A place where he’s not just safe, but seen.”

 

Narcissa looked up. “Is there anything more we should do?”

 

“Yes,” Amelia said. “Be patient. Watch over him, but don’t smother him. Make space for him to come to you—but don’t stop showing up. And I’d like to have him speak to a Mind Healer once he’s settled, though I’ll leave that decision to you, for now.”

 

There was a long pause.

 

Then Lucius asked, “And Dumbledore?”

 

Amelia’s face hardened. “That’s a separate matter. But rest assured—I won’t be sweeping anything under the rug.”

 

She stood, brushing off her robes. “Thank you for allowing me to speak with him. I’ll be back as soon as I learn more. For now… just take care of your son.”

 

And with that, she left them in the quiet of the sitting room, the air still heavy with everything that had been said—and everything that hadn’t yet been.

 

“Well, that wasn’t emotionally scarring at all. Should we take turns crying now, or just let Mother win by default?”

 

Narcissa shot him a sharp look, but her voice was too weary to scold, “Draco, not now.” She brushed the corner of her eye with her handkerchief, then folded it in her lap with deliberate care.

 

Lucius took a measured breath, standing near the hearth with his hands clasped behind his back, “Sarcasm doesn’t mask how shaken you are.”

 

Draco crossed his arms tightly, his usual bravado slipping into something quieter, more uncertain. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though his frown betrayed him. “It’s just… how is that his life?”

 

His voice lowered with a mix of disbelief and guilt, “That’s Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The one everyone talks about like he’s some kind of legend. And he’s spent more time locked in a cupboard than actually living like a kid.”

 

The words hung in the air, raw and bitter.

 

Narcissa rose slowly from her chair, her movements unusually hesitant. She crossed to the fireplace, gazing into the flames as though they might offer answers. “He remembers that night… the night she died. Like it only just happened,” her voice faltered, “No wonder he’s so guarded. He’s surrounded by people he once would have seen as enemies. How can he even stand to be here, let alone look us in the eye? He knows exactly which side we are on.”

 

Lucius crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing her gently against him. His voice, when it came, was low but unwavering. “No, Cissa. It’s not you he hates.” He paused, jaw tight. “It’s me. If I hadn’t endangered his friend all those years ago—if I hadn’t behaved as I did—perhaps things would be different now.”

 

Narcissa turned toward him, eyes glistening. “Do you really think he could ever forgive us? Truly want to be part of this family?” There was a crack in her voice she didn’t try to hide.

 

Lucius pressed a kiss to her temple, cradling her face with one hand. “I do,” he looked her in the eye, “You’ve heard Severus’s accounts. That boy doesn’t suffer anyone lightly—not when he’s angry. If he hated you, you’d know it. He wouldn’t follow your instructions, wouldn’t trust your touch. But he does. He listens to you because he wants to please you. He wants your approval, your care.”

 

Narcissa swallowed hard, a fragile hope flickering in her chest.

 

Lucius continued, quietly but firmly, “You’re the first person in his life to show him gentleness without condition. He’s not here out of duty, Cissa. He’s trying… because he wants this to work. For you.”

 

She closed her eyes, drawing a shaky breath, and leaned into him. Behind them, Draco stood silently by the bookshelf, the firelight casting warm shadows along the sharp lines of his face.

 

He said nothing at first—but for the first time, he truly grasped just how much weight his brother had been carrying… and how much it meant that Castor hadn’t turned away from them completely.

 

Then Draco turned to face them, arms folded, “If Madam Bones proceeds with her charges… if this reaches the press, the world’s going to want answers. And they’ll be looking to Dumbledore.”

 

Lucius’ voice was cool and decisive, “Then they’ll get them. If I have anything to say about it.”

 

Draco’s smirk was sharp, “Might even shatter that kindly-grandfather act he hides behind.”

 

A heavy silence settled over the room once more. But this time, it wasn’t just grief for all that Castor had endured—it was the weight of what was coming. And the quiet, mutual understanding that they would all have a role to play in it.

 

888

 

Harry wiped hastily at his face—just in case any tears had actually fallen—then pushed himself upright from where he’d been curled on the window seat. Outside, the sky had deepened into a cloudy, moonless night. He hadn’t moved in what felt like hours.

 

A soft knock came at the door.

 

He straightened instinctively, tensing even though he already had a good idea who it would be.

 

Narcissa opened the door gently and peeked inside, eyes immediately landing on her son. He was still in his clothes from earlier, the bed untouched, the covers pristine. Her heart twisted. Castor hadn’t slept the night before—she hadn’t missed the signs of exhaustion, even if he tried to hide it—and he hadn’t truly rested since. From the library chair to the window seat… he clearly didn’t like the bed. Or perhaps he didn’t feel ready to claim it yet.

 

She stepped into the room slowly, her voice soft, “I just wanted to check on you. To see if you were alright… or if there’s anything I can bring you.”

 

Harry gave a quick shake of his head, “I’m fine.”

 

But Narcissa wasn’t so easily fooled. She could see the rawness still lingering in his expression, the faint puffiness around his eyes, the way his shoulders hunched as if bracing for something he couldn’t name.

 

She took another quiet step forward, her voice gentler still. “I really am so proud of you, Castor.” Her voice cracked faintly, but she didn’t care. “I love you so much. And I’m so happy you’re home.”

 

She meant it. Every word. Vulnerability like this wasn’t often welcomed among pure-blood circles, but Castor wasn’t like them. He wasn’t raised to hide softness behind tradition or pride. And in that moment, she saw something in his eyes—something fragile and aching.

 

Tears shimmered just behind his lashes, and for a breath, he didn’t look away.

 

Narcissa reached out slowly, carefully, and cupped his cheek with one hand. Her touch was feather-light.

 

Harry leaned into it—just barely—for the span of a heartbeat.

 

Then a tear slipped down his cheek and touched her thumb, and he flinched, pulling back as if the moment had gone too far. He cleared his throat roughly and muttered, “Thanks.”

 

Narcissa didn’t push. She let her hand fall back to her side, though her chest ached from the nearness of what had just happened. That single tear, that one lean into her hand—it meant more than any hug ever could have.

 

Lucius had been right. They had a chance.

 

Castor wanted a family so desperately… and maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to believe he could have one.

 

Changing the subject, she kept her voice gentle. “Castor… do you not like the bed? We could change the bedding if it’s not to your liking.”

 

Harry flushed, caught off guard that she had noticed so quickly. “No—no, it’s fine. I… I just like the window is all.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. He did like watching the vast, open grounds outside—it gave him something to focus on, something still. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the whole truth. The whole manor was grand and cold and strange, and the bed—though beautiful and massive—felt like something that belonged to someone else. Nothing in here felt like him. Plus he still was not convinced that thing wouldn’t eat him.

 

Narcissa gave a quiet sigh. She had chosen that bed specifically, with protections layered into the frame to make it impossible to remove someone against their will while they slept. A mother’s precaution, after years of grief and fear. But she wouldn’t press him—not tonight. If Castor needed comfort elsewhere, then she’d meet him there. She could still protect him, even if she had to do it from the shadows.

 

“Mipsy,” Narcissa called softly.

 

With a pop, the tiny elf appeared. “Mistress calls for Mipsy?”

 

“Yes. Please bring us a few options of pillowcases and blankets from the linen stores.”

 

“Yes, Mistress!” And she vanished with another crack.

 

Harry blinked at her, clearly confused. Narcissa smiled at his expression.

 

“If you’re going to insist on using the window seat as a bed, then at least allow me to make it feel a bit more like one,” she said, her tone light but sincere. “And since I can tell there’s something about the bed that you can’t stand—but won’t say—I’d like you to choose this one. I want you to be comfortable here, Castor. You’ve grown up… so differently from us. I’m trying. I really am. But I may need a bit of help. From you.”

 

Before he could respond, Mipsy returned, trailing behind a floating line of crisp white pillows—each one wrapped in a different fabric.

 

“Go on,” Narcissa encouraged, tilting her head toward them. “Touch them all. Choose the one that feels best.”

 

Harry stood awkwardly and approached, brushing his fingers along each one. The third was perfect—cool to the touch, soft but not too silky. Familiar in a way he hadn’t expected. He pointed. “That one.”

 

Narcissa nodded. “Excellent choice.” She plucked the case from the air, and the others vanished. A new row of floating blankets appeared instantly, hovering with a gentle bob. “Now for the blankets. Pick as many as you like.”

 

He hesitated at first, overwhelmed by the options, but slowly moved through them. He chose two: one was thin but warm and weighted—comforting. The other was a fluffy white comforter, like a cloud. The rest disappeared.

 

Narcissa held the larger one aloft in the air. “I can’t change the fabric permanently, but I can charm the appearance. My glamours are strong enough to last your stay here. What would you like it to look like?”

 

The question caught Harry off guard. His mind blanked. What did he want?

 

“Take your time,” Narcissa said softly. “It can be anything. Anything at all.”

 

Harry tried to slow his thoughts, tried not to panic. And then he remembered. The best blanket he’d ever had as a child—something Aunt Petunia had picked up at a rummage sale for almost nothing. It had been meant for picnics, but it was his. Blue and white plaid. He’d loved that thing more than anything.

 

“Can you make it… blue and white plaid?” he asked, almost shyly.

 

Narcissa blinked, surprised. “Plaid?” she echoed, the word escaping her before she could catch it.

 

Harry winced, clearly embarrassed.

 

But she recovered quickly, changing her tone with grace. “Plaid! Right. I had to think for a moment—it’s not something you’ll find in my closet,” she added with a wink. “But I believe I can manage it. Tell me if I get it wrong.”

 

She flicked her wand, and the pristine white blanket shimmered—transforming into a soft, plaid pattern of pale blue and white squares. Harry stepped forward and ran his hand along it, a smile spreading across his face without his permission. It didn’t look exactly like his old one—but it was close enough. And his mum had made it for him.

 

He didn’t even notice that he’d called her mum in his thoughts.

 

“It’s perfect,” he whispered.

 

Narcissa’s breath caught. The smile on his face—pure, real, and unguarded—was something she had only dreamed of seeing.

 

“Lovely,” she said, voice tight with emotion. She summoned the other, smaller blanket. “This one will go underneath, then. Would you like it to match?”

 

Harry considered, then pointed to the deeper blue in the plaid. “Could you make it that shade? I really like that color.”

 

With a swish, the blanket deepened into the rich navy he indicated. “Like this?”

 

Harry nodded, still smiling. “Perfect.”

 

Lastly, Narcissa lifted the chosen pillowcase. “Would you like anything on these? Draco had the Slytherin crest, but when he was younger, he made me cover them in dragons.”

 

Harry hesitated. A small, sheepish smile tugged at his lips. “Could you… do snowy owls? Same blue as the blanket.”

 

Narcissa’s heart fluttered. “Of course.”

 

She charmed the fabric, and the blue pillowcases shimmered with the soft outlines of white owls in flight. As the glamours set, she quietly moved to arrange everything on the window seat while Harry watched in awe.

 

He hadn’t realized how much a few colors and fabrics could change a space. But now, for the first time since arriving at the manor… it felt just a little more like his.

 

He smiled at his mother, eyes lighting with a flicker of nostalgia. “They look just like Hedwig.”

 

“Hedwig?” Narcissa echoed, a delicate lift to her brow.

 

“My owl,” Harry said fondly. “Hagrid gave her to me on my eleventh birthday. She was my first friend.”

 

There was a beat of silence too heavy for words. Narcissa felt her throat tighten. An owl. His first friend was an owl. The ache in her heart was sharp and sudden, but she didn’t let it touch her smile. The moment was too tender to ruin.

 

“Well,” she said, voice soft but steady, “she must have been a very special gift.”

 

Harry nodded. “She was.”

 

Not wanting the warmth between them to slip into melancholy, Narcissa gently pivoted, extending her hand with graceful precision. “Alright then. Now, pajamas. You clearly had no interest in the silk ones.”

 

He flushed slightly but took her hand, letting her lead him to the walk-in closet.

 

“Let’s see if there’s anything in here you’ll actually wear,” she said with a teasing lilt. She opened a tall drawer filled with neatly folded sleepwear in a variety of fabrics and styles—most of it far too formal for a boy who used to sleep in old shirts and cast-offs.

 

“If nothing feels right, I can transfigure something for tonight,” she offered. “Though I must warn you, I’m better with glamours. Transfiguration doesn’t always hold through the night.”

 

Harry glanced over the options and pulled out a lightweight black pair with drawstring pants and a matching shirt, plain but soft, with just the right amount of looseness. Narcissa added a simple cotton t-shirt for layering.

 

“You found something you like?”

 

He nodded. “Yeah. These’ll be great.”

 

“Lovely,” she said with satisfaction. “Now off you go. Take your time—shower, bath, anything you’d like. I’ll wait here for you and make sure everything’s ready for bed.”

 

Her voice was warm but matter-of-fact, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to wait up for a son who hadn’t been hers until a day ago. And Harry… didn’t mind.

 

He gave her a small smile and retreated into the bathroom, this time taking a real shower. The water was warm, the pressure just right, and he scrubbed the day off slowly, almost cautiously—as if cleaning himself of the weight of the memories they'd all unearthed.

 

When he returned, his damp hair curling slightly at the ends, Narcissa was still waiting. True to her word, she had prepared the window seat with his chosen blankets and pillows. The soft plaid comforter was already turned down, revealing the deep blue sheet beneath, and the snowy owl-stitched pillows were fluffed and stacked just the way he'd want them.

 

“I wasn’t sure how you liked to sleep,” she said gently, gesturing to the arrangement. “But we can adjust it if you prefer something different.”

 

“It’s perfect,” he said, and meant it.

 

She motioned for him to climb in. When he did, she tucked the blankets around him without hesitation, moving with an ease that spoke more of love than routine. She didn’t fuss, didn’t hover—just laid the covers gently over his shoulders, smoothed his fringe once from his forehead, and sat back.

 

“You did so well today, Castor,” she whispered, a note of real pride in her voice. “I know it was hard. But you let us in… and that means everything to me.”

 

Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. “Thanks… Mum.”

 

He hadn’t even realized the word had come out until it hung there between them—soft and vulnerable.

 

Narcissa froze for a moment. Then she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, her voice trembling with quiet joy.

 

“Sleep well, my darling boy.”

 

She rose slowly and crossed the room without another word. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

 

Harry lay still beneath the plaid comforter, the snowy owls watching over him. And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime… he felt safe as he closed his eyes.

 

This time, when sleep came, it was gentle.

Notes:

Finally ready for day 2? I don't know if you can tell but I am a pretty big Narcissa fan.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Summary:

Not my longest of chapters but Day 2 has begun and their is a very obvious but key set up here and I had a lot of fun with Draco.

Chapter 8

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows, casting golden light across Castor’s room.

 

Narcissa pushed the door open quietly, unsure if her son was still asleep. She paused, breath catching softly at the sight before her.

 

Castor was awake—fully awake and alert—but peaceful in a way she hadn’t yet seen. He was tucked beneath his newly charmed plaid blanket, his head resting on one of the owl-embroidered pillows. His green eyes were wide but calm as he stared out the window, watching the Malfoy peacocks strut across the lawn below with their usual self-important flair.

 

He didn’t notice her at first, not until she stepped closer and gently touched the edge of the windowsill. “Good morning,” she said softly.

 

Harry blinked, startled for only a moment before his face broke into a quiet smile. “Morning.”

 

Narcissa smiled back, her heart swelling at the simple exchange. “Did you sleep well?”

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Better than I can remember in a long time.”

 

She reached to brush a bit of messy hair off his forehead. “I’m so glad, Castor. I had hoped you might find some comfort here.”

 

Harry looked at her for a long moment and then nodded, a bit shyly. “Thanks. For the blankets. And the owls. It helped. A lot.”

 

“You’re very welcome,” she said. “Would you like to come down for breakfast?”

 

He hesitated for only a second, then nodded again.

 

“Take your time getting ready. I’ll wait for you, just like last night—no rush.”

 

Ten minutes later, Harry emerged dressed in comfortable robes in deep navy with subtle silver trim. His hair was still slightly damp, and he looked less like a guest and more like someone who was slowly beginning to belong.

 

Narcissa extended her hand gently. He looked at it, hesitated, and then took it.

 

They walked down the hall together—slowly, but not awkwardly. He didn’t feel pushed or forced. He held her hand because he wanted to. And that was enough.

 

As they reached the dining room, the door was already open. Lucius was standing by the hearth, stirring sugar into his tea. Draco was seated at the table already, face in his hand and looking half-asleep still.

 

Draco looked up eyebrows briefly rising at the sight of his brother hand-in-hand with their mother. Lucius paused, too, just a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he masked it with a quiet sip of tea.

 

Narcissa gave Castor’s hand one final squeeze before letting go and guiding him to his seat. “Go ahead and take your seat, darling.”

 

And for the first time, Harry didn’t feel like he was taking someone else’s chair.

 

Harry slid into his usual seat beside Narcissa, who offered him a small, approving smile as he settled in. That simple gesture—just being quietly welcomed, without fuss—was still something he was getting used to. But he liked it.

 

Lucius, on the other hand, remained a more complicated presence.

 

Harry glanced across the table at the man, who was currently buttering toast with all the elegance of someone who’d been raised to make breakfast look like a royal ceremony. Harry still hadn’t entirely forgiven him. He wasn’t sure he ever would. After all, the man had once helped orchestrate a plan that ended with him getting bitten by a bloody basilisk. That sort of thing didn’t just get swept under the rug with tea and polite conversation.

 

But… Narcissa.

 

Harry took a slow sip of his nutrient potion and gave Lucius a sideways glance. He was already far too fond of her to stay entirely bitter toward him.

 

He used to think Mrs. Weasley was the ideal mum—warm, bustling, a bit loud but full of love. But maybe that had been because, at the time, she was the best mother figure he’d ever known.

 

Narcissa was different.

 

Quieter. Softer in her affections. But every movement, every word, felt intentional—for him. She didn’t fuss or smother. She just showed up—with blankets, with patience, with gentleness he’d never known he needed.

 

And, if Harry were being honest with himself, Narcissa Malfoy was the best mother he could’ve ever asked for.

 

Which left him staring at Lucius again, this time more curious than annoyed.

 

What the hell had she seen in him?

 

Maybe it was the money. Maybe she liked her husbands broody, aristocratic, and aggressively blonde.

 

Harry smirked faintly into his tea cup. Hey, no judgment. It was actually kind of reassuring, knowing he'd never have to worry about meals or clothes or any of the basic things that had always seemed out of reach. Being a Malfoy might not solve everything, but it sure did mean he’d probably never go hungry again.

 

And honestly? That was worth a lot.

 

Lucius noticed the way his son—his son—kept glancing his way between bites of toast and hesitant sips of his nutrient potion. Not hostile exactly, but not easy either. As if he were weighing something behind those fake eyes.

 

So, Lucius cleared his throat and asked, with practiced politeness, “Was there anything you wanted to do today, Castor?”

 

Harry blinked at the question, caught slightly off guard by the direct attention. He glanced between Narcissa and Draco, then back to Lucius. There was no hidden expectation in the man’s voice—just a genuine offer, maybe even a tentative attempt at… inclusion.

 

Harry set his cup down and thought about it for a second before answering honestly. “Could I go see the animals again?” His voice was quieter than before, but hopeful. “I—I liked being outside yesterday.”

 

“You certainly may,” Narcissa said at once, her smile brightening. “You seemed very relaxed with them.”

 

Draco, who had been unusually quiet over breakfast, looked up. “Do you mind if I come too?”

 

Harry looked over at him, slightly surprised, unsure if he was joking.

 

Draco seemed to notice and added quickly, “I mean, I could use the fresh air. It’s going to start getting colder soon, and we don’t get many perfect autumn days left.” There was a slight shrug, but the words weren’t flippant. If anything, they carried a strange sincerity that wasn’t typical of Draco.

 

“Oh,” Harry said slowly, trying to gauge his brother’s mood. “Sure. I think there are enough animals to go around.”

 

That earned a soft chuckle from Narcissa, and even Lucius's lips twitched in the hint of a smile.

 

“Very well,” Lucius said, standing. “Mipsy will send warm cloaks to the front door. Enjoy the morning.”

 

As the group stood, Harry instinctively hovered near Narcissa, and she reached out without hesitation, her fingers gently finding his. It was a simple thing—just holding hands—but it made Harry feel rooted, seen. He still wasn’t used to being claimed like this, as if his presence alone was wanted.

 

Draco noticed but didn’t comment. He simply followed beside them, hands in his pockets, his stride easy and unhurried.

 

They passed through the main hall, the marble floors echoing faintly beneath their steps, and out through the great front doors where a house elf had already laid out three heavy wool cloaks, enchanted for warmth. Narcissa helped Harry into his, fussing briefly with the collar before stepping back to admire her work.

 

“There,” she said softly. “Now you’re ready.”

 

Outside, the air was crisp, sharp with the scent of turning leaves and distant chimney smoke. The grounds of the manor stretched wide before them, blanketed in gold and russet, the trees trembling in the cool breeze.

 

The trio—two sons and one protective mother—walked slowly down the winding path toward the stables. The frost hadn’t yet touched the grass, but the chill in the air made Harry draw the cloak tighter around his shoulders.

 

Draco glanced at him sideways, thoughtful. “You’re not going to steal a crup, right?”

 

Harry gave a startled laugh. “No promises.”

 

They walked the rest of the way in companionable silence, the tension between them gradually melting into something lighter—something that almost resembled ease. The kind that could, with enough time, become comfort.

 

And for now, at least, the day was theirs.

 

They spent hours among the animals, letting time pass unmeasured. Castor was at his most relaxed, crouched beside a contentedly purring puffskein, gently brushing its fur as it wriggled with delight. Draco leaned on the nearby fence, watching with what might've passed for casual observation—if it weren’t for the way he kept sneaking glances at his brother and clearly trying to act natural.

 

Eventually, he cleared his throat and offered stiffly, “You’re… really good with animals.”

 

Harry blinked up at him. “Er… thanks?” he said, a little thrown. He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Why are you being weird?”

 

Draco huffed, looking away. “I’m not being weird, I’m being—” He caught himself. “I’m trying to be nice. You’re a Gryffindor, right? Thought you lot appreciated effort.”

 

Harry raised an eyebrow but said nothing, clearly amused.

 

Draco pushed on, awkwardly brushing straw off his robes. “Is that what you want to do? Work with animals, I mean. You did take Care of Magical Creatures.”

 

Harry shrugged, glancing down at the puffskein again. “I dunno… I never really thought about it much.”

 

Draco looked scandalized. “You never thought about it? At all?”

 

Harry tilted his head. “Why? You already have your whole life figured out or something?”

 

“Yes,” Draco said simply, without a trace of hesitation. “I’ve known since I was seven. I’m going to be a Potions Master.”

 

Harry blinked. “That’s… oddly specific.”

 

“I need NEWTs in Potions, Herbology, and Care of Magical Creatures for ingredient harvesting. But Uncle Severus is going to help me with advanced theory if I need it.”

 

Harry did a double take. “Wait—did you just call Snape Uncle Severus?”

 

Draco smirked, knowing exactly how that would land. “Yes.”

 

Harry shuddered. “Do I have to?”

 

“No. In fact, it drives him absolutely mad when I do. Makes his eye twitch.”

 

“Good.”

 

But as the banter died down, Harry found himself turning the earlier conversation over in his head. “A Potions Master’s actually a good answer,” he admitted. “Better than anything I’ve come up with.”

 

“You could work with magical creatures,” Draco said, circling back. “I mean, you like them. You’re good with them. You even tolerate Hagrid and his creatures.”

 

“I like Hagrid,” Harry said defensively, though there was a smile in his voice.

 

Draco hesitated, then added more softly, “You know… if I were you, I’d become a dragon trainer.”

 

Harry looked up, blinking. “Why me? Why not you, if you like them so much?”

 

“I would,” Draco said, eyes gleaming with genuine enthusiasm. “Dragons are magnificent. Powerful. Elegant. There’s nothing else like them.”

 

Harry almost laughed. “You sound like Hagrid right now.”

 

Draco ignored that. “I’d do it in a heartbeat—if Mother didn’t threaten to disown me the moment I brought it up. She says it’s too dangerous.”

 

Harry tilted his head. “So why would she let me do it?”

 

Draco gave him a flat look, as if the answer were self-evident. “Because the risk isn’t as high for you.”

 

“…Why?”

 

Draco stared at him like he’d grown another head. “Because you’re a Parselmouth.”

 

Harry squinted. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

 

Draco rubbed his forehead like this conversation physically pained him. “Because dragons are a type of serpent.”

 

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Wait. I can talk to dragons?!”

 

Draco threw his hands up. “Yes! Obviously!”

 

“But—hang on—I couldn’t understand Norbert! Hagrid’s dragon!”

 

“He was a baby, Castor. Could you hold a conversation when you were an infant?”

 

“…No,” Harry admitted, pouting slightly.

 

“Exactly.”

 

Harry’s eyes lit up. “So, I can talk to dragons!”

 

“Yes.”

 

Excited, Harry turned on his heel and shouted, “Mum! Can I be a dragon trainer if I’m a Parseltongue?!”

 

Draco sighed deeply. “Parselmouth,” he muttered. “Parseltongue is the language.”

 

Undeterred, Harry shouted again, louder this time, “Mum! Can I be a dragon trainer if I’m a Parselmouth?!”

 

Narcissa’s voice drifted from somewhere behind the stables, sounding entirely too weary for it being so early in the day. “Why,” she groaned, “are both of my children obsessed with dragons?”

 

Draco, grinning now, turned to Harry and said, “She didn’t say no.”

 

Harry smirked. “She really didn’t.”

 

They exchanged a rare, genuine smile—bright, fleeting, and maybe the first of many between the two brothers.

Notes:

Enjoy. I will try to update again tomorrow after work. I had a lot of fun with this one but I still don't know if that is a good or bad thing. Let me know what you think!

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Summary:

I think I was nice enough to Harry for a while.

Chapter 9

By the time lunch rolled around, Harry was freezing. Autumn in Wiltshire had a way of creeping into his bones, and despite the brief warmth of the stables, the cool wind had found every gap in his clothes on the trek back. He decided to spend the afternoon indoors again—specifically in the manor’s sprawling library. Not just to warm up, but to actually look at the books this time. He hadn’t had the energy to take in much the last time he’d been there, but now that his body was tired and his mind restless, reading seemed like a good distraction.

 

What he hadn’t anticipated was Draco following him.

 

Draco had practically invited himself along, claiming he wanted to “finish their conversation” and mumbling something about checking if any of the magical creature books had updated sections. Harry hadn’t objected exactly—but he hadn’t encouraged him either.

 

They’d had a decent enough conversation at the stables—low-stakes, mostly light. Draco had even managed to sound kind once or twice, which was bizarre enough. But Narcissa had been there then. Watching, guiding the conversation with gentle questions and warm glances. Now she’d very deliberately left them alone, saying something about “giving them time.”

 

And Harry wasn’t sure he wanted time with Draco. Not really. Not alone.

 

It was hard to forget who he was walking beside. This was the same Draco Malfoy who had spent first year sneering at Ron’s hand-me-down robes and making cracks about Hagrid. The same one who mocked Harry relentlessly during second year, especially after the whole Parseltongue thing in the Duelling Club. He’d taken every opportunity to suggest Harry was the Heir of Slytherin, leaning into the fear, stirring it. And then there was third year—when Buckbeak had scratched him, and he’d milked it for every ounce of drama he could. He’d wanted the hippogriff executed. Had smirked when it nearly happened.

 

He’d made digs at Harry’s friends, mocked Hermione’s blood status, and turned every encounter into a competition, a challenge, a chance to make Harry feel smaller.

 

So, no—Harry didn’t know what to make of this new version of Draco. The one who asked polite questions. The one who actually listened. The one who looked as awkward and uncertain about this “brother” situation as Harry felt.

 

Maybe it was all just an act. Maybe he was trying to make a good impression on his mother. Or maybe he was genuinely trying. Harry didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to find out.

 

The library doors opened with a soft creak, and they stepped inside. The room welcomed them with a hush of parchment and polished wood. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, making dust float lazily in the air. Harry moved toward a row of books that looked promising—Magical Creatures of the British Isles—while Draco lingered near the entry, not saying much.

 

That was something, at least.

 

He wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t sneering. He wasn’t mocking his every move.

 

Harry wasn’t going to let his guard down, though. It was easy to act different in a grand manor, under the watchful eye of Narcissa Malfoy. It was easy to play nice when there were no classmates around to impress, no Slytherin entourage egging him on, no House rivalries fueling every comment. Here, Draco was quieter, softer—maybe even sincere. But Harry knew better than to assume that meant anything lasting.

 

He’d seen how fast people could change depending on who was watching.

 

The real test would come when they were back at Hogwarts. Back in the common rooms, back in the Great Hall, back in the swirl of house pride and hallway gossip. If Draco went straight back to tossing “Mudblood” at Hermione the moment Crabbe and Goyle were nearby, then all of this—the stables, the dragons, the shared jokes and quiet truce—would mean nothing.

 

And if he thought Harry would just stand by and let that happen now?

 

Well, he had another thing coming.

 

Castor Malfoy or not, Harry had been through too much—had fought too hard—for the people he loved to let anyone trample over them again. Blood didn’t earn blind forgiveness.

 

He wasn’t shutting Draco out entirely… but he wasn’t about to throw the door wide open, either.

Not yet.

Still, Harry believed in second chances. He always had.

Just… not unlimited ones.

 

Draco straightened and gave a subtle flick of his fingers, beckoning Harry to follow. Intrigued—though maintaining a healthy dose of suspicion—Harry trailed a few steps behind as Draco led him to a tall, unassuming bookcase nestled against the far wall of the library.

 

“This section’s a bit of a family secret,” Draco said, turning to glance over his shoulder. “Nothing dangerous—but everything in here is rare. Valuable.” His voice held a certain reverence, a pride that seemed almost inherited.

 

He faced the shelves again and spoke clearly for Harry’s benefit, “Paon.”

 

At once, the bookcase shifted with the elegance of a puzzle box, its edges folding inward and sliding aside with a soft mechanical grace. Behind it, a narrow alcove was revealed, lined from floor to ceiling with aged, leather-bound tomes. The air was noticeably stiller here—denser, as if it held its breath. On the wall above a long, low reading desk hung an ornate mirror framed in blackened bronze. Just beneath it, carved in delicate, looping script, read the inscription: ‘For those who seek not what is easy, but what is true.’

 

“Father doesn’t mind us reading these,” Draco said, scanning the shelves. “He’s of the opinion that knowledge shouldn’t be restricted—but he insists we don’t remove anything of these from the library. Too difficult to replace.”

 

After a moment of consideration, Draco plucked a slim black volume from the shelf and handed it to Harry. “You might find this one interesting—after what we talked about earlier.”

 

Harry turned it over in his hands, reading the cover and then the blurb on the back.

 

Secrets of the Scaled: A Parselmouth’s Examination of Draconian Cognition and Communication

By A. Serpens, with commentary from the Department of Magical Creatures

Restricted Text – Level Three Clearance Required

 

Long considered untamable and unknowable, dragons have stood as enduring emblems of magical power and myth. In this unprecedented work, a Parselmouth documents direct, structured communication with an adult Antipodean Opaleye, providing the first recorded linguistic and cognitive insights into dragon speech.

 

This study explores:

-Dragon memory, emotional capacity, and intergenerational knowledge

-Cultural distinctions between breeds and nesting behaviors

-Ethical implications of interspecies communication

 

More than a magizoological breakthrough, this volume questions the very foundations of how we define sentience in magical beings.

Note: Statements within remain under review by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures due to the speculative nature of Parselmouth translation.

 

Draco gave a small smirk. “Ignore the pompous title—it’s not nearly as dry as it sounds. It’s essentially a word-for-word transcript of someone having a chat with a dragon. Fascinating stuff, really. I’ve learned more from that book than in all of Care of Magical Creatures combined.”

 

Harry raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. With growing curiosity, he took the book and wandered over to the plush armchair he’d fallen asleep in the day before. Draco didn’t follow, but he didn’t leave the room either. Harry hadn’t heard the door open, and he could sense the other boy had settled somewhere nearby with a book of his own.

 

They read in companionable silence for hours.

 

Draco, it turned out, had not steered him wrong. The book was extraordinary—thrilling, but deeply informative. He had just reached a portion of the interview where the dragon spoke of her young. The Opaleye described her hatchlings with reverence and fierce protectiveness, explaining how she would scorch the earth itself to keep them safe.

 

The passage about the dragon’s fierce devotion to her young made Harry think, unbidden, of Narcissa. Of the way she looked at him like he was something fragile and precious—something worth protecting. The thought left a faint smile on his lips.

 

That was when he heard the door creak open.

 

“Are you boys still in here?” came the familiar voice of the very woman he’d just been thinking about.

 

“Yes, Mother,” Draco called back in his usual dry tone.

 

“And Castor?”

 

“I’m here,” Harry responded, carefully marking his page before rising from the armchair and making his way toward the hearth.

 

Narcissa’s eyes immediately flicked to the book in his hand and she sighed, though her expression was more fond than disapproving. “Oh, not that book again. Draco, stop corrupting your brother.”

 

Draco strolled over, a little too proud of himself. “He said he was interested in dragons. I merely offered a scholarly nudge in the right direction.”

 

She arched a perfectly shaped brow. “And this has nothing to do with your long-standing dream to ride one?”

 

Harry blinked. “Wait—what?”

 

Draco flushed and shot his mother a betrayed look. “It’s a good dream! Dragons are incredible! And you agreed with me, remember?”

 

“Well, sure,” Harry said with a grin. “But I didn’t know we were talking about actually flying one. You couldn’t even ride a hippogriff.”

 

Turning to Narcissa, he added, “Besides, how does reading a book about dragons automatically mean he thinks I can ride one?”

 

Narcissa gave a soft, knowing smile. “Because if you take his advice, you’ll end up working on a dragon reserve. And if you’re stationed on a reserve, and happen to be a Parselmouth… well, having a brother who can actually speak to dragons is the best chance he’ll ever have of getting close to one. My darling Draco is a strategist through and through.”

 

Harry’s mouth dropped open in mock scandal as he turned toward his brother. “You sneaky little Slytherin,” he said, jabbing the book into Draco’s chest with each word. “You’re lucky I liked it—or I might’ve had to hurt you.”

 

It wasn’t remotely threatening. Not when Harry had to tilt his neck just to meet Draco’s eyes.

 

Draco smirked, smug as ever. “Please. You’d need a step stool just to reach me.”

 

Narcissa just shook her head, watching the two boys bicker like they’d been doing it for years.

 

“Well, Castor,” Narcissa said gently, “I came to find you—Severus has arrived. He’s brought your potions. Why don’t you set that book aside for now and we’ll go meet him?”

 

Harry blinked, her words registering slowly through a sudden haze. Numbly, he stood and closed the book, placing it back on the desk with care.

 

But the moment she’d said Snape had arrived with his potions, something twisted tight in his stomach—an anxious, cold knot that made his hands feel heavier and his steps more reluctant.

 

Right. The potion. The truth that would follow it.

 

He trailed after her toward the room she had once indicated as Lucius’s office, though he hadn’t stepped inside until now.

 

Lucius’s office was coldly elegant, exuding power. Dark mahogany shelves lined the stone walls, filled with ancient, leather-bound tomes and silver-accented artifacts. A massive, polished desk stood at the room’s center, nearly bare save for a serpent-handled letter opener and a stack of parchment.

 

A tall window filtered in pale light through heavy velvet drapes, casting long shadows across the green-glowing fireplace. Near it sat a high-backed chair and a black velvet chaise lounge—more for appearance than comfort. The air smelled faintly of parchment and sandalwood, with something sharper beneath. Above the desk hung a stern Malfoy ancestor’s portrait, watching the room with cold, unblinking eyes.

 

Snape stood beside Lucius, the two speaking to each other in low tones as Narcissa led Harry to a seat.

 

He sat down on the edge of the chaise, fingers curling tightly into the fabric, trying not to show how fast his heart had started pounding. He’d known this was coming—of course he had. But knowing and facing it were two very different things.

 

He didn’t want to look like them.

 

Not that he thought Narcissa was anything less than beautiful—she was graceful and elegant and kind in a way he hadn’t expected. But the idea of seeing Lucius in his own face made his skin crawl. That cold, sharp perfection. Those pale eyes. That arrogant, untouchable look. He didn’t want it.

 

He didn’t want blonde hair.

 

He didn’t want to glance in a mirror and feel like he was staring at Draco.

 

And what if—what if he didn’t recognize himself?

 

Would he even be Harry anymore?

 

Or would Castor Malfoy look at him from the mirror with a stranger’s face?

 

He didn’t want to look aristocratic. He didn’t want to look polished or pureblooded or like someone who belonged in gilded halls.

 

He just wanted to look like… himself.

 

Small. Scruffy. Brown-haired. Ordinary.

 

He swallowed thickly.

 

He didn’t want to look like a Malfoy.

 

He just wanted to look like Harry.

 

Snape turned from Lucius and fixed Castor with a cool, appraising stare. “This,” he said, holding up a narrow glass phial filled with a pale, silvery liquid, “is the reversal agent for the altered Faciem Parentes potion you were given. I trust you’re at least familiar with the concept of magical reversion.”

 

He didn’t wait for an answer.

 

“In short, this will strip away the layered inheritance of borrowed features and return you to your proper form. Your true form.”

 

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly. “It works quickly—within a minute or two. You may feel… warmth in the face and skull, pressure behind the eyes and along the jaw. Tingling. Possibly a moment of disorientation. All of it temporary.”

 

He held the potion out, steady as ever and Harry nervously took it.

 

A beat passed, and then, sharply: “Now. Drink it in one go. And do try not to drop it.”

 

Harry downed the potion before he could talk himself out of it.

 

It burned—ice cold and sharp, like swallowing shards of glass laced with peppermint. He choked once but kept it down, clutching at his knees as his body reacted.

 

For a moment, nothing happened—then the change struck like a thunderclap. His bones ached, his skin prickled as if being pulled tight, and his scalp tingled as his hair shifted in weight and texture.

 

Heat pulsed under his skin. His bones shifted, cracking softly beneath his flesh. His eyes watered as a strange buzzing overtook his ears, like a hive in his skull. His face felt like it was folding in on itself—cheekbones rising, jaw narrowing, nose reshaping.

 

And then… silence.

 

The pain vanished.

 

A mirror floated to him, courtesy of Lucius’s wand. Harry didn’t want to look—but he did.

 

What he saw made his stomach twist.

 

His face was still his but warped—refined. Sharpened. His cheekbones were higher, his nose more elegantly sloped, his jaw too narrow. His skin was pale, too pale, almost a soft grey. And his hair…

 

Not the pale blond of Draco’s hair, nor the warm gold of some fairytale knight—his was nearly silver, fine as silk, falling in soft, straight lines to his jaw. And his eyes… Lily’s eyes, once vibrant and unmistakable, were gone. Replaced by a cold, storm-washed grey. It felt like the last piece of the woman who had died for him had vanished with them.

 

He looked delicate—not in the way he had when he was bruised and starved, but in a way that felt almost too perfect: flawless, untouched. Yet behind the pale skin and refined features, his eyes held something empty, something spectral. He looked both otherworldly and ill, like someone who had returned from the edge of something dreadful. To Harry, the reflection staring back felt more like a porcelain doll than a person—beautiful, but unnervingly lifeless.

 

Looking down at himself, the disgust only deepened. His clothes—already transfigured to fit better—now hung awkwardly on his smaller frame, sleeves too long, hems bunching at his ankles. The one thing he’d actually looked forward to in this whole mess was the hope that he might grow a little taller—finally catch up to Draco. But no, of course not. That would’ve been too generous. Instead, he’d shrunk. Because fate didn’t just hate him—it loathed him. Loathed him enough to make him look like a scrawny second year all over again.

 

Narcissa’s breath hitched as she stepped closer, eyes softening with a mother’s tenderness. “You look like an angel,” she whispered, voice filled with awe and love.

 

Lucius observed with measured, cool appraisal, lips pressed into a thin line. “Silver hair… a rarity even among our blood,” he said thoughtfully.

 

Draco gave him a slow, assessing once-over, eyes glittering with mischief, “Well, look at that—you’ve been downgraded to travel-size.”

 

As Snape stood there, arms folded across his chest, his dark gaze fixed on the boy before him he felt something cold and strange uncoil in his chest.

 

The change was undeniable. The messy black hair, so infuriatingly like James Potter’s, was gone—replaced by sleek strands of nearly silver blond, too fine, too aristocratic. And the eyes… they were not Lily’s. The brilliant, defiant green that had haunted him for over a decade had vanished, swallowed by a cold grey.

 

There was no trace of her left. No trace of them.

 

Severus had told himself, more times than he could count, that the boy was not James. He had repeated it like a mantra, tried to believe it while he watched Castor speak with the same stubbornness, the same reckless self-righteousness. And yet it had always been easier—easier to hate him, easier to dismiss him—when he looked like James with Lily’s eyes.

 

But now… now that illusion was gone. Utterly and irreversibly.

 

Castor was not James Potter’s son. Nor Lily’s. Not by blood.

 

And for the first time, Severus didn’t feel vindicated. He felt… unmoored.

 

He had spent so long defining the boy by the legacy he thought he carried. But standing here now, looking at the pale, haunted child—so clearly a Malfoy in form, and yet unmistakably not one in spirit—Snape was forced to reckon with something he had resisted for years.

 

This boy had never belonged to James. Nor, really, to Lily. He was not the ghost of their love, nor the punishment for their choices. He was something else entirely.

 

And Severus didn’t know what to do with that.

 

Noticing that her son had yet to say a word about his transformation, Narcissa stepped forward with gentle purpose. She raised her hands and cupped his face, her thumbs sweeping softly across his pale cheeks.

 

“Castor,” she said quietly, “are you alright?”

 

Harry’s composure cracked. He had tried to keep it hidden—for her sake—but the revulsion twisted his features before he could stop it.

 

“I… I hate it,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

 

Narcissa stilled, her hands paused the gentle rubbing of his face with her thumbs as if afraid he might crumble beneath her touch. For a long, breathless moment, she simply looked at him—truly looked. His expression wasn’t petulant or vain. No, the raw emotion in his eyes ran far deeper than surface discomfort. This wasn’t about beauty. It was about dissonance. Loss. A soul staring out of a stranger’s face.

 

“Oh, sweetheart…” she murmured, brushing her thumbs beneath his eyes as if she could erase the sorrow forming there. “I know it’s strange. I know this doesn’t feel like you. But it is. This face—it’s yours, too. Just a part of you that’s been waiting.”

 

Harry’s gaze flicked back to the mirror. His shoulders sagged, the weight of it all too heavy to pretend anymore. His voice was barely above a whisper, brittle and worn thin.

 

“Mum… I look dead…”

 

The words hung in the air like smoke, fragile and lingering.

 

Narcissa’s chest tightened, but she didn’t correct him. She didn’t tell him he was wrong. Instead, she tucked a hand around the back of his neck and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Then we’ll help you feel alive again. One step at a time.”

 

He nodded faintly, fighting the tears that wanted to come.

 

“I-is there anything else,” he asked quietly, already pulling back, “or… can I be excused?”

 

Narcissa hesitated only a moment, then smoothed a hand down his arm. “Yes, darling. Go rest. You’ve done enough for today.”

 

Without waiting for anyone else to speak, Harry turned and walked out of the room. His too-long sleeves dragged across his hands, and the echo of his footsteps was the only sound he left behind.

 

Behind him, silence settled like dust—heavy, unspoken, and full of ghosts.

Notes:

So... I have had ideas about Harry/Castors significant other. Right now my thoughts are
1. Charlie Weasley (Cuz dragons duh. But it would be a bit of a slow burn because of age gap)
2. Luna Lovegood (I feel like I can lean into the black madness with Castor and everyone would think the two are completely insane)
3. Literally any Slytherin (Aside from the Greengrass Sisters because Draco and Astoria are literally the only thing I liked about cursed child so I intend to keep it)
Let me know what you think!

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Summary:

This is literally just about a boy and his emotional support owl.

Chapter 10

 

Harry all but stumbled toward the window seat—his bed now in all but name—dragging the soft, blue-and-white plaid blanket around his shoulders like armor. It was the one thing in this place that still felt like his. He curled up tightly, burying his face in the familiar fabric, and told himself he wouldn’t cry.

 

He wouldn’t.

 

But then the tears came anyway—uninvited, unwelcome. Warm streaks slid down his cheeks as grief punched its way through his chest. He wept for James and Lily Potter, whose faces he could barely remember but still ached for with every heartbeat. He cried for the boy he used to be—wild-haired and green-eyed, half-lost and half-hopeful. That boy was gone now.

 

Harry still couldn’t believe he’d gone through with it. He should have said something—should have protested. But what could he have possibly said? "I don’t want to look like you, Mum?" That would’ve shattered her.

 

And yet, when he couldn’t hide the horror on his face after seeing his reflection, he’d broken her heart anyway.

 

He hadn’t expected to react so strongly. At worst, he thought he might end up looking exactly like Draco—which would’ve been unsettling enough. But this… this was something else entirely.

 

He didn’t look like Draco. He didn’t even look entirely human.

 

 He didn’t know how long he stayed like that—silent sobs shuddering through him, the blanket clutched tight around his small frame—before a soft tapping broke through the fog.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

 

He froze. Then turned slowly, heart thudding.

 

There, perched just outside the glass, was Hedwig.

 

His breath caught. She tilted her head at him, amber eyes narrowed in confusion—or perhaps concern—a letter tied to her leg.

 

Harry scrambled up, nearly slipping on the blanket, and fumbled the latch on the window. “Hedwig!” he whispered, throwing the pane open.

 

The snowy owl gave him a long, suspicious look as she hopped inside, her feathers ruffling.

 

“Oh, girl,” Harry breathed, voice breaking. He reached for her with trembling fingers, gently stroking her wings as she settled on the ledge. “I’m so glad to see you. I’ve missed you—so much.”

 

He swallowed hard, his eyes stinging all over again. “I-I know I look wrong, but it’s me. It’s still me. I love you. I swear it’s still me.”

 

Hedwig blinked once. Then, without ceremony, she nipped his fingers—softly—and nestled against his side.

 

And just like that, he started crying again.

 

“Oh, Hedwig! Everything feels so wrong… I want a mum… but everything else… It’s to much. I don’t know what to do.”

Harry lay back against the pillows, one arm draped over Hedwig as she nestled beside him. His fingers moved absently through her feathers, comforting both of them. He stayed like that for a long while, eyes unfocused, simply grounding himself in her familiar presence. Eventually, he noticed the small envelope tied to her leg and gently untied it, murmuring soft apologies for not removing it sooner.

 

To his surprise, Hedwig didn’t fly off once relieved of her delivery. She simply resettled herself against his side, eyes half-lidded as if determined to stay close. Grateful for her loyalty, Harry gave her a fond scratch behind the ear before turning his attention to the letter.

 

He had expected it to be from Hermione—she didn’t have her own owl, after all. But as he unfolded the parchment and read the first few lines, his brows rose in disbelief. It wasn’t Hermione.

 

It was Neville.

 

Harry had always liked Neville well enough—kind, shy, and far braver than most gave him credit for—but they’d never been especially close. That Neville had been the first to reach out caught him completely off guard.

 

The letter read:

 

Harry, or Castor, if you prefer,

 

First off, congratulations on finding your family.

 

I know that might sound strange, but I know you hated going back to the Muggles every summer. So even if it’s complicated (and even if I don’t really like the Malfoys), I know one thing about them: family means everything to them. And maybe that’s what you needed.

 

I thought about waiting until you got back to tell you all this in person, but... I think you deserve to know now, before you walk back into it.

 

I'm sorry, but—Ron went absolutely spare.

 

The second you were gone, he started shouting about how you were some kind of traitor, that you’d been pretending all along, and that your “real parents” had replaced the real Harry Potter with someone else to spy on everyone. Completely ridiculous. Most people don’t believe him, but that only made him angrier.

 

Last night, things got worse. He was furious that you hadn’t come back yet—been stewing since you left, honestly. When Seamus told him to calm down, Ron lost it. He already had his wand in his hand, and he must’ve been holding it too tight, because it sparked. The sparks hit your bed. It caught fire.

 

Dean tried to put it out, but the curtains and blankets had already gone up fast. They needed help. The fire’s out now, and you’ve got a new mattress, though the bedframe’s a bit scorched and your trunk’s singed around the edges. I checked inside—it’s fine, just smells like smoke.

 

Ron’s in even more trouble now because we told Professor McGonagall what really happened. He’s got detention twice a week until Christmas and was banned from the Yule Ball.

 

Hermione… she’s stuck in the middle. I don’t think she agrees with Ron at all, but she also looks worried. I think she’s scared that your parents won’t let you be friends with her anymore because she’s Muggleborn. I know she misses you.

 

I’m sorry if this letter makes anything worse. I just thought you should know the truth before walking into it blind.

 

Take care of yourself, Castor.

Neville Longbottom

 

Harry let the letter fall to his lap, fingers still loosely curled around the parchment. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even really breathe for a moment.

 

He’d cried everything out earlier—cried until his chest hurt and his head throbbed and his throat burned. Now there was nothing left in him to spill. Just a dull, aching void where outrage or heartbreak should have been.

 

He turned his head slowly toward the window. The sky outside was beginning to shift to late afternoon, soft grey clouds rolling lazily over the fields beyond the manor. Somewhere below, the peacocks called faintly. The world kept turning, uncaring. Unchanged.

 

But he wasn’t.

 

He leaned his temple against the cold glass, staring out at nothing. Ron hated him. Hermione didn’t know what to do. He did not know who he was anymore.

 

Castor Malfoy. Harry Potter. Son of Narcissa. Son of Lily.

 

He didn’t feel like any of them. Not really.

 

Hedwig moved beside him, silent as a shadow. She pressed close, feathers ruffling as she watched him with unblinking golden eyes. Her head tilted once, twice—as though studying him. As though trying to figure out where he’d gone inside himself.

 

She edged closer still and nestled against his arm, laying her head lightly against his shoulder in a gesture so soft, so deliberate, it nearly shattered him.

 

He didn’t cry. Couldn’t. But he leaned his head gently against hers, drawing the quiet comfort she offered like warmth from a fire. Hedwig was still here. Still his. Watching over him like a mother owl watching her young.

 

Numbly, Harry snuggled the owl gently as he tried to forget everything.

 

888

 

Watching her son flee the office left Narcissa standing in stunned silence, something fracturing quietly inside her. She hadn’t expected such a visceral reaction—hadn’t anticipated the look of horror in his eyes when he’d seen his reflection.

 

She truly didn’t understand what he had seen that was so awful.

 

Yes, Castor was pale—but beautifully so. Ethereal. His features were elegant, his silver-blond hair rare and striking, like something out of a dream. Not sickly. Not monstrous. Certainly not "dead." To her, he looked like he had stepped out of a painting, a figure to be admired, not feared.

 

Draco’s voice cut through the stillness.

 

“Well, that went well,” he said dryly, arms crossed. “And he calls me dramatic. Honestly—aside from being about three inches tall, he looked like a bloody model.”

 

“Hush, Draco,” Lucius muttered, lacking any real sternness, as he pinched the bridge of his nose and sank into the chair behind his desk with a sigh.

 

Snape smirked faintly. “Not quite as amusing when that boy is your responsibility, is it?”

 

Lucius didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s always something with him,” he said instead, voice weary. “The Tournament. Two separate investigations. We never know how he’s going to react to anything—he barely speaks, and when he does, it’s about inconsequential things. He’s polite, reserved, but always… guarded. It’s like trying to understand a locked door with no key.”

 

He would have continued venting, but Severus cut in, brows drawing together.

 

“Did you say two investigations?” he asked, sharp with curiosity. “I was only aware of the one. It’s only been a day since I last saw him—what happened?”

 

Narcissa stood abruptly, her hands twitched uselessly at her sides before she began to pace, elegant but visibly distressed.

 

Lucius watched her for a moment before speaking, his tone clipped and cold with restrained fury. “This stems from before we ever knew who he was. The Muggles Dumbledore left him with—his so-called guardians—were neglectful, to say the least. Castor insists it wasn’t abuse because they didn’t hit him, but they locked him in a cupboard for most of his childhood and starved him when he displeased them.”

 

A strangled noise tore from Narcissa’s throat, her composure slipping for just a second as her hand flew to her mouth.

 

Severus blinked. “No,” he said flatly, shaking his head in disbelief. “That can’t be. He was supposed to be living with Potter’s relatives. Spoiled. Coddled. Arrogant.”

 

Lucius shot him a scathing look. “He was living with Lily Potter’s relatives. Her sister to be exact."

 

"Petunia!" Snape gasped.

 

Lucius nodded, "Yes, Dumbledore conveniently left that part out when painting his narrative. The boy was hidden in plain sight—but hidden all the same.”

 

“Hidden under the stairs,” Draco added with a theatrical shudder, lounging back in his chair. “Honestly, if the old man wanted to make a tragic orphan hero, he didn’t have to be so literal about it.”

 

Narcissa halted mid-step, turning to Severus with a look of anguish etched across her face. Her voice shook as she demanded, “They locked him away for days—just for accidental magic. How can anyone claim that isn’t abuse?”

 

Severus was silent for a moment, the truth slowly sinking in like poison. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and bitter. “So all this time, we thought he was being spoiled rotten… and instead, he was being starved in a cupboard.”

 

“Not our finest moment,” Lucius muttered grimly. “We hated a boy for a lie we were all fed—and worse, we treated him accordingly.”

 

Draco snorted dryly. “Well, I was an insufferable brat. So at least one of us lived up to expectations.”

 

Lucius shot him a warning look, but Narcissa only sat down heavily, looking as if the weight of what she’d learned had physically struck her.

 

“It’s a miracle he’s even remotely functional,” she whispered.

 

888

 

Castor didn’t come down for supper.

 

Assuming he simply needed more time to himself, Narcissa had Mipsy bring a tray to his room—kept warm under a stasis charm so he could eat whenever he was ready.

 

But as night settled over the manor and still no sounds came from behind his door, her worry began to gnaw at her. At last, she could wait no longer.

 

The sight that met her when she quietly opened the door struck her to the core.

 

It mirrored the morning in setting, yet felt like the inverse in spirit. Her son was curled up on the same window seat they had prepared together the night before, wrapped in his beloved plaid blanket. But gone was the quiet contentment she had seen that morning—the sense of tentative comfort in his new home. Now, his expression was empty. Drained. His grey eyes, once wide with wonder at the view, stared blankly through the glass as if he were looking at something far away—or nothing at all.

 

The only hint of life in the stillness was the large snowy owl nestled protectively at his side. The bird lifted her head the moment Narcissa entered, sharp amber eyes narrowing in silent warning, as if to say: He’s mine to guard. Tread carefully.

 

Narcissa’s heart clenched. Something had shifted. Something had broken. And she didn’t yet know how to fix it.

 

“Castor,” Narcissa said softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she stepped cautiously into the room, careful under the watchful gaze of the owl. When he didn’t stir or acknowledge her, she moved closer, kneeling gracefully at the foot of the window seat—near enough to be seen in his peripheral vision, but far enough to avoid provoking his guardian’s sharp beak.

 

“My sweet boy,” she murmured, her voice breaking ever so slightly. “I’m so sorry. Please… is there anything I can do?”

 

Still, he didn’t move—but the owl did. Hedwig shifted, tilting her head to regard Narcissa with quiet intelligence. Narcissa met the bird’s stare with a gentle smile, recognizing the keen awareness in her golden eyes.

 

“You must be Hedwig,” she said quietly. “He told me about you last night. Said he missed you terribly. He even asked for snowy owls on his pillows, you know.”

 

Hedwig blinked slowly, then glanced back at the boy tucked beneath the blanket. Something unreadable passed in her gaze. With a decisive flutter, she spread her wings—not aggressively, but with enough force to send a folded piece of parchment drifting from Harry’s lap to the floor.

 

Narcissa reached out carefully and picked it up. Her eyes scanned the first lines, her expression growing more serious with each word.

 

It was a letter. And as she read, she began to understand.

 

Narcissa stared at the letter in her hand, her heart twisting with every line. The words—so plainly written, so heartbreakingly sincere—struck deep. No wonder he hadn’t moved. No wonder he looked hollow. This letter had confirmed every worst fear he already held inside himself. Abandonment. Betrayal. Loss. Isolation.

 

More people to grieve.

 

Setting the parchment down gently on the floor, she turned back to her son. He hadn’t so much as blinked.

 

Slowly, carefully, she rose from her knees and stepped closer. Hedwig ruffled her feathers, issuing a soft, warning hoot—but Narcissa simply nodded.

 

“I won’t hurt him,” she promised the owl. “I just want to hold my son.”

 

Hedwig tilted her head again but didn’t move to stop her.

 

Narcissa climbed onto the window seat—no easy feat in her long robes—but she managed it with quiet grace, settling beside Castor without jostling him. She didn’t reach for him, not yet. She simply sat, their sides barely touching, the silence stretching between them.

 

For a moment, it remained that way: the boy, the owl, and the mother, all still and solemn beneath the pale moonlight spilling through the glass.

 

Then, slowly, Narcissa leaned in. Her arm moved with exquisite care as she slipped it around his shoulders and drew him gently into her side.

 

He didn’t resist.

 

He didn’t melt into her, either—not at first—but he let himself be held. Hedwig shifted closer, nestling herself on his other side, her wing brushing lightly against his arm as if to say I’m here too.

 

Narcissa rested her chin lightly against the top of his head. “You don’t have to talk,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “Not now. Not tonight. But you are not alone, Castor. You have me. And you always will.”

 

Her son didn’t speak. But a tremble passed through him. And though his eyes remained dry, his fingers curled slowly into the folds of her robe.

 

She held him tighter.

 

That night a boy sat between the only two souls in the world who truly knew how to love him without asking anything in return. A mother. And a fiercely loyal owl.

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Chapter 11

 

When Narcissa woke the next morning, a dull ache pulsed in her neck from the awkward position she’d slept in. But as she looked down to find the boy still nestled in her arms—awake now, quietly petting his owl with a distant, thoughtful expression—any discomfort melted away. She couldn’t bring herself to regret a single moment spent curled up with him in that cramped little window seat.

 

Narcissa shifted carefully, mindful not to disturb the boy too abruptly. “Castor,” she said softly, brushing a lock of silvery hair from his forehead. “You didn’t touch your supper last night.”

 

Harry blinked slowly, still absently petting Hedwig’s wing. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either.

 

“You must be hungry by now,” she coaxed gently, her voice as soft as her touch. “Why don’t we go downstairs for breakfast?”

 

When he still didn’t move, she rested her hand lightly over his. “I’ll come with you. We can sit by the window, if you want. No one will rush you.”

 

Finally, Harry gave the smallest of nods—barely more than a shift in posture—but it was enough. Narcissa offered a small, encouraging smile and began to stand, carefully stretching out her sore limbs. Hedwig gave a soft hoot and fluttered to the desk as if approving the decision.

 

Narcissa extended her hand.

 

Harry stared at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, he placed his hand in hers and let her guide him from the window seat—back into the world, one quiet step at a time.

Harry had fallen asleep still wearing the clothes from the day before. They were wrinkled and slightly twisted from a night curled up in the window seat, but when he thought about his appearance, the creased fabric barely registered. In light of everything else—his new face, his hollow reflection, the foreign way his own skin felt—the state of his clothes felt trivial at best.

 

Noticing the weariness still clinging to him, Narcissa said nothing of it. Instead, with a quiet word, she summoned Pinzy and instructed him to inform the rest of the household that breakfast would be served in the greenhouse that morning. No reason was given, and none was expected.

 

When the two finally made their way downstairs, they did so without fanfare or explanation, slipping out the rear of the manor and into the greenhouse that was attached to the back of the estate.

 

The Malfoy greenhouse was nothing like the ramshackle structures at Hogwarts or the quaint garden sheds of countryside homes. This was a stately, elongated conservatory crafted of arched wrought iron and thick, enchanted glass panes that shimmered faintly with subtle runes. The ironwork was ornate, painted a deep forest green that almost vanished against the backdrop of the manicured grounds.

 

Inside, the air was warm and fragrant, heavy with the scent of blooming lilies, enchanted roses, and softly glowing nightshade blossoms that had been charmed to thrive year-round. Trailing vines climbed the framework, their leaves rustling ever so faintly with magic as they moved to track the shifting light.

 

Elegant cast iron tables, painted black and inlaid with serpent motifs, were arranged neatly across the space, each paired with intricately scrolled chairs bearing plush cushions in varying shades of green and silver. There were only a few tables—enough for an intimate gathering, not a crowd. This was a space meant for privacy and peace.

 

Narcissa led Harry to a smaller table tucked in one of the corners, its position chosen so he could sit near the glass wall and look out over the misty lawns beyond. The morning sun was only just filtering in, bathing the space in a golden glow that dappled through the leaves and shimmered along the floor like sunlight on water.

 

Harry sank into the seat without protest, Hedwig hopping up onto a nearby chair, never far from him.

 

No one commented on the unusual change of venue when Lucius and Draco entered the greenhouse a few minutes later. The shift in atmosphere was quietly acknowledged—this morning was not like others.

 

Father and son settled at a nearby table, their conversation low and muted, more out of habit than any pressing topic. Breakfast arrived with a soft pop, laid out beneath gleaming silver domes by a discreet and efficient elf. Narcissa remained focused on Harry, gently encouraging him to eat. He picked at the food half-heartedly, but seemed more interested in slipping bites to Hedwig, who accepted them with soft hoots.

 

Narcissa offered soft, genuine praise as his plate vanished, a satisfied sparkle in her eye. Though Hedwig had eaten nearly half of it herself, she didn't mind—not when her son had at least eaten something and was no longer sitting in the rigid stillness of earlier. By the end of the meal, Castor’s shoulders had dropped just slightly, and his gaze began drifting more curiously around the space. The tightness in his movements had eased, if only a little.

 

They had passed through the greenhouse briefly during his first, overwhelming morning at the manor, but he hadn’t truly looked at it then. Now, seated within it, the place drew his attention with quiet fascination. Towering panes of enchanted glass filtered soft golden sunlight into the room, warming the air with a gentle hush.

 

Though he’d never had Neville’s passion for herbology, Harry had always found something soothing about plants—particularly magical ones. Gardening at the Dursleys’ had been one of the few chores he didn’t mind, largely because it ave him an excuse to be outside, away from their watchful eyes. There had been peace in the soil, in the growth.

 

This was different, of course—elegant rows of rare flora, silver-leaved creepers trailing from carved stone planters, and potted blooms that shimmered faintly with stored magic. It was all very… Malfoy. But the quiet hum of life, the scent of damp earth and flowering stems—it was comforting in its own way.

 

He didn’t say anything, but Narcissa could see the change in his posture, in the way he leaned just slightly forward as a vine lazily uncurled a leaf near his elbow. A flicker of interest. A small spark.

 

It was more than she’d hoped for that morning.

 

Noticing her son's eyes lingering on a tall, graceful plant with narrow purple blossoms, Narcissa followed his gaze and offered gently, “That one is wolfsbane.”

 

Harry blinked, turning slightly to glance at her, curiosity piqued. He knew the plant from class, of course—Aconite, monkshood, a highly toxic ingredient in several potions, most notably the Wolfsbane Potion—but seeing it in bloom, alive and quietly swaying in the filtered morning light, was somehow different. There was a strange elegance to it.

 

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

 

“It is,” Narcissa agreed, stepping beside him. “Lethal, but beautiful. Like most things worth respecting.”

 

Her tone wasn’t unkind, but there was weight behind her words, something measured and honest. She let the silence linger for a beat before turning to gesture further into the greenhouse. “Would you like to see more?”

 

Harry hesitated for only a moment, then gave a small nod. He wasn’t quite ready for people. But plants? Plants didn’t ask questions. They didn’t look at him like he’d become someone else overnight. They just were.

 

And so, without needing to say anything else, a light stroll through the greenhouse began.

 

Narcissa walked slowly, mindful of his pace, pointing out specimens as they passed—whispering herbs with restorative properties, enchanted vines that recoiled at loud noises, and delicate blooms used in rare healing tinctures. She told him which ones Draco had once tried to touch before learning better, and which only bloomed during lunar eclipses. Harry listened, soaking in her soft, informative cadence as though it were another kind of magic.

 

When her son quietly slipped his hand into hers as they walked, Narcissa's heart lifted, and a small, hopeful smile curved her lips. He had endured so much—more than any child ever should—but he was still here, still reaching out. Resilient. She clung to the belief that with time, love, and care, he would begin to heal.

 

All she had to do was protect this fragile progress… keep the world at bay just long enough for him to find his footing again.

 

She just prayed that nothing came too soon to shake it.

 

888

 

“What do you mean they want him back at Hogwarts already?” Narcissa’s voice rose, sharper than intended, but she didn’t care. Her expression was a mix of disbelief and growing outrage.

 

Lucius had waited until Castor excused himself—saying he was tired and retreating to the window seat for a nap—before pulling her aside in the corridor just beyond the greenhouse. The moment she saw the tight line of his jaw, she knew the news would not be good.

 

“It’s a message from Dumbledore,” Lucius explained, tone clipped with restrained irritation. “He’s expressed concern about Castor falling behind in his classes… and insists he must return soon to resume preparation for the Triwizard Tournament. He's even got Crouch agreeing with him.”

 

Narcissa stared at her husband, momentarily speechless. Then she let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh—low and sharp like broken glass. “He’s still reeling from a complete unraveling of self—his entire identity upended—and they expect him to return already? He’s barely eating, barely sleeping, and they want to thrust him back into that gaudy spectacle of danger and manipulation?”

 

Her voice trembled with fury as she turned away, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She crossed the room in swift, agitated strides, one hand gripping her opposite wrist so tightly her knuckles went white—as if anchoring herself physically would hold her emotions at bay.

 

“He’s lost, Lucius. Do they not see that? He doesn’t even know who he is yet. Not really. And they think he’s ready to face monsters and politics and public scrutiny like none of it matters? As though everything he’s just been through can be set aside for their convenience?”

 

Lucius’s posture remained composed, but the tension in his jaw betrayed his concern. His eyes didn’t leave her as he replied in a low voice, “I told them as much. I said he wasn’t ready and that pushing him too soon would only worsen things.”

 

Lucius hesitated, then spoke with a quiet weight that made the air seem heavier. “But this wasn’t presented as a suggestion, Narcissa. Dumbledore phrased it with urgency—expectation. If we don’t return the boys to Hogwarts within a narrow window, I believe he’ll escalate. Possibly even involve the Ministry or the press.”

 

He looked to her, jaw tight. “The prophet has already leaked the second investigation. Dumbledore is under scrutiny for how he mishandled Castor’s placement with those Muggles. The press is circling, whispering that he’s losing control and he is trying to prove that he is not. He can’t afford more damage to his image, especially not now—so he’ll do what he always does. Shift the blame.”

 

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed.

 

“And we,” Lucius continued, “are an easy target.”

 

He didn’t need to explain. Their name still carried weight in certain circles, but to much of the wider wizarding public, Malfoy meant Dark. A relic of a purer, colder era. They were tolerated, respected, even feared—but not trusted. Not truly. If Dumbledore insinuated that they were keeping Castor from school—isolating him, or worse—there were plenty who would believe it. Eagerly.

 

Lucius’s voice lowered. “If he so much as suggests we’re harming the boy, the public will believe him. With Castor still technically being the-boy-who-lived, he doesn’t even need proof—just enough insinuation to turn suspicion into scandal.”

 

He folded his hands behind his back, his face unreadable but his words grim. “And if that happens, we won’t be able to protect Castor from the fallout—at least not with the same subtlety we’ve had so far.”

 

Narcissa froze her back straightening with a sharp breath as if she’d just been struck. Her voice, when it came, was low but laced with venom. “So he’s willing to gamble Castor’s well-being—his recovery—just to protect his reputation?”

 

Lucius met her eyes steadily. “It’s Dumbledore.”

 

That simple declaration said everything. No need for further elaboration.

 

A bitter sound escaped her throat—part scoff, part laugh, wholly without humor. “Of course.”

 

Because of course Albus Dumbledore, guardian of his own carefully crafted legend, would find a way to turn even Castor’s unraveling into a narrative he could spin. He’d wrap it in rhetoric, label it ‘courage’ or ‘resilience’—as if pushing a boy back into danger before he’d even found his footing was something noble.

 

“He’s always been willing to play the long game,” she said darkly, turning away again, her voice a dangerous whisper. “And if a child or two ends up as collateral along the way, so be it—as long as the image remains untarnished.”

 

Her nails dug into her palm as she muttered, “He doesn’t care about Castor. Not really. He cares about what Castor represents. A symbol. A weapon. A legacy he thinks he owns.”

 

Lucius didn’t disagree. He merely watched her quietly, letting her come to the inevitable conclusion on her own.

 

Narcissa exhaled slowly, gathering her thoughts before speaking. “Buy us time. Tell them we’re still in the process of rebuilding his wardrobe. That should give us another day or two at least.” Her tone grew more resolute. “I’ll summon Valentin Noirveil to come here and take Castor’s measurements. There’s no reason he should be dragged out into public before he’s ready. Valentin can put together a few essentials to tide him over.”

 

She paused, then added with a hint of steel, “We’ll need to purchase a new trunk as well. His old one was… singed. Apparently, a former friend of his set his bed on fire.”

 

Lucius blinked, staring at her as though unsure he’d heard correctly. His brow lifted slowly. “I’m sorry—did you just say his bed was set on fire?”

 

“Yes,” Narcissa replied evenly, smoothing her robes as if that might somehow smooth the absurdity of the situation as well. “It was quite the evening, I assure you.”

 

“I rather suspected something like that,” Lucius said, his tone light but perceptive. “When you hadn’t come to bed, I went looking. It was quite late—and there you were, curled up on the window seat with our son and a rather judgmental-looking owl.” He arched a brow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

Narcissa flushed, though she lifted her chin with a mixture of pride and defensiveness. “He’d received a letter… from a friend,” she said carefully. “It upset him greatly. Apparently, a boy named Ron did not take the news of his parentage well.”

 

Lucius’s smirk faded, his expression tightening with disapproval. “Let me guess—the Weasley boy?”

 

She nodded. “I believe so. He’s convinced Castor has been plotting some grand betrayal. It was enough to drive our son into near silence. I wasn’t about to leave him alone in that state.”

 

Lucius sighed, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I don’t blame you. Poor judgment and worse tempers—the Weasleys are predictable, at least.”

 

“Castor didn’t seem to see it coming,” Narcissa murmured, her voice tinged with quiet sorrow. “He looked… blindsided. As if the boy’s anger had struck deeper than he’d expected.”

 

Lucius gave a sharp, disdainful scoff. “Better he learns the truth now than let false loyalty rot into something more dangerous later. The Weasley boy was never truly his equal—too volatile, too limited. Castor will build stronger bonds under Draco’s influence. More discerning ones. He’ll learn to choose companions who understand the weight of who he is.”

 

Narcissa glanced at him, lips pressed in a thin line. “Let’s just hope he still believes he’s worth choosing.”

Notes:

AN
I just realized I made a mistake back in Chapter 4—I accidentally referred to Castor as the eldest. He's definitely not the eldest! I think I was originally writing something about how the eldest son had been right about the youngest, but it started to sound too wordy, so I changed it… and apparently my brain just latched onto "eldest" anyway.

There’s actually a little backstory I had in mind (though I doubt it’ll ever make it into the story). I once knew a set of twins where one had gotten stuck and the birth of the other actually helped save them. I kind of imagined something like that with Draco helping Castor during birth. Probably a strange detail, but it stuck with me.

That’s also part of the reason I made Castor smaller—like he was sickly at birth. I’m not sure it adds anything major to the story, but that’s just where my head was when I was shaping his character.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Chapter 12

 

Narcissa gently roused her son from sleep just before lunch, and to her quiet relief, he seemed a more present—less hollow behind the eyes. There was still a lingering shadow about him, but the worst of the previous day's heaviness appeared to have lifted.

 

Deciding not to press him too hard, she suggested they take lunch in the greenhouse again. The soft light and warmth from the enchanted glass ceiling had seemed to soothe him before, and she hoped it might coax him a little further out of the fog. Castor gave a small nod of agreement, and so they dined beneath the trailing vines and quietly blooming nightshade, Hedwig perched protectively at his side as always.

 

Afterward, when asked what he’d like to do with the afternoon, he muttered something about returning to the library—he wanted to finish that bloody dragon book, though Narcissa decided that having his interests reignited could only help at the moment.

 

She and Draco accompanied him there, each settling into their own quiet corners. The hours passed in companionable silence, parchment rustling and pages turning, the atmosphere was peaceful. Narcissa kept a discreet eye on Castor, and though he didn’t say much, he didn’t withdraw entirely either.

 

It reminded Narcissa of that first night again—when things had still felt fragile, but possible. She hoped they might find their way back to that gentle progress, even if Castor hadn’t quite opened up the same way yet. Still, he hadn’t turned away from her, and for that, she was quietly grateful.

 

There was something profoundly soothing about hearing him call her “Mum.” It had slipped from his lips so naturally, so unguarded, that it struck her deeper than she’d expected. Draco had begun calling her “Mother” at the age of seven—after a summer spent among older pure-blood boys who insisted such formality was the mark of proper breeding. She hadn’t corrected him, of course. It was tradition. But oh, how she missed the warmth of “Mum.” Hearing it from Castor—raw, vulnerable, and real—felt like recovering something she hadn’t realized she’d lost.

 

When dinner approached, Narcissa suggested they try the formal dining room again. She thought it might be good for all of them to sit together, to share a proper meal and maybe coax a little more conversation from her son in a setting that felt less like treading around glass.

 

The other Malfoys made a visible effort—not smothering, but considerate. They asked Castor only simple questions at first, ones he could easily answer with a nod or a shake of the head if speaking felt like too much.

 

“Castor, did you finish that book?” Draco asked casually as he cut into his roast.

 

Castor nodded once, not lifting his eyes from his plate.

 

“Did you like it?”

 

Another nod, this one a little more certain.

 

“Would you like another recommendation?” Lucius asked, surprising both himself and his son with the softness in his tone.

 

Castor hesitated, then spoke just above a whisper. “Yes, please.”

 

It was the first time he’d spoken at the table that evening, and the shift was almost tangible. Encouraged, they leaned in—not too much, not enough to spook him, but enough to show they noticed, and cared.

 

“I know you’ve had top marks in Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Lucius offered with a slight nod of approval. “Would you be interested in a book or two on practical spells? I know of several that you’d be permitted to bring back to Hogwarts.”

 

Castor finally looked up, “That’s probably a good idea… with the tournament coming up.”

 

Narcissa allowed herself a quiet breath of relief. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A few words, a few more inches of ground gained. Slowly, Castor was inching back toward them—guarded, uncertain, but not unreachable.

 

“If you’re agreeable,” Lucius began carefully, “we might visit the library after dinner.” His tone was even, but there was a quiet eagerness beneath it. There were a dozen pressing matters awaiting his attention, but none as important, in his mind, as the opportunity to spend a few uninterrupted minutes with his son. Thus far, most of their interactions had been limited to mealtimes—and even then, Castor rarely spoke to him directly.

 

Some of that distance, Lucius knew, came from his own demanding schedule. But most of it came from the boy’s wariness, his discomfort in Lucius’s presence. That was something Lucius intended to change—slowly, carefully.

 

Castor didn’t answer right away. His shoulders tensed, and his eyes flicked toward Narcissa before returning to his plate. Then, after a long pause, he gave a tentative nod.

 

Lucius inclined his head in return, not pressing. “Excellent. Just to gauge your current level,” he continued casually, “what would you say is the most advanced defensive spell you've mastered?”

 

Without hesitation, Castor replied, “The Patronus Charm.”

 

There was a beat of stunned silence. Both Lucius and Narcissa stared at him.

 

Lucius blinked. “You’ve successfully conjured a corporeal Patronus?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Draco chimed in before thinking better of it. “That was the white thing at the Quidditch match.”

 

Castor slowly turned his head toward him, arching a brow. “You mean the Quidditch match where you and your friends dressed as dementors to try and make me fall off my broom again?”

 

Narcissa covered her face with one hand, groaning softly. Truly, it was a miracle Castor hadn’t turned against them.

 

Lucius shifted his gaze to Draco with sharp precision. “You dressed as a dementor?”

 

Draco looked mildly sheepish but didn’t lose his smugness entirely. “Technically, yes. But it wasn’t just me—it was Crabbe and Goyle too. And it was all in good fun. We figured a couple detentions were worth Gryffindor losing the cup.”

 

“You targeted him during a game in midair,” Lucius said slowly, the way one might speak to someone confessing to arson. “While disguised as creatures known to induce psychological collapse.”

 

Draco gave a careless shrug. “We knew he was afraid of them. Seemed like a solid strategy.”

 

“Afraid?” Castor scoffed. “You make it sound like I was scared of thunder. Those things try to suck the soul out of me every time they’re near. My boggart is literally a dementor.”

 

Draco looked momentarily chastened. “Alright, fine, maybe not our proudest moment.”

 

Lucius looked back at Castor, still processing. “And despite that—despite all of it—you managed a Patronus?”

 

Castor gave a small nod. “Yes—but it wasn’t my best Patronus. I was still practicing then. It might have held off one or two dementors at most. By the end of the year, I was a lot better.”

 

Narcissa felt a strange, conflicting pull in her chest—equal parts joy and dread. Joy, because her son was not only speaking, but engaging—calm, articulate, almost eager to share. And dread, because of the words themselves. These were not the stories of a normal schoolboy.

 

How could he speak so plainly about such dark, harrowing things?

 

“I hesitate to ask,” she said delicately, setting her teacup down with a soft clink, “but what exactly happened at the end of the year? It sounds like there’s more behind that progress than just practice.”

 

Castor shifted, scratching at his neck, suddenly looking like he regretted saying anything. “It’s a long story.”

 

“We have time,” Narcissa replied, her voice light but steady. “And we’d be more than happy to hear it.”

 

With a resigned sigh, Castor leaned back in his chair. “Alright. I’ll try to keep it short. Do you know about Sirius Black?”

 

Narcissa choked on her tea, dabbing quickly at her mouth with a napkin as she coughed. That was not the name she’d expected to hear.

 

Once composed, she blinked at him. “Sirius is… my cousin.”

 

Castor’s brow lifted, mildly surprised but undeterred. “Well. That makes this even weirder. Turns out, for most of last year, everyone thought he was after me. Supposedly to finish what Voldemort started.”

 

They visibly tensed at the name but said nothing.

 

“I kept hearing all year that he’d broken out of Azkaban, that he was dangerous, that I had to be careful. The school was crawling with Dementors because they thought he might sneak in.” He paused, glancing at Lucius. “They didn’t exactly help.”

 

Lucius’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

 

“At first, I didn’t know why he’d want to kill me—just that he had betrayed my parents to Voldemort.” Castor hesitated, then added, “At least, that’s what I thought.”

 

Draco frowned, clearly struggling to keep up. “But if he didn’t betray them…”

 

“He didn’t,” Castor confirmed. “It was Peter Pettigrew. He was the Secret-Keeper, not Sirius. He faked his death, framed Sirius, and lived as a rat for twelve years.”

 

Lucius’s expression soured at the absurdity of it, but Castor continued, calm and cold.

 

“Sirius escaped because he figured out Pettigrew was still alive, posing as a pet in the Gryffindor dorms. My dorm.”

 

Narcissa’s lips parted in horror. “You shared a room with him?”

 

“For years,” Castor said bluntly. “We didn’t find out until the end of third year. Sirius caught him—caught us—and tried to explain everything. I didn’t believe him at first. I mean, who would? But then Professor Lupin—he was my Defence teacher—he backed it up. They were friends, all three of them and my dad.”

 

“You trusted them?” Draco asked incredulously.

 

Castor gave him a look. “No. But I wanted the truth.”

 

He exhaled slowly, voice quieter now. “Eventually we forced Pettigrew to show himself. It was all true. Sirius had spent twelve years in Azkaban for something he didn’t do.”

 

“And Dumbledore?” Lucius asked, his voice sharp with disdain. “What did he do with this… bombshell?”

 

“He said there wasn’t enough evidence,” Castor said flatly. “Professor Lupin transformed—he’s a werewolf, by the way—and in the chaos, Pettigrew escaped before we could take him to the Ministry.”

 

He shrugged, voice tightening. “Then, while Sirius and I were distracted, we were attacked by a swarm of Dementors. Hundreds. I couldn’t hold them off. Passed out.”

 

Narcissa’s hand flew to her mouth.

 

“I woke up in the hospital wing. Dumbledore said they were planning to have the Dementors administer the Kiss on Sirius before sunrise. So Hermione and I… used a Time-Turner.”

 

Lucius looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “They gave time travel to thirteen-year-olds?”

 

“Apparently,” Castor muttered. “We redid the night. Got to watch Hermione slap Draco twice.”

 

Draco looked genuinely affronted.

 

Castor gave a little grin. “Yeah. And when you threw a tantrum and ran off, I tripped you.”

 

Draco sputtered, “That was you?!”

 

“Anyway,” Castor continued, “we rescued Buckbeak first—he’d been sentenced to death, remember? Then he played bodyguard while we distracted werewolf-Lupin. I cast the Patronus—properly this time—to save past-me and Sirius from the Dementors. After that, we flew Buckbeak up to the tower where they were keeping Sirius and broke him out. He rode off into the night on the hippogriff.”

 

He leaned back slightly, as if that neatly tied up the story.

 

Narcissa stared at him in open disbelief.

 

“You… saved a convicted fugitive from a magical prison, tamed a hippogriff, fended off a werewolf and a swarm of Dementors, and rewrote time,” Narcissa said slowly, as though listing an impossible series of tasks. “All in one night?”

 

“Well,” Castor replied with a dry shrug, “I had help.”

 

Narcissa looked stricken. “All of that, and you were thirteen?”

 

“Yeah.” He gave a small, tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It was a weird year. Though I suppose… they’ve all been weird, in their own way.”

 

The silence that followed was thick and lingering, like fog after a violent storm. Narcissa reached for his hand and held it gently in both of hers.

 

“You’re too young to carry stories like that,” she whispered.

 

Castor only shrugged again. Then, noticing the plates had vanished from the table, he drew a steadying breath and looked toward Lucius.

 

“Shall we?”

 

Lucius inclined his head with a quiet, “Of course,” and rose from his seat with the same poised elegance he always carried.

 

They left the dining room side by side; footsteps muted on the marble floors. The silence between them wasn’t tense exactly, but it was heavy with things unsaid. Castor could feel his father’s presence beside him like a shadow: measured, deliberate, unreadable. Lucius didn’t attempt small talk, and Castor was oddly grateful for that. He didn’t have the energy to pretend everything was fine.

 

He walked a step behind, eyes tracing the floor, the walls, anything but the man beside him.

 

This was the first time they were truly alone.

 

The thought settled over him like a draft.

 

There was still a part of him that recoiled at the thought of Lucius Malfoy being his father. This was the man who had slipped a cursed object into the hands of an eleven-year-old girl, knowing it would possess her—knowing it could kill her. Who even thought of something like that? It wasn’t just cruel; it was calculated. Cold. A child as a pawn in some twisted game.

 

Castor didn’t know how to reconcile that man with the one walking silently beside him now, calm and composed, as if his sins had never touched innocent lives.

 

Lucius hadn’t said a word since they left the table. But somehow, that felt like the most Lucius Malfoy thing of all—not cold, just restrained. Like every word was weighed before being released.

 

Castor wondered, not for the first time, what this man saw when he looked at him. A son? A stranger? A project?

 

He swallowed hard as the door to the library came into view. A moment later, Lucius opened it with a quiet gesture, and the two stepped inside—alone.

 

Lucius walked with purpose toward the central table that anchored the sprawling, elegant room. Unlike Harry, who usually wandered through the shelves searching for answers in the quiet corners, Lucius seemed content to wait for the library itself to yield what he needed. As if in response to some silent command, the shelves shifted—elegantly, almost imperceptibly—until three books glided forward. Harry couldn’t help but think Hermione would be utterly enchanted by that kind of magic.

 

Lucius retrieved the volumes with practiced ease and laid them out with the air of a professor preparing a lesson.

 

“Charms of the Light: Protective Spellcraft Rooted in Emotional Strength,” he said, placing the first book in front of Castor. “It’s on advanced light magic—admittedly not a field traditionally pursued by our family, but not without precedent. You’ll find the Patronus Charm within, along with several related spells fueled by positive emotion. Useful… and difficult.”

 

He moved to the second. “Edge of the Wand: Pushing the Limits of Magical Defence. A newer addition to our collection. I finished it recently. It compiles some of the most cutting-edge developments in defensive magic—particularly spell layering and reflex-based incantations. It may offer useful strategies for the challenges ahead.”

 

With a final glance at Castor, he picked up the last book, weighing it briefly in his hands before setting it down. “Frameworks of Magic: The Architecture of Spell Creation. This one is… ambitious. It’s a rigorous introduction to the theory and practice of inventing original spells—meant for advanced students, certainly, but I believe you may be capable of working through it. Invented spells are unpredictable… but immensely effective. No opponent can block a spell they’ve never seen before.”

 

He stepped back slightly, watching the boy for a reaction. “You needn’t read them all at once. But I thought these might appeal to both your instincts… and your talents. You may take them to Hogwarts if you wish.”

 

“Thanks,” Castor muttered awkwardly, “I think I will.”

 

“Now,” Lucius took a breath, “Is there anything you wish to ask me? Anything at all?” Lucius opened the floor making his son take in a breath himself.

 

Harry hadn’t expected the man to offer himself up so willingly for questioning. His first instinct was to refuse—what good would it do? But then he remembered the unease that had curled in his stomach just outside the library doors. He knew he’d never feel entirely safe around Lucius Malfoy until he had answers.

 

So he asked, quietly but firmly, “Why did you do it? The diary. Why?”

 

Lucius sat in a chair at the table and gestured for his son to do the same. For once, his tone lacked its usual cold polish as he plainly said, “I didn't know it had belonged to the Dark Lord.”

 

Harry stilled, watching him. Lucius didn’t flinch beneath his son’s scrutiny, but his voice lowered, as if to mark this confession separate from his usual posturing.

 

“The diary was one of many artifacts hidden away after the war—stored in the old family vault, passed down by my father. He was a collector of sorts. Kept more than he should have, but… that was Abraxas. Always stockpiling power like it could be inherited.”

 

He looked down at his hands for a moment before continuing.

 

“I knew it was Dark. Of course I did. But not what it truly was. I did not recognize the name as I had never been privy to it. I assumed—incorrectly—that it was one of many cursed objects left behind by scattered followers. I had no reason to believe it was tied to the Dark Lord himself, let alone… part of him.”

 

Lucius stood then, pacing just once to the hearth and back.

 

“My intent was not to harm the girl. I thought to expose Arthur Weasley’s recklessness, to embarrass him politically. He’s always championed Muggle foolishness and endangered the secrecy of our world. The girl was just a means to an end—a Weasley, carrying her secondhand books. She wouldn’t even have known it came from me.”

 

His jaw tightened.

 

“But I underestimated the artifact. I assumed it might whisper, confuse—nothing more. I didn’t realize I had put a piece of the Dark Lord himself into a child’s hands.”

 

He finally met Castor’s eye—the moment lands with weight.

 

“If I had known what that diary truly was,” Lucius said, his voice low and tight, “I never would have let it leave the vault. Not out of loyalty to the Dark Lord—but out of self-preservation. No one with sense meddles with magic of that magnitude without reason. I believed it to be a dark artifact, a cursed curiosity to make a statement. Instead, I nearly handed the Ministry the kindling to burn us all.”

 

He didn’t apologize. Not directly. But threaded through his words was something raw—uneasy hindsight, unspoken regret. And for Lucius Malfoy, that might as well have been a confession on bended knee.

 

Harry gave a small, bitter nod. “You still did a bad thing.”

 

“I never claimed to be a good man, Castor,” Lucius replied evenly. “But I’m not the villain you think I am. And I would never harm you.”

 

Harry scoffed. “Not now that you’ve learned I’m your—” He stumbled over the word, swallowing hard. “—your son. Forgive me if I’m still bitter about the last time your actions almost got me killed.”

 

Lucius’s expression tightened. “You mean the day you freed the house-elf?” he asked, a touch defensive. “That spell was a hex, not a curse. Ill-tempered, yes. But I never intended—”

 

“No,” Castor cut in, sharp and tired. “I mean the fact that, to stop the chaos you set in motion, I had to go down into the Chamber of Secrets. Where I was bitten by a basilisk. While killing it.”

 

Lucius blanched, the blood draining from his already pale face.

 

For once, he had no ready retort. No excuse. Just silence.

 

“I care about Mum. Probably more than I should, considering how recently we met—but I do. That said, I haven’t forgotten what happened in the Chamber. I’ll be civil to you, for her sake. But don’t mistake that for respect. You haven’t earned it.”

 

Lucius inclined his head, his expression unreadable but his voice low with sincerity. “I deserved that,” he said simply. “I won’t defend the ignorance that led to your suffering. I truly didn’t know what that diary was, and yet—ignorance is no excuse. What I did—what I set in motion—it endangered your life. And for that, Castor, I will carry regret for the rest of mine.”

 

He met the boy’s eyes, steady and quiet. “I don’t expect forgiveness. I may never deserve it. But I would like the chance to earn your respect—if you’re willing to let me try.”

 

There was a long pause. Castor studied him with that same cautious wariness he wore like armor, grey eyes narrowed, weighing every word, every crack in the pureblood mask Lucius wore so well.

 

Finally, he gave a short nod. “Fine,” he said, voice clipped but clear. “Earn it.”

 

And with that, the conversation was over. Not resolved, not healed—but shifted.

 

Lucius said nothing more. He only nodded again, this time with something almost like gratitude, before leaving his son to his books.

 

Behind his exiting form, Castor sat in the stillness of the library, unsure of what he felt.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Notes:

Not my longest chapter but it was originally meant to be in 12 but Lucius came out of nowhere so this is like a bonus chapter.

Chapter 13

 

When Harry woke the next morning, he didn’t linger in bed as he often had over the past few days. Instead, he quietly got up and began preparing for the day. He wasn’t entirely sure why—maybe it was the weight of everything finally settling, or perhaps just the need to feel a little more in control—but by the time Narcissa came to check on him, she was visibly surprised to find him already dressed and waiting.

 

For the first time since he’d arrived, Harry and Narcissa were the first ones at the breakfast table. The quiet between them wasn’t tense—it was calm, almost companionable—as they shared soft, meandering conversation over tea and toast.

 

Once the plates had been cleared away and the last of the steam curled up from her teacup, Narcissa glanced over at him with a composed sort of sadness in her expression. “Castor,” she began gently, “as much as it pains me to say it… you and Draco will need to return to Hogwarts soon.”

 

Harry nodded slowly. He’d been wondering when the conversation would come. The idea of returning to Hogwarts left him with a strange cocktail of emotions—relief, dread, even a little hope. He wanted to see his friends again… at least, the ones who were still his friends. But he feared what might be waiting for him on the other side of that castle gate.

 

“Before I can allow you to go back,” Narcissa continued, “we need to make sure you have a proper wardrobe. I didn’t want to throw you into the spotlight just yet, so I’ve asked an old friend of mine—Valentin Noirveil, one of the most talented designers in France—to come here to the manor and take your measurements. He’ll put together the essentials immediately. After that, you and I can look through some of his designs together and pick out a few more pieces that you actually like. Whatever isn’t ready by the time you return to Hogwarts will be sent along to you there.”

 

Harry blinked. A personal tailor? Clothes that actually fit. The idea felt surreal. Yes, he had gotten his uniforms from a tailor in Diagon but this seemed more exclusive. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond.

 

But instead of protesting or brushing it off, he simply nodded. There was something comforting in the way Narcissa said it all, how she laid out each detail with calm precision. She wasn’t pushing or hovering—just quietly building something for him, a life he’d never been given the chance to imagine. A kind of care that didn’t demand anything in return.

 

He gave a small nod of approval to her plans, and not long after, the soft murmur of footsteps signaled the arrival of the rest of the household.

 

“You two are here early,” Lucius remarked as he took his seat at the table, casting a curious glance at them.

 

“Yes,” Narcissa replied, the faintest warmth in her tone. “Castor was already awake and dressed by the time I arrived at his room.”

 

Lucius gave Harry a measured look—neither cold nor overly warm, but with a certain thoughtful weight behind it—and then nodded slightly before turning his attention to breakfast.

 

They began to eat, and for a while, no one spoke. The clinking of silverware and the rustle of linen napkins filled the silence.

 

Harry found himself oddly at ease. The tension that used to sit like a stone in his chest during these meals had slowly begun to dissolve. Just days ago, eating with the Malfoys had felt like stepping into a foreign world where he didn’t belong. But now… it didn’t feel like that. Not entirely.

 

He wasn’t sure when the shift had started—maybe it was Hedwig’s arrival, or Narcissa falling asleep beside him in the window seat—but somehow, this quiet morning, this table, even the soft conversation between Lucius and Draco, all felt… normal.

 

And that, in itself, was almost stranger than anything else.

 

888

 

It wasn’t until shortly after lunch that Narcissa returned for him, a gentle hand resting on his arm as she said, “Come along, darling. Monsieur Noirveil has arrived and is setting up in the drawing room.”

 

The moment they stepped into the drawing room, Harry was met with the subtle, heady scent of bergamot mingling with something magical in the air. It was the kind of fragrance that didn’t just linger—it announced.

 

The room had been subtly transformed. A raised measuring stool stood in the center like a stage, bolts of enchanted fabric hovering nearby in midair, shimmering faintly with charm-induced movement. Measuring tapes coiled and uncoiled themselves with serpentine grace on a nearby chaise.

 

Valentin Noirveil stood at the heart of the room like a conductor in the final moments before a grand symphony began. He was tall and elegant, all angles and air, clad in flowing black robes trimmed with glinting pewter thread. A matching ribbon tied his ink-dark hair into a loose tail at the nape of his neck, and a thin silver monocle perched over one eye—magically attuned to detect fabric flaws, or perhaps human ones too.

 

He turned at the sound of their entrance, and his sharp eyes immediately fell on Castor.

 

“Ah… so this is the one,” he breathed, as though beholding a rare painting for the first time. He strode forward with dramatic purpose, monocle glinting as he scanned the boy from boots to brow. “Exquisite bone structure. And that hair—truly spun moonlight. The symmetry, the delicacy… Narcissa, ma chère, why did you not warn me he was a muse in disguise?”

 

Narcissa let out a faint laugh, composed and pleased. “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Valentin. My youngest son is in need of a full wardrobe—and I trust only you to see to it properly.”

 

“But of course,” Valentin said, already circling Castor like a hawk preparing to sculpt its prey. “The usual formal pieces, of course, but I see potential for something bold… unexpected.” He gestured vaguely to a floating sketchbook, which began flipping pages on its own. “We’ll keep it dignified, but not dull. He’s delicate, yes, but there is something in his posture—something with weight. We must dress both the boy and the mystery he carries.”

 

Harry stood still, vaguely overwhelmed. No one had ever spoken about him like that before—like he was someone to be adorned, to be noticed. Usually, people looked through him or, worse, pitied him.

 

Valentin tapped his wand against the air, and a magical measuring tape zipped forward, pausing only inches from Castor's side as if asking permission. He gave a hesitant nod, and the tape began its work.

 

“Oh yes,” Valentin murmured, inspecting the first numbers. “We’ll start with something classic. Silk-lined wool, high-collared. But I’m going to want at least one modern cut in enchanted night-grey, perhaps a silver filigree embroidery to match those eyes. And a cloak. Everyone forgets the power of a good cloak.”

 

Narcissa remained still, her hands folded neatly as she watched Valentin slip effortlessly into his work—his movements precise, his observations fluttering between poetic and professional. It was like watching a master painter approaching a blank canvas with reverence, every gesture calculated yet somehow reverent.

 

Her son stood at the center of it all—rigid at first, shoulders drawn tight, posture guarded. But as the tailor spoke, spinning compliments into casual remarks and treating Castor’s appearance not with delicacy but with admiration, something began to shift. His muscles loosened, just slightly. His fingers, which had been clenched by his sides, uncurled. His gaze drifted downward in uncertainty but lacked the hard edge of shame it once held.

 

To Narcissa, it was a small miracle—a moment she would tuck away with quiet reverence. He wasn’t smiling, not quite. But he wasn’t shrinking, either.

 

And somewhere in the silence beneath Valentin’s lyrical musings, something stirred in Castor too.

 

He still didn’t like what he saw in the mirror. In fact, he had made it a point not to look for more than a few seconds at a time since the change. That pale, porcelain face still didn’t feel like his. It felt like an echo of someone he was supposed to become but now, hearing Valentin speak of him with such assured admiration—like he was made of something rare, something worth showcasing—he felt his certainty begin to falter.

 

Maybe, Castor thought cautiously, maybe it’s not as awful as I thought.

 

Not beautiful—not to himself. But perhaps not monstrous. Perhaps there was something about his new reflection that was striking, even if it still frightened him.

 

Draco must have been bored, because he waltzed in, and snorted as is examined, “Careful, Castor, he once hexed me because I asked for elbow patches.”

 

Valentin sniffed. “You requested tweed, in summer. I was defending fashion itself.”

 

“Right,” Draco muttered. “Hero of our time.”

 

Valentin ignored him. With a flick of his wand, a measuring tape sprang to life, snaking around Castor’s limbs. “Hmm. Narrow build… symmetrical shoulders… tragic height.”

 

“I’m right here,” Castor said dryly.

 

Valentin tapped the boy’s collar thoughtfully replying, “We’ll cut everything to length, of course, but leave room for growth. I assume he’ll be put on a proper nutrient regimen?”

 

“He already has,” Narcissa confirmed. “We expect a growth spurt within the year.”

 

“Excellent. I’ll prepare robes that can adjust discreetly—no unsightly bunching, no barbaric elastic.”

 

With a sharp snap, the measuring tape recoiled and vanished. Valentin clapped his hands once, and bolts of fabric sprang to life, gliding through the air like well-trained familiars. There was sea-silk in smoky greys, forest-green wool with a subtle iridescent sheen, and enchanted white cotton that resisted wrinkles with aristocratic pride. The fabrics hovered beside Castor, obedient and expectant, as Valentin held them against the boy’s frame, gauging how each shade played against his complexion while murmuring quick notes to himself.

 

Then, pausing in his orbit, Valentin fixed Castor with a gaze both precise and fond. His tone dipped into something silk-soft and theatrical. “Fear not, mon petit. By the time I’m finished, even your reflection will know better than to question you.”

Castor quirked an eyebrow. “That’s... vaguely threatening.”

 

Valentin gave a slow, sly smile. “As all good fashion should be.”

 

Narcissa, ever composed, added smoothly, “He’ll also need formalwear. There’s to be a Yule Ball at Hogwarts, part of the Triwizard Tournament festivities.” Her gaze flicked to her son, her voice laced with quiet indignation. “Castor has been entered into the tournament—without consent, of course—and will be very much on display, I’m afraid.”

 

Valentin, who had just been measuring the length of Castor’s arm against a swatch of shadowy silk, stopped mid-motion. A spark of delight lit his eyes as if he'd just been handed a blank canvas and a palette of starlight.

 

“A champion? At a ball?” he repeated, as though the words themselves were too rich to rush through. He clasped his hands together with a flourish and began pacing in a tight, inspired circle. “Oh, mon chéri, what an exquisite challenge. The delicate stature, the reluctant spotlight, the mystery—yes, yes, this is no longer just clothing. This will be storytelling.”

 

He gestured broadly, already envisioning the look. “We shall craft something that commands the room without shouting—elegance with an edge, grace with gravity. You will not merely attend, you will arrive. The room will hush.”

 

Castor blinked, caught somewhere between dread and fascination.

 

“...That sounds excessive,” he muttered.

 

Valentin’s smile widened, utterly undeterred. “Excess, dear boy, is simply confidence measured in silk.”

 

The entire fitting took far less time than Harry had anticipated, though it wasn’t for lack of enthusiasm. Valentin had been utterly in his element—whirling around him with measuring tapes, fabric samples, and a keen eye that missed nothing. Despite his flair and dramatic flourishes, the man worked with startling efficiency. Once he had all of Harry’s measurements and a clear sense of what cuts, tones, and enchantments would best complement his build and complexion, he packed up his tools with a theatrical flourish.

 

Before departing, Valentin assured them that the essentials—daywear, school robes, and undergarments—would arrive at the manor by that evening, perfectly tailored and ready for immediate use. The more specialized garments, including the ensemble for the Yule Ball, would be completed and delivered to Hogwarts by the start of the following week.

 

He also left behind a selection of his catalogs, inviting Castor to browse through them at his leisure. “If anything catches your eye, mon petit,” he had said, tapping the cover of one with a manicured finger, “send word by owl, and I shall see what can be done to incorporate it into your wardrobe.”

 

With a final sweeping bow and a conspiratorial wink at Castor, Valentin swept from the drawing room like an actor exiting stage right. He left behind only the faintest trace of bergamot and the lingering sense that something was about to change.

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Chapter 14

 

Harry, Narcissa, and Draco spent much of the afternoon poring over the catalogs Monsieur Noirveil had left behind, their elegant pages filled with sketches, swatches, and enchantment-enhanced illustrations of garments in motion. The air in the drawing room buzzed with a quiet kind of excitement—one not born of extravagance, but of possibility.

 

Narcissa, ever graceful in her guidance, had made it clear that while she trusted Valentin implicitly to craft Castor’s formalwear and school robes with impeccable taste, she wanted her son to have a hand in choosing his casual attire—the clothes he’d wear on evenings, weekends, and days when he needed to feel most like himself.

 

“These,” she had said gently, spreading out a series of folded pages across a low table, “are the clothes that speak to comfort, not duty. They should reflect your preferences, your personality—not simply what others expect of you.”

 

Harry hadn’t expected to enjoy the process. Clothes had always been a matter of necessity, not expression. But sitting there, with Draco making snide commentary on outdated trends and Narcissa offering thoughtful suggestions rather than instructions, something strange began to settle in his chest—a cautious sense of ease.

 

His fingers drifted almost absently across one of the catalog pages, following the crisp lines of a striking design. It was a pair of trousers—tailored, elegant, and undeniably bold. One leg was a deep, inky black, the other a brilliant, stark white. The contrast was sharp, deliberate, and something about it unsettled him at first.

 

The white made him anxious. He could already imagine the smudges, the spilled ink or dirt tracked in from outside—the inevitable mess that always seemed to find him. But then he read the note beneath the sketch, written in fine, looping script: Fabric charmed for stain-repellence, resistant to all known dyes, oils, and common magical residue.

 

Harry blinked. Stain-proof. Completely.

 

His first instinct was to look away, to turn the page and find something quieter, but his hand hesitated. The design stayed with him—daring, clean, unashamed to be noticed. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned the catalog toward Narcissa and pointed.

 

“I, uh… I kind of like these,” he muttered, unsure if he should.

 

Narcissa glanced at the design, her eyes lighting with quiet interest before she looked back at him, smiling softly.

 

“A bold choice,” she said gently. “But a good one. That contrast… it suits you more than you might think.”

 

Draco smirked, nodding toward Harry’s silver hair and pale, almost grey complexion. “Looks like you’re already rocking your natural color scheme, Castor—black and white mastered without even trying. Might as well lean into it. But, you know Malfoys don’t do boring. If you’re set on black and white, why not throw in a splash of color to shake things up? Maybe a sharp button-up in green or blue. Or if you’re feeling bold, a touch of Gryffindor red to show some spirit.”

 

Narcissa, watching the exchange with a soft smile, chimed in. “He’s right. Black and white is striking, but a splash of deep green or royal blue would complement your eyes beautifully. And a touch of red, subtly incorporated—maybe a lining or a cuff—would honor your Gryffindor spirit without being too loud.”

 

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “I do like green. And blue feels… calm.”

 

Draco nudged him playfully. “Calm? You? Since when?”

 

Harry chuckled, “Maybe just for the clothes.”

 

Narcissa reached over, tapping the catalog lightly. “Why not choose a few pieces in those colors? You can have black and white as your base, then rotate in blues, greens, and reds to suit your mood or the occasion.”

 

Harry’s fingers brushed over the pages again. For the first time, picking out clothes didn’t feel like a chore or a way to hide. It felt like a step toward owning who he was—silver hair, grey eyes, and all.

 

888

 

It wasn’t until dinner that Lucius finally broached the topic, they had been quietly dreading. As the last of the main course disappeared from their plates, he set down his cutlery with deliberate care and said, “Now that your wardrobe is being properly replaced, I believe it would be best for you both to return to Hogwarts in the morning.”

 

Narcissa inhaled sharply, the sound catching in her throat like a choked-off gasp. She wasn’t ready—not yet. The thought of sending Castor back so soon made her stomach twist, but she also knew Lucius wasn’t wrong. Tomorrow was already Thursday; they’d missed most of the week’s classes, and any longer absence would only put them further behind and have Dumbledore after them. Still, the idea of saying goodbye again, of watching him walk back into that unpredictable world so soon after barely beginning to find his footing, felt impossibly cruel.

 

She reached for her wineglass, more to steady her hands than to drink, and forced herself to nod slowly, even as her eyes remained fixed on her son.

 

Harry simply nodded, unsurprised by the announcement—he had known this moment was coming. It had lingered in the back of his mind like the final page of a good book you didn’t want to reach.

 

Though his time at the Manor had been brief, it had left a deeper mark on him than he was willing to admit aloud. There was a sense of safety here that he had never truly known, a quiet rhythm to the days that, for once, didn’t revolve around surviving. More than the comfort of the estate or even the quiet afternoons in the library, what he knew he would miss most was Narcissa.

 

She had become something of an anchor in the storm of his life—gentle, steady, and fiercely protective. The thought of leaving her behind made something tight coil in his chest. A foolish part of him wished she could come with him, as if she might somehow sit beside him at the Gryffindor table or brush the hair from his eyes before bed. But that was a child’s fantasy, and he knew it.

 

So instead, he said nothing. Just nodded. And tried not to show how hard it would be to walk away.

 

After dinner, Narcissa gave Harry a gentle smile and told him she would meet him in his room shortly with the clothing Valentin had managed to rush out. True to her word, she arrived not long after, arms full with two wide, flat parcels. She found her son sitting quietly on the window seat, silhouetted against the fading evening light—waiting.

 

With a graceful sweep of her robes, she crossed the room and placed one of the boxes on the desk. “That one is from Valentin,” she said lightly. Then, holding up the other, her expression shifted, softening with something that looked like nervous anticipation. “But this one... this is from me. I remembered your trunk was slightly damaged. I thought it might be best to replace it.”

 

She set the box on the floor, then opened it to reveal something that took Harry’s breath for a moment—a brand-new travel trunk, sleek and sturdy, done in deep matte black. Its edges were trimmed in silver fittings, and engraved elegantly on the top, in a script that mirrored the crest above the manor’s hearth, were the letters C. Malfoy.

 

Harry blinked, stunned. His old trunk had only been singed a little—it still functioned fine. There was no real need to replace it, but Narcissa had done it anyway. No half-measures. No hesitations.

 

“I thought you could use it to take your new things to Hogwarts,” she said gently. “And if you like, you can shrink your old trunk and keep any clothes that don’t fit anymore inside it. If you send it home, I’ll have Mipsy store it safely in your room until you decide what to do with it. Or,” she added, tone casual but eyes watchful, “if you’d prefer, you can throw the whole thing out. That choice is entirely yours.”

 

Harry knelt beside the trunk, running a hand over the finely engraved letters. The finish was cool beneath his fingers, smooth and flawless. He swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “Thank you,” he murmured.

 

Narcissa reached out to ruffle his hair, but the gesture became a quiet, lingering touch against his head. “There’s... one more thing,” she said, a small smile curling her lips. “A feature I requested just for you.”

 

Curious, Harry watched as she unlocked the trunk and opened it. The inside was divided neatly into compartments—one for clothing, one for books, another for general storage, all lined in deep green velvet. She closed the lid again and gestured to a small, nearly unnoticeable silver switch on the side.

 

“This,” she said, “is the real gift.”

 

With a soft click, she pressed the switch and reopened the trunk. This time, the inside revealed a narrow ladder leading downward into darkness. For a second, Harry thought it was an illusion—but then a soft, magical glow began to bloom from below, like starlight filtering through fog.

 

Without waiting, Narcissa climbed onto the ladder and began to descend. As soon as she touched the rungs, the light brightened, illuminating what appeared to be a hidden space—something far larger than any trunk had a right to contain.

 

“Come on, Castor,” she called gently from below. “It’s safe.”

 

Harry hesitated at the edge, staring down into the enchanted interior. Whatever was inside, she had made it for him. Something secret. Something safe.

 

He took hold of the ladder—and followed.

 

As Harry reached the bottom of the ladder, his feet touched down on smooth, polished floorboards—the same deep, almost glossy black wood as the trunk’s exterior. The space he stepped into was small but thoughtfully designed, no bigger than a modest bedroom, yet it felt… private. Safe. Like it had been made not just for comfort, but for retreat.

 

The walls curved slightly inward, giving the room a gentle, cocoon-like feel. Thin silver inlays ran along the baseboards and edges, subtle patterns of vines and constellations that shimmered faintly in the low light. The ceiling arched above like the inside of a jewelry box, paneled in the same black wood with soft illumination glowing from tiny floating orbs.

 

To his right, nestled beneath a built-in shelf stacked with blank journals, spare parchment, and a few sleek green-bound books, stood a writing desk of matching dark wood. Its surface gleamed, pristine and uncluttered, save for a quill and ink set resting in a carved tray.

 

To the left was a sunken sitting nook—an overstuffed, low-set chair in dark forest green velvet with a matching footstool, tucked beneath a high, rounded window that wasn’t real but charmed to mimic the sky outside the Manor. Currently, it showed a dusky evening sky with drifting clouds and a faintly glowing moon. It reminded him of his favorite reading spot in the library.

 

A thick, soft blanket was folded neatly over the arm of the chair, and a plush cushion embroidered with a large snowy owl rested against the back. There were no loud colors, no grand flourishes—just quiet warmth and thoughtful intention in every detail."

 

It wasn’t luxurious in the traditional Malfoy sense—it was something else entirely. Personal. Private. A quiet, grounded place that felt like it belonged only to him.

 

A place to hide, if he needed it.

 

A place to breathe.

 

“I thought this might be a place you could retreat to,” Narcissa said gently, her hand brushing the edge of the desk. “Somewhere to hide if the attention becomes overwhelming—or to study in peace if the castle gets too loud. It’s yours, Castor. You may use it however you wish.”

 

Harry didn’t respond with words.

 

He simply crossed the small space and threw his arms around her, holding her with the kind of desperate strength that made her breath catch. He clung to her as though she might vanish if he let go, as though this gesture could anchor them both in something solid and real.

 

For a heartbeat, Narcissa stood frozen. Then her arms wrapped around him, one hand gently cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles across his back.

 

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You never have to face it all alone again.”

His voice trembled, thick with feeling. “I’m going to miss you so much, Mum. I’ve never had anyone to miss before—not really. Is… is this how everyone else feels when they have to go back after break?”

 

Narcissa’s arms tightened around him, her hand continuing its soft, comforting motion on his back.

 

“Yes, darling,” she said quietly, her voice warm and aching. “For most children, going back to school means saying goodbye to warmth, and comfort, and the people who love them without question. It’s usually hard.”

 

She leaned back just enough to look at him, brushing his silver hair gently from his forehead. “But the difference now is that you do have someone to miss you’ll have someone waiting for you, too. You’ll always have a place to come home to, Castor. That won’t change.”

 

Harry swallowed, his eyes glistening. “I don’t want to forget what this feels like.”

 

“You won’t,” she said with certainty. “Because we’re going to keep building it—bit by bit. So when you come home next time, it’ll be even stronger. And you’ll know exactly where you belong.”

 

He nodded slowly, a fragile smile beginning to form. “Thank you… for everything.”

 

Narcissa kissed the top of his head. “You don’t have to thank me for loving you, sweetheart. That’s simply what mothers do.”

Notes:

I was gonna continue but that seemed like a good way to end the chapter.

Chapter 15: Chapter 15

Summary:

Gotta Get Back To Hogwarts!

Chapter 15

 

Narcissa stayed with her son far too late into the night, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave him—not when every moment felt so precious. Sleep could wait. She could rest once the boys had returned to school, but this evening belonged to them.

 

Together, they packed Castor’s new trunk, starting with the freshly tailored clothing Valentin had delivered. Though it was only the essential garments for now, each piece had been crafted with care and precision. The standout, however, was his new set of school robes.

 

Traditionally, students acquired their Hogwarts uniforms from the standard shops in Diagon Alley—an unspoken rite of passage. But the robes Valentin had created defied that expectation. While they adhered to the school’s requirements—rich black fabric with the Gryffindor crest stitched crisply over the heart—they bore subtle, refined flourishes that elevated them beyond the ordinary. The inner lining was a vibrant red silk, smooth as water and warm to the touch. A fine crimson trim traced the edges of the sleeves and collar, offering a flash of color whenever Castor moved. They were elegant without being ostentatious—robes that suggested confidence, not vanity.

 

As Narcissa carefully folded the robes into the trunk, she allowed herself a soft, satisfied smile. “He truly does have an impeccable eye for detail,” she murmured, thinking of Valentin. Her fingers lingered on the rich fabric a moment longer before setting one set of robes aside, ready for Castor to wear in the morning.

 

After the clothing was neatly arranged, they added the books Lucius had selected for him earlier. Castor didn’t say much, but Narcissa noticed the way he handled the books with reverence, the way his eyes scanned the covers like he was beginning to imagine a version of himself beyond the chaos.

 

Then came the part that took up most of their remaining evening—an impromptu trip to the library to choose a small collection of books for Castor’s private room within the trunk. It was an idea Narcissa had encouraged gently, hoping to give her son something that was wholly his, something he could retreat into when things at school became too much. Castor had taken the task seriously, combing through the shelves with quiet focus and eventually settling on a thoughtful assortment of books ranging over numerous topics

 

Once the books were stacked carefully into the trunk’s lower compartment, Narcissa placed a hand on his back and gently steered him toward bed. As much as she wanted to stretch the evening forever, he had classes in the morning, and he would need his strength.

 

Still, even after he had slipped into bed and the lights had been dimmed, Narcissa couldn’t bring herself to rest. She paced softly in the hallway, checking on him more than once. Each time she peeked through the cracked door, she found him asleep—his face turned toward the window, a little furrow still between his brows, though not as deep as it had once been. Hedwig, ever the sentinel, watched over him with luminous eyes, meeting Narcissa’s gaze in silent understanding.

 

When the time finally came to wake Castor, Narcissa was running on little more than determination and motherly instinct. Exhaustion clung to her bones, but she pushed it aside with practiced grace. Her expression was composed as she waited for her son to finish dressing. She helped him slip into his newly tailored cloak—black wool, soft and elegantly cut to flatter his small frame. It still felt a touch too large on his narrow shoulders, but she adjusted it with care, smoothing the collar and brushing an invisible bit of lint from the hem, as though willing the garment to protect him in her place.

 

Once he was ready, she led him down to the morning room for a quiet breakfast. It was a small courtesy—to avoid the looming formality of the Great Hall and give the boys a moment of peace before stepping back into the lion’s den of Hogwarts.

 

Castor sat at the table, absently stirring his oatmeal, his spoon carving aimless paths through the steam. The bowl was topped with fresh pumble berries, their vibrant color untouched as his stomach churned with nerves.

 

Lucius, seated across from them and as composed as ever, broke the silence with a calm, measured tone. “I’ve already spoken to the staff regarding your dietary and medical needs,” he said, folding his hands in front of him. “While house-elves are not typically permitted at Hogwarts in a personal capacity, exceptions are granted for health accommodations. You’ll be assigned a Mipsy, who will discreetly ensure your nutritional needs are met. She’ll bring you snacks between meals and deliver your specialized meals to you in the Great Hall, complete with the necessary potions.”

 

Castor nodded quietly, already aware that Mipsy would be accompanying him in some capacity. It had been decided earlier, though hearing it now, spoken aloud over breakfast, made it feel more real—more official. There was a comfort in that certainty. Mipsy wouldn’t just be a house-elf trailing along; she would be a tether to safety, to this home that had, against all odds, now felt like something he would miss.

 

Lucius gave a small, deliberate nod of his own before continuing, his tone remaining calm but carrying more weight than before. “If you find yourself in need of anything—whether it’s for the tournament, for your classes, or even something trivial—send word. An owl will suffice for most matters, and we will do whatever we can to provide it.”

 

He paused briefly, then added with more emphasis, “But if it’s urgent—or if something feels wrong—send Mipsy directly. She’ll know how to find us, no matter the time or place. Consider her your shield, should you ever need one.”

 

Harry looked between them, his expression unreadable for a moment before he gave another small nod. There was something grounding about the way they spoke—not in grand declarations or empty reassurances, but in plans, contingencies, and details. In the quiet, practical ways people showed they cared.

 

“And remember, Severus will be at the school,” Lucius added. “If you ever feel you need an adult you can trust, go to him. He can contact us through the Floo Network immediately, should the need arise.”

 

Harry nodded understanding again though he did not want to go to the potions professor for anything if he could help it.

 

Narcissa reached for her teacup, hiding a flicker of emotion behind its rim. She was tired, but she would not let him see that. Not today. Today he needed strength—and she would give him all of hers, if that’s what it took.

 

Once the breakfast dishes had vanished with a soft pop, Narcissa and Castor excused themselves to retrieve his newly packed trunk, leaving Lucius and Draco to head directly to Lucius’s study. That would be their departure point—the Floo connection already arranged to deliver them straight to Severus Snape’s office at Hogwarts.

 

As the two Malfoy men waited for the others to rejoin them, Lucius glanced sidelong at his son, his voice low but firm. “Draco, I expect you to keep a close eye on your brother once you return. I doubt he’ll be forthcoming if something is wrong. He’s already proven reluctant to 'bother' us with anything he considers minor—and given what little we know of his upbringing, I don’t trust his definition of trivial in the slightest.”

 

Draco sighed, the weight of responsibility not unfamiliar, but heavier now. “I know, Father. You and Mother have both given me this speech—separately, I might add,” he said with a wry glance. “I promise, I’ll be watching out for him. And I’ve already spoken to a few of the other Slytherins—Theo, Blaise, even Daphne. They’ll help keep an eye out too.”

 

Lucius gave a single, approving nod. “Good. He won’t always admit when he needs support—but that doesn’t mean he should go without it.”

 

Draco gave a small huff of a laugh, rolling his eyes fondly as he glanced toward the fireplace, “Most brothers get to swap Chocolate Frog cards and sneak off to Zonko’s. I get to be a one-man security detail with a side of emotional support.”

 

Lucius placed a steady hand on Draco’s shoulder, his voice quieter than usual—less commanding, more sincere, “These past few days have not been easy for any of us, but your mother and I are immensely proud of you. You’ve handled everything with grace, and the way you’ve looked after your brother... it hasn’t gone unnoticed. I know much of our focus has been on Castor, but I want you to know—we see you, too.”

 

Draco blinked, his expression faltering just slightly as if the weight of the praise caught him off guard. He cleared his throat, shifting under the unexpected warmth of his father’s tone, “Well… I am rather amazing,” he said lightly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, sheepish smile. “But... thanks. Really,” there was a pause, brief but meaningful, before he added more quietly, “I like having a brother.”

 

The soft click of the drawing room door preceded Narcissa’s arrival. She swept into Lucius’s office with her usual composure, though her eyes betrayed the emotions carefully held beneath. Castor followed beside her, trunk levitating behind them. Hedwig was sent flying back.

 

Lucius straightened at the sight of them, his posture dignified, but his gaze lingered on his son. “All set?”

 

Castor nodded, his fingers brushing the sleeve of his newly tailored robe. “As I’ll ever be.”

 

Narcissa moved to his side, brushing a bit of lint off his shoulder that didn’t exist. “You look perfect,” she said softly, and before he could protest, pulled him into a final embrace. It was long and tight, filled with all the things she hadn’t said that morning.

 

“Write often,” she whispered against his temple. “Even if it’s just a sentence. Let me know you’re all right.”

 

He nodded, his throat tight. “I will, Mum.”

 

Lucius stepped forward next, placing one hand briefly on Castor’s shoulder—not as a gesture of dominance or instruction, but something steadier. Grounding. “Remember what I said. If you need anything—send word. And keep your wits about you, especially where Dumbledore is concerned.”

 

Castor looked up at him for a beat, then gave a single nod. “Understood.”

 

Draco stepped between them before the silence grew too heavy. “If you don’t write, Mum’s going to cry into her tea and Father will brood.”

 

Lucius gave his son a flat look. “I do not brood.”

 

Draco smirked, glancing at Castor. “He broods.”

 

Castor actually let out a small laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing a bit. “I’ll write,” he promised.

 

Narcissa stepped back reluctantly, folding her hands. “You’ll do brilliantly. Both of you.”

 

Lucius nodded toward the hearth. “Draco, Castor—go ahead. Severus is expecting you.”

 

After a swift embrace and a whispered reminder of her love and pride from his mother, Draco stepped forward with confident ease. He tossed the Floo powder into the flames and called out clearly, “Severus Snape’s office, Hogwarts.” In a swirl of emerald fire, he vanished from sight.

 

Castor lingered just a moment longer, looking back at his parents. “Bye,” he said softly, not trusting himself to say more as he grabbed hold of his new trunk.

 

“Be safe, my darling,” Narcissa said, her voice gentle but steady.

 

Lucius gave a firm nod.

 

With one final breath, Castor stepped into the flames, whispering the destination. The emerald light flared—and he was gone.

 

The room was suddenly still.

 

Narcissa’s hand found Lucius’s. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

 

He squeezed once, and together, they waited for the fire to die down.

 

888

 

Harry burst out of the Floo in a tangle of limbs and trunk, landing squarely on Draco’s polished shoes with his trunk landing  The older boy caught him by the elbows before he could plant his face into the flagstones.

 

Draco arched a brow, his lips curling into a smirk. “Really, Castor, throwing yourself at me.”

 

Harry flushed, straightening and brushing off his robes. “Don’t be weird.”

 

Before Draco could fire back, a voice drawled dryly from behind the desk. “I see the two of you have finally graced us with your presence.”

 

They both turned to find Professor Snape regarding them with a raised brow, arms crossed, and the faintest twitch of amusement behind his usual disapproval.

 

Draco stepped forward smoothly. “Apologies, sir. Mother was having… a hard time letting Castor go.”

 

Snape inclined his head slightly. “Understandable.” Then, checking the clock on the far wall, he added, “You’ve missed breakfast, but I assume, knowing Narcissa, you were well-fed before departure?”

 

“We were,” Draco confirmed. 

 

Snape’s gaze slid to Castor. “In that case, shall I assume your house-elf will deliver your belongings to Gryffindor Tower? Or would you prefer an escort?”

 

“I can have Mipsy take it,” Harry said, regaining his composure.

 

“Very well,” Snape said with a nod. “She has permission to enter the dormitory. Just make sure she doesn’t hex anyone who so much as looks at you wrong.”

 

The elf in question popped in with a sharp crack, arms crossed and chin high. “Mipsy is a good elf. Mipsy knows what discreet means,” she huffed indignantly, giving Snape a look that was surprisingly accusatory for a creature half his height.

 

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, lips twitching as he struggled to keep a straight face. Draco, however, didn’t bother trying—he let out a sharp bark of laughter.

 

“Well, I certainly feel safer already,” he said, grinning down at the elf.

 

Snape’s mouth twitched, though he disguised it with a faint sniff. “See that you don’t turn any Gryffindors into teacups, Mipsy.”

 

“Mipsy would never!” she gasped, horrified. Then she paused. “Unless they deserve it.” With that she and the trunk left with another crack.

 

Harry finally broke into a quiet laugh, and Draco clapped him on the back. “I think she’ll fit in nicely.”

 

Snape gave a half-sigh, half-grumble as he turned toward the fireplace. “I’m already regretting this term.”

 

“Me too,” Castor agreed nodding.

 

Draco let out a snort. “Oh, come on, you love the drama.”

 

Harry—Castor—gave him a flat look. “That’s rich coming from someone who practically majors in theatrics.”

 

Snape, already making his way toward the hearth, muttered darkly, “Merlin help me—I’ve somehow inherited two dramatists.”

 

Draco raised a brow, smirking. “You say that like you haven’t always been one.”

 

Harry let out a sudden snort, then coughed into his hand in a feeble attempt to hide it.

 

Snape leveled them both with a dry, unimpressed look. “If either of you turns my classroom into a theatre, I won’t hesitate to assign an essay with footnotes, citations, and an appendix.”

 

Harry smirked—no longer quite Castor, and no longer the boy who used to shrink beneath that glare. “Honestly? I’ve had worse.”

 

Draco gave a mock-sentimental sigh and clapped him on the shoulder. “They grow up so fast.”

 

Snape rubbed at the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh. “Out. Both of you. Before I’m tempted to rediscover the joys of peace and silence.”

 

As Harry turned for the door, a small, genuine smile tugged at his lips. For the first time, being in Snape’s presence didn’t feel like walking on broken glass. He wasn’t sure what that meant yet—but it felt like something was beginning to change.

Notes:

Wow—I can’t believe it’s only been a little over a week since I posted the first chapter, and we’ve already passed 2,500 hits! For my very first story on this platform, that feels incredible, so thank you all so much for reading!

I also want to give a special thanks for all the comments—you’ve been so kind and thoughtful, and your input has really helped. I think I know who Castor is going to end up with now, but I won’t be tagging the pairing just yet… mostly because sometimes my fingers take over and the characters surprise even me. That said, your comments absolutely helped me narrow it down—so truly, thank you!

Chapter 16: Chapter 16

Chapter 16

 

Harry followed close behind Draco, who was striding purposefully through the corridor, his robes billowing with every step. He stopped abruptly just before a staircase, turning on his heel with a sharp glance over his shoulder.

 

“Have Mipsy fetch our Transfiguration books,” Draco instructed briskly. “It’ll save us from doubling back to both common rooms. There’s no time to trek from the dungeons to Gryffindor Tower, and frankly, I’d rather you not go alone—not until we know how the general student body is reacting.”

 

Harry frowned slightly, but nodded. “Neville wrote me,” he offered, trying to sound reassuring. “He said most people don’t believe the rumors—”

 

Draco cut him off with a scoff. “Please. No one’s handing Longbottom classified gossip. It’s not like anyone’s trusting him with secret plans or shady intentions. He wouldn’t have the faintest idea what’s brewing under the surface.”

 

Harry sighed, conceding the point. As if she had been listening, a soft pop sounded beside them and Mipsy appeared, clutching both of their book bags in her tiny hands.

 

“Thank you, Mipsy,” Harry said, accepting his bag with a grateful nod.

 

“Good elf,” Draco muttered with a nod of approval before resuming his march down the corridor. “Let’s get to class before McGonagall docks us points for dramatics.”

 

Harry slung the bag over his shoulder and hurried to keep pace, the weight of the day settling in behind his ribs. Going back to school under a new name, a new family, and with half the castle whispering about him.

Harry found himself wishing—just for a moment—that he’d had one more day at the manor, but he knew that would’ve only delayed the inevitable. There was no escaping the return to Hogwarts, or the scrutiny that came with it. Better to face it now than let the fear fester.

 

They arrived to Transfiguration well before the bell. Harry wasn’t sure if it was intentional on Draco’s part, but he was oddly grateful. Being early meant they wouldn’t have to walk into a full room of staring classmates.

 

The only other person present was Professor McGonagall, seated at her desk and scribbling quick notes across a stack of parchment. She didn’t look up at first. Instinct pulled Harry toward his usual spot—second row, left side, beside where Ron used to sit—but Draco caught his sleeve and steered him firmly to the right side of the room.

 

The Slytherin side.

 

Harry let himself be guided, reminded all over again that things had changed. He would not be welcome at that desk.

 

They had just reached their new seats when a pause in the rustle of parchment drew Harry’s attention. Professor McGonagall had looked up. Her eyes darted between the two boys, lingering on Harry’s face as though trying to confirm something she didn’t quite believe.

 

She slowly removed her spectacles and narrowed her eyes, “Messrs. Malfoy?” she asked, voice calm but distinctly uncertain.

 

Her tone was that rare mix of surprise and suspicion, and Harry couldn’t help the faint flutter of nerves that followed.

 

Draco, naturally, offered a small, self-assured smile—equal parts charm and challenge.

 

Harry, for his part, simply nodded, shoulders tight but posture steady. He wasn’t sure what reaction he was bracing for—pity, disapproval, curiosity—but McGonagall gave none of those. Not at first.

 

The professor blinked once, then straightened in her chair with practiced composure. Whatever flicker of surprise she’d shown was tucked away behind the stern lines of professionalism she wore like a second skin.

 

“Well,” she said crisply, folding her hands over the parchment in front of her, “in that case, I’ve gathered the assignments you’ve missed.”

 

She reached into a drawer and retrieved two neatly bound stacks of parchment, setting them on the corner of her desk.

 

“Your professors are aware of the... unusual circumstances,” she continued carefully, “and understand that you may need time to catch up. Still, I advise you to begin as soon as possible. You’re both capable of managing the material, but Hogwarts waits for no one.”

 

Draco crossed the room to collect the work with a murmured, “Thank you, Professor.”

 

Harry followed, his fingers brushing the parchment like it might bite. “Thanks,” he added, quieter, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

 

McGonagall held his gaze a beat longer than usual—evaluating, maybe even softening—but she only nodded, “If either of you require help, my door is open. I expect you to ask if you need it, Mr. Malfoy. Both of you.”

 

That struck something in Harry. She hadn’t called him Potter. Not even once.

 

He nodded again, slower this time, then turned back to his seat. The classroom was still empty, but not for long.

 

“Think she likes me better now?” Draco murmured as they sat down.

 

Harry gave him a dry look, “You? No. Me? Maybe.”

 

Draco grinned, “Give it time. I grow on people.”

 

Harry raised an eyebrow, “Like mold?”

 

Draco gave an affronted scoff, “Like vintage wine, thank you.”

 

The door creaked open, and voices filtered in. The rest of the students were arriving.

 

Harry sunk low onto the bench as if he could disappear into it entirely. Without a word, he busied himself with the bundle of parchment McGonagall had given him, pretending to study the assignments like they required his full attention. In truth, he couldn’t focus on a single word.

 

It was the whispers that got to him.

 

They started almost the moment he sat down—soft, sharp, and impossible to ignore. His name… no, both names. Harry Potter. Castor Malfoy. The words circled him like smoke, curling around the room with growing curiosity, confusion, and disbelief.

 

He caught snippets here and there:

 

“Is that really him?”

 

“But his hair—”

 

“No way, that’s not—he looks completely—”

 

“What is he?”

 

A gasp here, a hushed murmur there. It didn’t take much to set the entire room on edge, and he could feel the weight of their stares, even if he refused to lift his eyes.

 

He didn’t blame them, not entirely.

 

He knew what they were seeing—what he saw every time he risked glancing in the mirror. Pale, near-colorless skin, silver-white hair, bone structure more aristocratic than anything he’d ever grown up with. He looked like a stranger. A Malfoy.

 

Gone was the tousled, unkempt boy who wore second-hand robes and tried to blend into the chaos of Hogwarts. In his place sat someone sharper, quieter… unknowable. And he wasn’t even sure who he was yet.

 

He gripped the parchment tighter.

 

Draco leaned over slightly, voice low and casual. “Ignore them. It’ll pass.”

 

Harry didn’t answer at first. Then, with a breath so soft it barely moved his chest, he muttered, “I know.”

 

But understanding didn’t stop the heat from creeping up the back of his neck, or the dull pressure blooming just behind his eyes. It felt like being under glass—watched, speculated about, studied. He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the parchment, willing the sounds around him to fade.

 

He didn’t expect anyone to join them—not yet, not so soon.

 

But then, out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught movement—a figure approaching with quiet purpose and the kind of co

nfidence that came from never needing to ask for permission to exist. A girl. She slid gracefully into the seat beside him, so that he was flanked by her on one side and Draco on the other. Her robes were immaculate, her posture perfect, and her hair was drawn back into an elegant twist that looked effortlessly precise.

 

Greengrass. Daphne, if he remembered right. One of the quieter Slytherins. Not unkind, but reserved in a way that had always kept her separate from the usual crowd. Her expression was unreadable, but not hostile—and that alone set her apart in Harry’s mind.

 

She placed her books down with deliberate precision, gave the two boys a pointed look, and said coolly, “Draco, surely you didn’t forget your manners while you were off playing family reunion?”

 

Draco gave a long-suffering sigh. “Castor, meet Daphne. Daphne, Castor.”

 

Daphne extended a hand without hesitation. Harry, caught slightly off guard, took it and gave a small shake. “Pleasure,” she said with a polite, practiced smile.

 

Draco muttered under his breath, “Of course. You’ll shake her hand.”

 

“She was polite,” Castor replied with a shrug. “You weren’t.”

 

Draco scoffed softly but said nothing more, and with a subtle, satisfied glance, Daphne turned her attention to the front.

 

Moments later, Professor McGonagall called the class to order, and the lesson began. Harry did his best to focus, his eyes fixed on his notes, quill in hand. He tried—he really did—but not even three minutes passed before his resolve wavered. Almost against his will, his gaze slid sideways to the table where he used to sit. The seat between Ron and Hermione sat conspicuously empty.

 

Ron was hunched over his parchment, scowling slightly even as he scribbled. Hermione looked up at the movement and met Castor’s eyes for just a second. Her expression was unreadable. Harry saw her give a sideways glance at Ron before shaking her head looking away.

 

Castor turned quickly in his seat, heart tightening in his chest. It felt like someone had pressed a bruise that hadn’t quite healed. He didn’t know what he’d expected, they were in class, after all. Rationally, it shouldn’t have mattered. But the coldness in Ron’s eyes, the absence of even a polite nod from Hermione… it left him reeling.

 

Now, more than anything, he didn’t want class to end.

 

Which of course meant the lesson passed far too quickly.

 

By the time Professor McGonagall dismissed them, Castor had spread half his homework out on the desk as a sort of shield. Daphne, ever poised, helped him gather the pages again, and the three of them—Castor, Draco, and Daphne—were among the last to leave the room.

 

There was no sign of Ron or Hermione in the corridor, though Castor noticed a few Slytherins sticking close to their group, casting subtle glances back. Protection, he realized. A quiet show of support, just in case.

 

But when they turned the corner, they found Ron and Hermione. The two were mid-argument—Hermione's arms crossed tightly over her chest, Ron flushed and animated. But as soon as they spotted Castor, Hermione froze… and Ron zeroed in.

 

“So, you’re really sticking with them, then?” Ron demanded, his voice thick with accusation.

 

Castor stopped in his tracks, back straightening. “I didn’t think I had much of a say in the matter,” he said quietly. There was no heat in his voice, but there was an unmistakable edge. “But yes. I suppose I am.”

 

Ron stepped forward, disbelief etched deep into his expression. “One day. You’ve been back one day and already Malfoy’s shadow. Like nothing happened! Do you even remember what they did to you? What he did?”

 

Draco, who had been lazily inspecting his nails, looked up at that. His eyes glinted, and a slow, venomous smile curled his lips.

 

“Nice to see you too, Weasley. Miss us terribly, did you?”

 

Ron ignored him completely, staring at Harry like he was some traitor in disguise. “Seriously, what is wrong with you? If there’s even anything left of who you were—why would you ever choose to be around him?”

 

Draco gave a soft, dramatic gasp and placed a hand over his heart. “Him? I’m right here, you know.”

 

Castor sighed through his nose, resisting the temptation to step back. He wanted to say something measured. Reasonable. But his voice came out sharper than he meant.

 

“Because he was there, Ron.” His words hung in the air, brittle and unyielding. “Because while I was figuring out how to keep breathing, Draco treated me like a person. He didn’t stare like I was some cursed thing or ask when I’d be normal again. He listened. You didn’t even write.”

 

Ron’s face reddened. “That’s rich—Malfoy, listening? He doesn’t care about anyone but himself! He humiliated people for years. He was proud of it.”

 

“I still am,” Draco said idly, then added with a raised brow, “But only when they deserve it.”

 

“And what, he doesn’t deserve it?” Ron shot back, jerking his head toward Castor. “Are you all forgetting what happened? You’re a Malfoy now. You’re one of them!”

 

“Yes,” Castor snapped. “I am. Not by choice—but I’m here. And you treating me like I’m the enemy just proves how little you actually understand what happened.”

 

Hermione opened her mouth like she wanted to intervene, but Ron was already talking over him.

 

“You’re not him anymore. You can’t be. The Harry I knew wouldn’t turn his back on his friends. He wouldn't act like this.”

 

Castor’s voice shook, but he didn’t back down. “The Harry you knew didn’t have a choice. He was just trying to survive. And he still is.” He took a step forward. “You don’t get to decide what parts of me are real.”

 

Ron shook his head, hurt and frustration battling for space on his face. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

 

Castor flinched—not visibly, but something deep in his eyes wavered. Then he straightened his shoulders.

 

“Neither do I.” His voice was quiet, but resolute. “But yelling at me about it and setting my bed on fire isn’t going to help me figure it out.”

 

That finally made Hermione snap out of it. “You said that was a rumor!” she turned to Ron in disbelief.

 

Draco had heard enough. He stepped forward, voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

 

“Alright, Weasley. You’ve made your point—loudly, irrationally, and with all the tact of a flobberworm in a tea shop. Now unless you’d like me to hex you halfway back to that broom closet you call a personality, I suggest you let my brother pass.”

 

Ron’s fists clenched, but Hermione grabbed his sleeve, pulling him back sharply. She shot Castor a look—half-worried, half-apologetic—and murmured something low to Ron. He didn’t answer. Just stared at Castor for a long second before turning and storming off.

 

The corridor fell quiet again.

 

Draco exhaled and turned to Castor with a raised brow, “Well, that was a delightful little reunion,” he drawled. Then, a bit more sincerely, he added, “You alright?”

 

Castor didn’t answer at first. He just watched Ron disappear down the corridor, shoulders tense, chest tight.

 

Then he said softly, “I didn’t expect him to understand. But I hoped…”

 

Draco nudged his arm gently, “People disappoint. Happens to the best of us. Fortunately, you have me now so your standards will improve.”

 

Despite everything, Castor huffed a tired laugh.

 

Daphne, who had remained quiet throughout the entire confrontation, slipped her arm through Castor’s with graceful ease. “Come on,” she said gently. “Let’s go to lunch. Hopefully the dramatics end here—you’ve more than earned a bit of peace and something edible.”

 

Castor exhaled slowly, grateful for the gesture as the three of them turned away from the corridor.

 

As they walked, he tilted his head toward Daphne, curious. “So… you and Draco—are you close? I didn’t see you two talking much before.”

 

Daphne shrugged with a faint smirk, “Close enough. There’s a good chance we’ll be family one day.”

 

Harry blinked, “Wait—family?”

 

She nodded, tone casual but not without irony. “Draco’s betrothed to my younger sister.”

 

Harry stopped mid-step, eyebrows rising. “You’re betrothed?!”

 

Draco sighed as if he’d been waiting for the outburst. “Honestly, it’s not that dramatic. Pureblood tradition, that’s all. Perfectly normal to have a betrothal agreement sorted while we’re still young. It doesn’t mean we’re automatically marching to the altar.”

 

“But—wait—how does that even work?”

 

Draco waved a hand lazily. “It’s an arrangement between families. Astoria’s two years below us, so we won’t even revisit the contract until I’m nineteen. At that point, if either of us wants out, we can walk away. No harm done, assuming it’s mutual.”

 

Daphne added smoothly, “It’s more like a placeholder than a promise. A formality. And frankly, Astoria’s much more interested in dragons and dueling right now than becoming a blushing bride.”

 

Harry looked between the two of them, still processing. “So… you’re engaged, but not really?”

 

Draco gave him a pointed look, “Only if I propose. That’s when things actually become binding. Break a betrothal, you send a letter. Break an engagement, you risk scandal and fury from both families.”

 

Harry gave a low whistle. “Sounds exhausting.”

 

Draco grinned, “Welcome to the world of Pureblood politics. We don’t get sorted into Slytherin for nothing.”

 

Daphne gave Castor’s arm a reassuring pat, her voice dry with just a hint of warmth. “Don’t worry—I’ll make sure you’re fully briefed on all the pureblood drama. Merlin knows we’ve got enough scandal between our families to keep a gossip column running for decades.”

 

Castor gave a weak chuckle, unsure whether to be grateful or mildly terrified.

 

They continued down the corridor toward the Great Hall, the soft echo of their footsteps doing little to drown out the steady drum of anxiety in Castor’s chest. The closer they got, the more he could feel the weight of the stares waiting beyond the double doors. Whispers had likely already spread—his return, the name change, the transformation, the very public argument with Ron.

 

As they stepped into the Hall, it felt as though every conversation stilled just for a moment. Heads turned. Eyes followed. Castor’s shoulders stiffened instinctively under the scrutiny, his breath catching in his throat.

 

The silence didn’t last, but the sensation of being watched lingered like smoke.

 

He made to veer toward the Gryffindor table out of habit, determined to face it all head-on. But Draco reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

 

“Where do you think you’re going?”

 

Castor blinked at him, “To eat?”

 

Draco arched a brow, “You can’t just sit over there.”

 

“I’m still a Gryffindor,” Castor said calmly, even as his insides churned. “I’m going to have to face my house sooner or later. Better here, in the open, than in the Tower where I can’t breathe.”

 

Draco looked at him like he’d announced plans to walk into a dragon’s den for tea. “You’re outnumbered, half of them are probably still convinced you’re cursed, and Weasley’s going to be glaring at you like you killed his puppy.”

 

“I can handle Ron,” Castor said, though he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it himself.

 

Draco scowled, clearly unconvinced. “Fine. But don’t sit near the Weasel. If he so much as raises his wand, I’m hexing him through the mashed potatoes.”

 

Daphne sighed with exaggerated patience, “Try not to cause an international incident before dessert.”

 

Castor gave them both a wry smile, grateful beneath the sarcasm, “Wish me luck.”

 

“Luck?” Draco snorted. “You’ll need divine intervention.”

 

Rolling his eyes at his brother’s dramatics, Castor turned back to the Gryffindor table with a sigh. Honestly, Draco could make breathing sound like a tactical decision. Still, the moment Castor really looked at the long row of red and gold, the unease returned.

 

At the far end of the table, he spotted Ron and Hermione in the middle of what looked like a hushed but heated argument—Hermione gesturing sharply, Ron red in the face and clearly not listening. Castor quickly averted his gaze.

 

Closer to where he stood, however, sat Neville. Quiet as ever, he was buttering a roll with slow focus, like he was trying to make himself as small and nonthreatening as possible.

 

Figuring the only person who’d actually sent him a letter was likely his safest bet, Castor crossed the few remaining feet with careful steps and cleared his throat softly.

 

“Er… Neville. Do you mind if I sit here?”

 

Neville blinked up at him, eyes widening just slightly as he took in the silver hair and subtle changes. But to his credit, he didn’t flinch or stare too long. He gave a quick nod and slid over a bit, making room on the bench.

 

“Yeah, of course. I mean—yeah. Sit.”

 

Relief fluttered in Castor’s chest as he slid onto the bench beside him. The noise of the Great Hall buzzed on, but this one small gesture helped him breathe again.

 

Neville added quietly, “You, uh… look different.”

 

“Yeah,” Castor said, managing a wry smile. “Feels different too.”

 

Neville didn’t press. He just gave a small nod and passed over the pumpkin juice. “You missed a lot of Herbology. I’ve got notes if you want them.”

 

Castor’s throat tightened unexpectedly. “Thanks, Neville. I’d really like that.”

 

And for a moment, just a moment, the storm of eyes and whispers around him felt a little less loud.

“I really appreciated the letter,” Castor said, voice a little quieter as he flushed and stared down at the polished wood of the table. “You were right—it helped, knowing before I came back. Gave me time to… brace myself.”

 

Before Neville could reply, a plate appeared in front of Castor with a soft pop. The food was arranged neatly, clearly prepared with care. A second later, a small bottle of potion appeared beside it with a faint shimmer of magic.

 

Neville blinked, startled, and glanced around, but didn’t comment—just gave Castor a curious look, then turned his attention back with a quiet sort of grace.

 

“I’m glad,” Neville said, after a pause. “I didn’t want to make things harder, but I figured walking into… all this without warning would’ve been worse.”

 

Castor gave a small, grateful smile, “It would've been. Honestly, I thought you were joking at first. Then it sank in. Then I thought I’d throw up,” he took a sip of water to steady himself. “It’s still a bit like that, honestly.”

 

Neville offered a sympathetic wince. “I can’t even imagine. So… how did the visit go? With the Malfoys, I mean.”

 

Castor hesitated, his fork hovering mid-air. It was hard to put into words—what it had been like to live in that sprawling house, to eat breakfast with Narcissa, to hear Lucius offer help, to laugh with Draco without it feeling like a trap.

 

“It was… strange,” he said at last, setting his fork down again. “Nicer than I expected. Warmer, even. Narcissa’s… she’s kind. Really kind. And Draco’s not—well, he’s still himself, but not as much of a prat as he used to be.” He offered a dry smile. “Mostly.”

 

Neville looked faintly surprised by that but nodded, accepting it without judgment. “That’s… good, I think?”

 

“It is,” Castor said quietly. “But I miss it already, and that’s almost worse.”

 

Neville looked like he was about to respond when a new voice cut in, a little hesitant but familiar.

 

“Harry?” Hermione stood nearby, clutching a book to her chest and hovering a step behind them. Her eyes flicked between the two boys at the table before settling on him, unsure.

 

Castor stiffened just slightly, but raised his head. “Hermione.”

 

She stepped forward slowly. “May I sit?”

 

He looked at Neville, who gave a small encouraging nod. Castor gestured to the space across from him, and Hermione took the seat carefully, as though afraid she might break something invisible.

 

“I didn’t know about the bed,” Hermione said quietly, her voice careful, as though each word might set something off.

 

Castor looked at her for a moment, then offered a small, weary smile. “It’s okay. Honestly, I’m not all that upset about it. Neville told me the mattress was replaced, and… Mum got me a new trunk. Even though the old one was just singed, she insisted. It’s black with silver letters. Looks like it cost more than all my school supplies combined.”

 

He huffed a short, dry laugh—there wasn’t bitterness in it, just disbelief.

 

Hermione relaxed a fraction, but he wasn’t finished.

 

“I probably would’ve forgiven Ron,” Castor went on, folding his hands on the table. “It sounded like an accident—an explosion of anger, not malice. And… I get that. I’ve been there. I blew up my aunt once, literally.”

 

Neville blinked. “You what?”

 

“Long story,” he muttered, then shook his head. “Point is, I’ve done reckless things when I felt cornered and hurt. So yeah, I could’ve understood. If he’d come to talk to me—really talk—I think I would’ve tried. But…”

 

He looked down, then back at her. “He doesn’t want this to work. He’s not trying. And I’m done chasing people who don't want me around.”

 

Hermione looked pained, her brows drawn tight with guilt, but Castor didn’t let the silence linger too long.

 

“I’ve got enough going on,” he said softly. “The Tournament. The press. The investigations. Trying to stay alive and pass my classes. I don’t have the energy to keep juggling Ron’s issues or worrying about who approves of where I sit at lunch. I just need… people who want to be here.”

 

Hermione hesitated, then reached across the table and placed her hand over his. “I do want to be here. I know I should’ve written. I didn’t know what to say, and then too much time passed, and I—” She stopped, swallowed. “I’m sorry. For not reaching out. For not standing up to Ron sooner.”

 

Castor looked at their hands, then gave her a faint smile. “Thank you.”

 

“Will you be in trouble, though?” Hermione asked, her voice low. She glanced toward the Slytherin table, where a few students were watching them with narrowed eyes and whispered commentary. “I want to be your friend—of course I do—but I don’t want to make things harder for you. I can’t imagine Mr. Malfoy is thrilled at the idea of you spending time with a Muggle-born.”

 

Castor followed her gaze, unsurprised to find more than a few Slytherin eyes trained on them like hawks measuring a threat. Some looked indifferent, others mildly amused. But a few—like Parkinson and Bulstrode—wore thinly veiled disdain.

 

He turned back to Hermione and shook his head, resolute.

 

“Lucius doesn’t get a say in who I spend time with,” he said evenly. “And Narcissa—my mum—she told me she doesn’t care if the person makes me happy. That’s all she wants for me.”

 

Hermione looked at him for a long moment, something flickering in her expression—relief, maybe, or the faint burn of tears she wasn’t about to shed in public.

 

“That’s… that’s good to hear,” she said, quietly, “You deserve that. A family who actually listens to you.”

 

Harry gave a small, crooked smile, “Yeah. Still getting used to it.”

 

Grabbing a sandwich from the platter in front of her, Hermione leaned in slightly, her curiosity getting the better of her. “So… what was it like? I assume you were staying at Malfoy Manor?”

 

Harry nodded, wiping his hands before beginning, “Yeah. It’s… massive. Honestly, it’s hard to describe. Cold, at first—like it had never been lived in, only polished. But then things started to feel different once Mum and I began decorating my room.”

 

Neville perked up, “Did they give you one of the fancy ones with a fireplace and all that?”

 

Harry chuckled, “Yes. I did not like it at first. Way to big. But it was a quiet place to think. Actually there were a lot of quiet places to think. I think you’d love the greenhouse, Neville. I think it’s been there for centuries.”

 

Neville’s eyes lit up with interest, his expression one of genuine awe. “Really? That wouldn’t surprise me at all. Malfoy Manor’s older than half the wizarding settlements in Britain—it probably has specimens most herbologists would kill to study. I wouldn’t be shocked if they’re growing things even St. Mungo’s hasn’t seen in decades.”

 

Hermione gave him a look but nodded for Harry to continue, clearly enthralled.

 

“And the library…” Harry grinned at Hermione, who immediately sat straighter. “You’d lose your mind in there, Hermione. It’s not even organized alphabetically—it’s sorted by intent. If you’re looking for something, the right shelves literally come to you.”

 

Hermione’s mouth fell open slightly. “You’re making that up.”

 

“I swear I’m not. Lucius didn’t even have to walk more than five steps to find three books he thought I should read. The shelves just… listened.”

 

“And you’re sure they wouldn’t let me visit?” she asked, only half-joking.

 

He went on to talk about the stables filled with creatures and how Narcissa had helped him pick out new bedding, how she’d taken gotten Valentin to come over to fit him for clothing without dragging him through public view, how she’d sat with him at night just so he wouldn’t feel alone. And the more he spoke, the more relaxed he became.

 

What surprised him most was that neither Hermione nor Neville interrupted with suspicion or judgment. No sharp remarks about Lucius Malfoy. No jabs about "joining the enemy." Just quiet, genuine interest. They listened—not just to the words, but to what he wasn’t saying, too.

 

By the time the last crumbs of lunch had disappeared and students began rising for their next class, Harry stood from the bench feeling lighter. Defence Against the Dark Arts was next, and for the first time since his return, he didn’t dread walking into the room.

 

With Hermione at one side and Neville on the other, he glanced back toward the Gryffindor table—and felt, tentatively, like he still belonged.

 

As they started toward the corridor, Hermione nudged him gently. “You know, for what it’s worth—I’m glad you told us. And I’m even more glad you’re still you.”

 

“Same here,” Neville added.

 

Harry smiled quietly, heart tight but warm. “Thanks. I think… I needed that more than I realized.”

Notes:

We've hit 50000 words!

Chapter 17: Chapter 17

Chapter 17

 

Harry could feel the prickling sensation of eyes on the back of his neck as they made their way down the corridor toward Defense Against the Dark Arts. Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder—and sure enough, a cluster of Slytherins was trailing behind them at what seemed to be a carefully measured distance. Not too close to appear intrusive, but not far enough to be mistaken for coincidence.

 

Once upon a time—say, a week ago—the sight would’ve made him tense, his guard rising like a drawbridge. But now? Now he just sighed and rolled his eyes when he spotted Draco at the head of the group, striding with his usual mixture of boredom and entitlement, as though escorting royalty.

 

“Do they always travel in packs?” Harry muttered, half to himself.

 

“They’re not packs,” Hermione replied dryly. “They’re entourages.”

 

Neville blinked. “I think it’s more like a flock. Or a swarm.”

 

“A murder,” Harry deadpanned, drawing a small snort of amusement from Hermione.

 

“Just ignore them,” Hermione advised. “As long as they’re behaving, there’s no point in making a fuss.”

 

Harry nodded slowly, the weight of everything settling in his shoulders. “I know,” he murmured, “It’s just… being back here, back at Hogwarts, makes it all feel even stranger. Malfoy Manor was surreal, yeah—but I’d never been there before. I didn’t have any memories tied to it. No sense of what it was supposed to be.”

 

He paused, his voice dropping as they turned a corner, “But here… everything’s familiar. The corridors, the classrooms. I used to know exactly where I fit, even if it wasn’t always comfortable. But now—” He exhaled, his fingers tightening on the strap of his bag. “Now I can feel the gap between what was and what is. Like I’ve been slotted back into the same place but I don’t quite fit the way I used to.”

 

Hermione walked in silence for a few steps, thoughtful.

 

“Well,” she said gently, “maybe you’re not supposed to fit the way you used to. You’re not the same person.”

 

“That’s the problem,” Harry murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “Everyone acts like I’ve completely changed. Like I’m someone entirely different now. And I don’t feel that way… not really. Not unless I’m looking in the mirror.”

 

Hermione gave him a soft, thoughtful smile, “Well, for what it’s worth, I think your new look suits you. Not that there was anything wrong with how you looked before, but… you do look good.”

 

Harry gave her a flat, unimpressed look. “Hermione, I look dead.”

 

Neville, caught mid-step, stifled a laugh. Hermione rolled her eyes, but her smile widened.

 

“You don’t look dead,” she insisted gently, “just… spectral. In a mysterious, vaguely aristocratic way.”

 

“Oh good,” Harry muttered dryly. “Exactly what I’ve always wanted. Ghost-chic.”

 

“That’s the Malfoy aesthetic,” Draco said as he joined them from behind, clearly having caught the tail end of the conversation. “Pale, dramatic, and always three seconds from a monologue.”

 

But as they reached the door to Defense Against the Dark Arts, the room quieted at their entrance. Whispers stirred like dry leaves on stone.

 

Harry felt them all again—the eyes, the speculation, the judgement—but this time, there was a steadiness in his chest that hadn’t been there before.

 

Much to Hermione’s obvious dismay—and Harry’s mild frustration—Draco once again steered his brother firmly toward the Slytherin side of the room.

 

“Oi! I was going to sit with my friends,” Harry protested, throwing a glance over his shoulder just in time to catch Hermione crossing her arms and giving an indignant huff as she and Neville settled into a bench together.

 

Draco, unbothered, raised a brow, “And now you’re with mine.”

 

Before Harry could argue further, Draco gave him a not-so-subtle shove into the empty space beside him on one of the polished benches. Crabbe and Goyle dropped into the seats behind them with their usual graceless thuds, while Daphne Greengrass took the desk in front of them, joined by a lean, sharp-eyed boy Harry was fairly certain was Theodore Nott.

 

“You’re looking awfully surrounded,” Draco said, clearly pleased.

 

Harry groaned and looked around the room muttering, “Being the only Gryffindor over here is not going to help the staring.”

 

“They’ll stop eventually,” Daphne murmured as she arranged her quills with casual grace. “Once they’ve found something new to obsess over.”

 

The door swung open with a loud bang, and conversation in the room died immediately. Professor Moody—his scarred face twisted, one magical eye spinning madly—stalked in like he owned not only the room, but the building.

 

Moody paused as he passed the first row, his magical eye swiveling independently until it landed squarely on Harry. A moment of scrutiny passed—long enough to make Harry stiffen—but Moody just gave a low grunt and muttered, “Back from your holiday, are you?”

 

Something about the way he said holiday made Harry’s skin prickle.

 

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, sitting up straighter.

 

“Good,” Moody barked. “And you lot—” he swept his staff in a slow arc at the class, “—close your mouths. He’s not a bloody sideshow.”

 

Several students snapped their jaws shut, and someone in the back actually coughed in embarrassment.

 

Moody turned to the board, scrawling something in jagged chalk:

DEFENSIVE SPELL CHAINS: ADAPTATION UNDER PRESSURE.

 

Draco leaned closer to Harry and murmured, “He likes you. For Moody, that was practically a standing ovation.”

 

 

To Harry’s surprise he found himself actually absorbed in the material rather than distracted by stares or whispers. He’d even taken a full page of notes without realizing it. By the end of the class, there was a lightness in his chest he hadn’t expected to feel. It wasn’t quite happiness, but it was something close—something like a momentary return to normalcy. Just enough to lift his mood and remind him that, despite everything, he still liked learning magic.

 

“Class dismissed!” Moody barked, louder than necessary. “Except you—Malfoy.”

 

Both Draco and Harry froze. Moody's magical eye whirled, fixing sharply on the blond Slytherin.

 

“Not you, that Malfoy,” his regular eye locked onto Harry, “Stay a moment.”

 

Draco frowned, “If this is about him sitting on our side, I forced-.”

 

“I said out, Mr. Malfoy,” Moody growled, his voice sharp enough to slice, “Unless you fancy writing a six-foot essay on the ethics of disobedience in high-pressure magical duels.”

 

Draco opened his mouth, clearly weighing the risk of backtalk, but one glance at the now-bulging magical eye changed his mind. He turned to Harry, his jaw tight.

 

“I’ll wait outside,” he muttered, and shot Moody a look as he passed that might’ve singed weaker men.

 

Moody didn’t move until the door slammed shut. Then he turned slowly, his walking stick tapping once against the stone floor.

 

“So,” his voice was quieter now, “Castor Malfoy.”

 

Harry felt something cold stir in his chest, “Yes, Professor?”

 

Moody’s grin stretched just a little too wide, “You’re quite the curiosity, aren’t you?”

 

“I’m not trying to be,” Harry said carefully.

 

“Mm. And yet here you are. Changed face, changed name, changed family… You’ve been through quite a bit, haven’t you?”

 

Harry shifted his weight, trying to keep his breathing even. He did not understand where this conversation was going.

 

The magical eye spun independently of the other, scanning Harry head to toe as if trying to see through his skin, “I imagine things were… interesting during your little vacation. Adjusting to new blood, new name, new house. The Malfoys aren’t exactly known for warm embraces and bedtime stories.”

 

Harry said nothing.

 

Moody limped a step closer, both eyes—normal and magical—fixing on him with unsettling intensity.

 

“I’ve seen your kind before,” Moody went on, “Boys molded by powerful families. Bent into shape by money, politics, legacy. But you… you weren’t raised a Malfoy. You were thrown into the fire.”

 

Harry tensed, “They didn’t hurt me.”

 

Moody tilted his head, a slow grin creeping across his scarred face, “Didn’t say they did. But that kind of influence… subtle, quiet. That’s how they work. They don’t need to hex you into obedience—they raise you into it.”

 

“I’m not being raised,” Harry said, more sharply than intended. “They helped me. They’ve done more for me in a few weeks than—than my relatives did in my entire life.”

 

“Did they, now?” Moody said softly, “Interesting, isn’t it, how quickly our loyalties shift when someone finally opens the right door? Gives you a warm bed, maybe a few new robes, a bit of respect.”

 

Harry’s eyes narrowed, “You think they bought me?”

 

Moody shrugged, nonchalant, “Just want to make sure you haven’t been… shaped too much. The Malfoys play a long game. And if I were them, I’d find it very useful to have a hero of the light in my pocket. One already tied to their name. Their house. Their blood.”

 

“I’m not in anyone’s pocket,” Harry said, his voice low and flat.

 

Moody’s grin widened—an awful, knowing curve of lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

“We’ll see.”

 

He gave a single nod, and Harry didn’t wait. He stepped out into the corridor, breath sharp in his chest.

 

Outside, Draco leaned against the wall like he’d been waiting for hours. He straightened the moment Harry appeared, looking annoyed. “What did he want?”

 

Harry didn’t answer at first. Then, “He asked about you. About Mum and Lucius. About whether I’ve changed.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes, but there was a flash of something sharper behind the gesture—a flicker of unease he couldn’t quite mask, “Well, obviously you’ve changed. You got smaller. Your face finally figured out how to find cheekbones. That alone is enough to throw people into a spiral.”

 

Harry shot him a look, “I think he was more asking the ‘did you join a cult and take the Dark Mark’ kind of changed.”

 

Draco let out a scoff, disdain curling in his voice, “Please. No one in their right mind would think you’ve gone dark. You cry over injured owls.”

 

Harry didn’t deny it.

 

Draco glanced sideways, more serious now. “Next time he tries to corner you alone, I’m staying.”

 

“You were kicked out.”

 

Draco’s mouth curled into a wicked smile. “Then next time, I’ll get kicked out louder.”

 

That pulled the corner of Harry’s mouth into a reluctant twitch of a smile, but the mood was still heavier than before. They walked a little further down the corridor in silence, their footsteps echoing off the stone.

 

Then Draco spoke again, more subdued. “You shouldn’t trust him.”

 

Harry blinked. “Moody?”

 

Draco nodded slowly, “He’s Dumbledore’s man through and through. I have no doubt anything you tell him will be reported to the headmaster immediately.”

 

888

 

Harry found himself sharing dinner with Hermione and Neville, grateful for their steady presence amidst the whirlwind of stares and whispers that still followed him like a shadow. His stomach twisted with a nervous energy that refused to settle, and he eventually reached for the vial Mipsy had put beside his plate-a stomach soother, brewed specifically for moments like this. He uncorked it discreetly under the table and threw it back, ignoring Hermione’s worried look and Neville’s curious one.

 

He ate slowly, deliberately picking at his food more to delay the inevitable than from any true hunger. Despite the easy conversation around him, his eyes kept flicking toward the towering doors of the Great Hall, the dread of what came next looming larger with each passing minute. The common room. The final test.

 

He'd managed to avoid Gryffindor Tower since his return, but there was no putting it off any longer.

 

When his plate vanished at the end of the meal with a quiet pop, Harry let out a sigh and pushed himself to his feet.

 

“Alright,” he said, more to himself than the others, “Let’s get this over with.”

 

Hermione offered a supportive smile and fell into step beside him, while Neville gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. The three of them made the walk through the castle’s corridors in near silence, the echo of their footsteps oddly loud in the quiet spaces between staircases.

 

As they neared the portrait of the Fat Lady, Harry slowed slightly, heart pounding louder than his footsteps. He didn’t know what kind of welcome to expect—if any.

 

The Fat Lady peered down at them with narrowed eyes, as if weighing whether to allow them entry.

 

“Password?” she asked crisply.

 

“Fairweather,” Hermione answered.

 

The portrait swung open, revealing the familiar round entrance, and Harry felt his breath catch.

 

The Gryffindor common room looked exactly as it always had—crackling fire, worn armchairs, deep red tapestries—but the moment he stepped through, it was like walking into another world

entirely. Conversation faltered. Heads turned. The warm buzz of chatter thinned into hushed murmurs and uncertain glances.

 

Harry felt every gaze land on him like a spotlight. His chest tightened.

 

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

 

Then Seamus leaned toward Dean and muttered something that earned a quiet snort. Lavender elbowed Parvati, who gave Harry a wide-eyed once-over. Near the fire, a third-year whispered “Malfoy” too loudly, and the boy next to her winced.

 

Harry kept his eyes forward, walking steadily in the direction of the stairs. He didn’t look at Ron, who was slouched in an armchair by the hearth with his arms crossed and his jaw tight. Hermione was at his side, her chin high, and Neville walked close behind like a quiet guard.

 

“Welcome back, Harry,” said a voice from near the fire.

 

It was Dean. His tone was casual but sincere.

 

Harry managed a grateful nod, tension in his shoulders easing slightly, “Thanks,” he said, just loud enough to be heard.

 

Ginny, curled up in one of the smaller armchairs with a book, gave him a small smile but didn’t say anything.

 

Hermione tugged his sleeve gently. “Let’s go upstairs. You don’t need to hang around for the gossip to finish.”

 

Harry nodded. He didn’t think he had the strength to.

 

As they made their way up the familiar staircase, a few more greetings followed, tentative but polite. A “Hey, Harry,” from Lee Jordan. A “Good to see you, mate,” from Seamus. Most kept their distance, but the room hadn’t exploded. No shouting. No hexes. That had to count for something.

 

By the time they reached the dormitory, Harry let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

 

“That wasn’t so bad,” Neville offered quietly, giving a small, hopeful smile.

 

“No,” Harry agreed. “Just… strange.” But strange was better than hostile. Strange he could live with.

 

Crossing the room, Harry made a beeline for his bed and immediately spotted the familiar gleam of silver lettering on his new trunk—his initials, C. Malfoy, catching the firelight from the torches. It was unmistakably Narcissa’s doing, elegant and purposeful. The sight of it settled something tight in his chest.

 

But then his eyes shifted to what Neville had mentioned. His old trunk still sat at the foot of the bed, its surface singed and slightly warped in places, the metal clasps scorched and dull. The bed frame had survived, mostly intact, but its wood bore darkened streaks along one leg and across the headboard, as though licked by flames before the fire had been doused.

 

He stood there for a moment, caught between gratitude and something quieter, more unsettled. The fire hadn’t been personal, Neville had said. But it had felt like it.

 

Hermione and Neville stayed nearby, quiet but watchful, as Harry knelt and flipped the latches on the old trunk. He began to sort through it, pulling out books, quills, bits of parchment still scrawled with half-finished homework. Then he came to the significant items. His photo album, invisibility cloak, and the Marauders Map. All of which had thankfully escaped damage. One by one, he moved the important items into the new trunk, carefully placing each thing in its proper compartment.

 

“This one has space for everything,” he muttered absently, almost to himself, as he opened one of the layered drawers in the new trunk, “Mum had it custom made. Said it was safer. And that I could send the old one back if I wanted.”

 

He reached for the hidden latch Narcissa had shown him earlier and flipped it. With a quiet click, the lower compartment slid open to reveal the entrance to the private room within the trunk. Hermione and Neville both leaned in, curious.

 

“Is that—?” Hermione started.

 

“A room,” Harry said, his voice low with something that almost sounded like wonder. “Small, but it’s mine. A place to hide if I need to.”

 

Hermione’s expression softened with quiet understanding. She didn’t ask questions or offer suggestions—just reached over and gently rested her hand on his arm. “That was really thoughtful of her.”

 

Harry nodded, running his fingers along the smooth edge of the wooden trunk, “Yeah,” he murmured, “She’s like that.”

 

“She sounds lovely,” Hermione said with a grin, her tone light but sincere.

 

Harry’s lips quirked upward in a soft smile, almost shy, “She is. She’s not… stiff or cold, not like Lucius. Mum—” he hesitated, but the word came easily now, “—Mum is the kindest person I’ve ever met. She listens and noticed things I didn’t even know I needed.”

 

Hermione tilted her head, watching him closely, “That must feel… strange. But good?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry said again, a little breathless, like he was still getting used to it. “Strange in the best way. Sometimes I feel like if I blink, it’ll all vanish. Like I imagined it.”

 

Hermione gave his arm a gentle squeeze, “You didn’t. She’s real. And she clearly cares about you.”

 

Harry swallowed hard and looked back at the open trunk, at the rich black interior and the elegant silver trim—every inch of it designed with care. “She really does.”

 

Harry glanced between the two of them, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “If it’s all the same to you both… I think I’d like to start my homework down in my trunk. It’s quieter there.”

 

Neville gave an encouraging nod, “Sounds like a good idea.”

 

Hermione offered a warm smile, “Take your time. We’ll be in the common room if you need anything.”

 

With a grateful look, Harry opened the trunk and disappeared into its hidden space, the lid closing gently behind him.

 

In the silence on the trunk he felt like he had a place that was truly his. Not because it had been given to him, but because it had been made for him—with care, with thought, with love.

 

Safe. Quiet. His.

Chapter 18: Chapter 18

Chapter 18

 

Harry remained tucked away in the quiet haven of his trunk for the rest of the evening. The solitude it offered was more peaceful than he had even imagined. For the first time in his life, he had a space that was entirely his—undisturbed, private, and safe. No footsteps overhead, no voices interrupting, no walls listening.

 

It turned out that the silence suited him. Without distraction, Harry found himself diving into his assignments with an unfamiliar ease. He hadn’t realized how much of his energy at Hogwarts had always gone toward simply surviving. Here, surrounded by the deep black wood and soft lamp-glow of his personal study room, the noise of the outside world slipped away.

 

By the time he climbed out and returned to the dormitory, the room was dark and still—his roommates already tucked in and snoring softly. Harry glanced around once before slipping under his own covers, the sense of accomplishment settling over him like a second blanket. His missed work was done. He was caught up.

 

He lay back against his pillow, smiling faintly.

 

She really thought of everything.

 

The thought of Narcissa brought a tight warmth to his chest. The trunk hadn’t just been a gift—it had been a message. A quiet reassurance that someone cared enough to make room for his needs. That he was worth the effort. That he had a place to retreat to, no matter how loud the world became.

 

He turned toward his nightstand, lit the small lamp with a flick of his wand, and reached for parchment and quill. Sleep could wait a few more minutes.

 

He needed to write to her.

 

She deserved to know what this meant to him.

 

888

 

Harry found himself oddly grateful that History of Magic was his first class of the day. After staying up far too late finishing his homework and waking early to send off his letter to Narcissa, he hadn’t gotten much rest. The dull, droning voice of Professor Binns—floating lazily through the classroom like a lullaby—was the perfect background noise for a discreet nap.

 

Hermione hadn’t been impressed. She gave him her usual disapproving glance when she noticed his head beginning to tilt forward, but even she couldn’t deny that Binns had a unique talent for putting his students to sleep. Harry wasn’t the only one dozing through dates and goblin treaties. At least he had an excuse.

 

By the time the class was dismissed, Harry felt marginally more rested and a bit more like himself. The fatigue still lingered in the corners of his mind, but the weight of the morning had lifted slightly.

 

At lunch, he joined Hermione and Neville at the Gryffindor table—something that was quickly becoming routine. It hadn’t taken long for Neville to slide naturally into the space Ron once occupied. Harry hadn’t expected it, but the shift felt oddly seamless.

 

He tried not to think too hard about that—tried not to feel the sharp jab of guilt when he realized how much quieter, how much more peaceful things already seemed without Ron’s unpredictable moods and loud opinions.

 

Neville wasn’t Ron. He didn’t try to be. He didn’t argue for the sake of arguing, or press Harry for answers he didn’t want to give. He was simply kind—steadfast in a quiet, calming way—and he and Hermione got along surprisingly well. Where Ron might have rolled his eyes at Hermione’s excited tangents, Neville listened with sincere interest, nodding and asking the occasional thoughtful question. Harry found himself relaxing in their presence. It wasn’t the trio it had once been, but perhaps that was okay.

 

As they ate, Hermione gave Harry a narrowed look over the rim of her pumpkin juice. “You looked absolutely exhausted this morning. Why were you up so late? And—sorry, I should’ve asked earlier—do you prefer Harry or Castor now?”

 

Harry paused with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. He blinked, then gave a small shrug, eyes lowering to his plate.

 

“I’m... not sure,” he admitted honestly. “I still feel like Harry, in my head. But everyone’s calling me Castor now. Draco does. Professor Snape does. Even McGonagall hesitated, but went with it.”

 

He set the fork down, pushing food around his plate more than eating it.

 

“I think it would bother Draco if I suddenly told everyone to call me Harry again,” he continued, voice quieter. “And if he thought I was upset about it, he’d tell Mum. I don’t want to upset her—she’s done so much for me. It just... feels easier to go along with it. Let’s just say... I’ll answer to either, for now,” he said at last. “Just not ‘Potter.’ Draco would kill us.”

 

Hermione smirked at that, “Fair enough.”

 

“And as for why I was tired,” Harry said, circling back to Hermione’s question, “I stayed up late finishing all the homework I missed. Figured catching up was worth losing a few hours of sleep. Sleeping through Binns felt like a fair trade.”

 

Even Hermione had to admit, that was probably the best reason he could’ve given. She softened slightly, lips twitching at the corners. “I suppose I can’t argue with that,” she said, a bit begrudgingly but not without pride. “Good job.”

 

“If you want,” Neville chimed in, brushing a crumb from his lap, “I can turn in your Herbology assignment tonight. I’m helping Professor Sprout plant a new batch of gurdyroots in the greenhouse, so I’ll be out there anyway. Might be a bit late getting back.”

 

Hermione beamed, “That’s really kind of you, Neville.”

 

“Yeah, thanks!” Harry said with genuine relief as he rifled through his bag, “That saves me a trip.” He handed over a neatly folded parchment.

 

Neville took the parchment and his eyes flicked past Harry’s shoulder. He gave a subtle nod of warning.

 

Harry turned just in time to see Draco Malfoy striding toward them with his usual air of purpose. He stopped behind Harry and tapped him on the shoulder.

 

“Come on,” Draco said, tone brisk. “The Slytherins are heading to Potions early. Pansy wants to ask Snape something.”

 

Harry frowned. “What does that have to do with me?”

 

Draco gave him a look. “You’re coming. You’re my new Potions partner.”

 

“I thought Nott was your partner.”

 

“He still is,” Draco replied smoothly. “We're just adjusting the arrangement. I told Professor Snape I was concerned about you working with Weasley—what with the whole ‘setting your bed on fire’ thing. Explosive tempers don’t mix well with cauldrons and powdered bicorn horn.”

 

Harry blinked, “So now we’re... a trio?”

 

“Yes,” Draco said simply, “Theo, you, and me. One of the others—Brown, Patil, or Dunbar—can go with the Weasel. Preferably not Dunbar. It would be better to split the talkative ones up.”

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow, “Does Professor Snape know you’re rearranging his classroom like it’s a chessboard?”

 

Draco gave her a maddeningly calm smile, “Of course he does. He agreed with me.”

 

Harry sighed and protested, “I could have just met you there anyway.” But he stood up anyway and turned to his friends, “I’ll see you guys later.” Slinging his bookbag over his shoulders he followed his brother.

 

As the twins approached the group of green-clad Slytherins waiting ahead, Harry couldn’t help but feel like a fish out of water again. It was one thing to walk the halls beside Draco, but now he was heading down to the dungeons with a crowd that felt more like strangers than classmates.

 

Technically, they’d all shared lessons for years—but they might as well have been from different worlds. Not one of them had offered him so much as a kind word in all that time, and he hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to bridge that gap either.

 

Even with the surprisingly pleasant conversation he’d had with Daphne the day before, being the only Gryffindor in a knot of Slytherins on their way to class—a good fifteen minutes earlier than most students would even think about leaving—left him feeling exposed. Outnumbered.

 

His fingers curled slightly around the strap of his bag as they started the descent into the cool stone corridors of the dungeon. Every echo of their footsteps seemed louder than it should have been. Every glance in his direction prickled at the back of his neck.

 

This was his new normal, and while he was doing his best to keep up, that didn’t mean the paranoia had left him.

 

Noticing that the smallest of the group seemed a bit uneasy, Daphne quietly stepped up to walk beside him.

 

“So,” she said lightly, “how was your first night back at Hogwarts?”

 

Harry gave a small shrug. “It was fine, I guess. Spent most of it in my dorm catching up on homework. Kept to myself, mostly.”

 

“Looks like you finally ditched Weasley,” Tracey Davis said with a sly smirk, “Good for you. Longbottom’s a better choice anyway. I’ve seen him at a few Ministry events—poor thing looked like he wanted to disappear, but he was always polite. Clearly raised right. His gran’s terrifying, but effective.”

 

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, feeling oddly self-conscious, “Honestly? Yesterday and today have been… quieter than I expected.”

 

“Other than the very public spat with Weasley, you mean?” Blaise cut in with his usual amused detachment, one brow arched.

 

“Please,” Pansy said with a dramatic wave of her hand, “half the school’s already heard about it. And those who didn’t saw Weasley sulking around, trying to attach himself to Thomas and Finnegan like a sad little barnacle.”

 

Draco gave a mock-sympathetic sigh, “They don’t look thrilled about it either. Especially Thomas—he was practically trying to slide under the table during breakfast.”

 

Castor nodded, trying not to wince at the memory. “Neville mentioned that things have been tense since Ron set my bed on fire. Apparently Seamus is now worried he might have a similar accident. It was a bigger fire than even he’s ever caused—and now he’s afraid he won’t always have someone nearby to help put it out.”

 

“Poor Weasley,” Draco drawled with mock pity, “losing friends faster than he loses points. At this rate, he’ll be writing love letters to the suit of armor outside the library just to have someone to talk to.”

 

Once they reached the Potions classroom, Draco and Theo flanked Harry and casually guided him toward their usual workstation near the front.

 

Draco sank into his seat with practiced ease and smirked, “Now that you’ve finally got competent partners, there’s hope you might scrape together a respectable mark in this class.”

 

Harry shot him a flat look as he sat down, “Yeah, well, I would have been better off if I didn’t have Slytherin’s throwing things in my cauldron.”

 

Draco put a hand to his chest in mock offense, his grey eyes gleaming, “I’m wounded. I would never.”

 

Theo dryly added, “Yes you would.”

 

Draco shrugged, unapologetic, “Maybe. But I’d make sure the explosion was educational.”

 

Harry prayed to the universe for patience.

 

“Honestly, you should be thanking your lucky stars,” Draco said, nudging Castor with his elbow. “You’ve got a future Potions Master and a professional ingredient supplier on your team now. That’s practically cheating.”

 

“Ingredient supplier?” Harry asked, glancing toward Theo with interest.

 

Theo gave a small shrug, “Family business.”

 

Draco, always eager to talk when his friend wouldn’t, leaned in, “The Notts have been one of the top names in magical ingredient supply for generations. They're known for their precision—exact times, exact places—knowing where to find the rarest magical flora and how to safely extract materials from magical beasts. Their estate’s massive. Greenhouses, enchanted groves, breeding habitats—you name it.”

 

“They even opened a zoo,” Theo added quietly, his voice calm and cool. “For conservation, mostly. And funding. Public gets to gawk at the beasts. We handle the real work—harvesting ethically, grooming, managing creatures that are too dangerous to roam freely.”

 

Harry blinked, clearly impressed. “A magical zoo? That’s incredible. Do you think Mum would take me sometime?”

 

Draco scoffed, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Out of everything I just said, that’s what you latch onto?”

 

“Well, yeah,” Harry said with a grin of his own. “That sounds amazing.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes fondly. “Yes, Castor. I’m sure we can talk Mother into a field trip over the summer. Maybe they’ll even let you feed the crups.”

 

“I love crups,” Harry said with a soft smile, remembering the playful litter that had followed him around the stables. Their wagging forked tails and boundless energy had been one of the highlights of his stay.

 

Draco gave Theo a sideways glance and jerked his head subtly in Harry’s direction, “Told you—he’s got a thing for magical creatures.”

 

Just then, the Gryffindors began filing into the room, the noise of shuffling books and whispered conversations growing louder. Harry instinctively looked for Neville and Hermione, relaxing slightly when he saw them settle into their usual seats. But his gaze caught on something else—Ron. Sitting stiffly, glaring across the room with open fury in his eyes.

 

Harry’s stomach twisted. Clearly, no one had warned Ron about the partner change.

 

He tore his eyes away quickly, instead looking toward Lavender, Parvati, and Fay. He winced internally, knowing that one of them would now be stuck working with Ron. Not a job he’d wish on anyone.

 

Once everyone had taken their seats, Snape rose from his desk like a dark cloud gathering momentum.

 

“Miss Brown,” he drawled, voice slicing through the murmurs, “since you seem far more interested in distracting Miss Patil than actually brewing anything of academic value, and since Miss Dunbar appears to be doing the majority of the work... you’ll be moving.”

 

Lavender blinked, caught mid-whisper, “What—?”

 

“You’ll be working with Mr. Weasley. Immediately.”

 

“But—!”

 

“Five points from Gryffindor for talking back. Move.”

 

With a loud huff and an exaggerated pout, Lavender grabbed her bag and sulked her way across the room to Ron, who looked just as displeased to see her.

 

Harry exchanged a glance with Theo, who raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered.

 

“Well,” Draco muttered under his breath with a smirk, “that’s going to end in disaster.”

 

They had just begun gathering their ingredients when a hesitant knock interrupted the quiet clatter of glass and parchment. All heads turned as the door creaked open to reveal Colin Creevey peeking into the classroom, his camera slung around his neck as usual and a nervous energy radiating from him.

 

“Yes?” Snape asked sharply, already sounding annoyed by the disruption.

 

“Please, sir,” Colin said, wringing his hands slightly, “I’ve been sent to collect Harry Potter—er, Castor Malfoy. They need him upstairs.”

 

Harry turned around in his seat, blinking in confusion. “What for?”

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed, his tone clipped, “Mr. Malfoy is currently in class. He will remain here until it is finished.”

 

Colin flushed to the tips of his ears but pressed on bravely. “It’s Mr. Bagman, sir. He said all the champions need to be upstairs right away. I think… I think it’s for photos?”

 

A quiet hum spread through the classroom at the mention of “champions,” and Harry suddenly felt every gaze land on him. Ron’s glare, in particular, was like standing too close to a furnace.

 

“I’m going with him,” Draco said immediately, standing halfway from his seat.

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Snape began, his voice a warning wrapped in steel.

 

But Draco was already in full older-brother mode, “Please, Professor. He’s going to walk into that mess completely unarmed. You know Skeeter will be there, circling like a vulture. He’s going to say something ridiculous and end up on the front page with a headline like ‘Dark Heir Threatens Press With Crup Army.’”

 

“Hey!” Harry protested, scandalized. “I would never endanger a crup that way.”

 

Snape gave them both a look of utter exasperation before turning to Theo. “And I suppose you’re fine being left behind to brew alone?”

 

Before Theo could even open his mouth, Draco cut in again, “We’ll come back tonight and finish the potion properly. All three of us.”

 

Theo blinked, “We will?”

 

Snape arched an eyebrow, “Very well. Since your partner has so graciously volunteered you for remedial brewing, Mr. Nott, you may be excused as well.”

 

Theo sighed and began packing up his things, his voice laced with long-suffering sarcasm, “Oh good. My idea of a relaxing evening: dicing lacewing flies with supervision.”

 

Harry glanced over with a sheepish grimace, “Sorry, Theo. That’s my fault.”

 

Theo paused, one brow arching as he tucked a bundle of dried knotgrass into his satchel, “Technically it’s Draco’s fault,” he said smoothly, “but since you’re the reason he’s overcompensating like an overprotective kneazle, I suppose you’re not entirely off the hook.”

 

Harry gave and embarrassed smile, “Still—if you don’t want to do the prep work later, I can dice the lacewing flies myself. I don’t mind.”

 

Theo didn’t respond right away. Instead, he ran a finger along the edge of his bag, as though weighing the offer—or maybe something else entirely. Then his gaze slid to Castor, calm and unreadable, but not unkind, “Generous.”

 

“I caused the late-night detention,” Harry shrugged, trying to brush it off. “It’s only fair.”

 

“Fairness is overrated,” Theo said, voice soft enough that Harry had to tilt his head to hear him properly. “But it’s a nice trait. A rare one.”

 

“Still,” Theo added as they reached the corridor, eyes trained ahead now, “there’s something oddly peaceful about repetitive tasks. Slicing things in precise little rows. You stop thinking after a while. Just... focus on your hands.”

 

Harry glanced at him, “That’s not creepy at all.”

 

A faint smirk ghosted across Theo’s lips, “Isn’t it?”

 

As the trio followed Colin out into the corridor, Harry threw one last glance back toward the Gryffindor side of the room. His eyes skimmed Hermione and Neville—both watching him with curious concern—before landing on Ron and Lavender.

 

Ron looked positively thunderous, and Lavender, seated stiffly beside him, seemed to wish she could vanish into the floorboards. Harry didn’t envy her one bit.

 

The walk through the castle was thick with tension, each footstep echoing a little too loudly off the stone walls. Colin Creevey led the way, talking as much as usual. Despite clearly trying to be respectful, he kept slipping.

 

“Sorry—Harry—I mean, Castor,” he said for the third time, his voice strained with effort and nerves. “Just… habit, you know?”

 

Draco’s jaw clenched a little tighter each time the wrong name left Colin’s mouth. His eyes narrowed with visible irritation, and though he didn’t say anything outright, the air around him had begun to hum with a particular kind of frostiness only Malfoys could conjure. It was the kind of silence that made apologies feel like bad ideas.

 

Theo, by contrast, drifted a few steps behind them, quiet and unreadable. He said nothing, his eyes flicking lazily between the portraits on the walls and Harry’s increasingly stiff posture. His presence was less oppressive than Draco’s but no less intense—calm and observing, like a cat watching a storm.

 

Eventually, they arrived at an unused classroom tucked near the back of the Charms corridor, its door propped open just enough to let the echo of cheerful voices spill out.

 

Ludo Bagman was the first to greet them, bounding toward the doorway like an overexcited Labrador, “Ah! There you are, Mr. Malfoy—Castor, yes? Excellent, excellent! Come in, come in! We’ve just been waiting for you to arrive!”

 

He ushered Harry in with a broad smile and a firm hand at his back. The classroom inside had been cleared of desks, replaced with a few velvet chairs set up in front of a stark, conjured backdrop. The other Champions were already present—Cedric stood tall and calm, Viktor Krum leaned against a nearby wall looking vaguely disinterested, and Fleur Delacour sat composedly, her pale hair gleaming under the enchanted ceiling lights.

 

But Harry’s eyes didn’t stay on them for long. At the far side of the room, standing like she owned the entire space, was a woman with sharp, manicured nails and an acid-bright quill poised above a parchment. Rita Skeeter’s eyes locked onto him with an intensity that made his skin crawl. Beside her stood a round, flushed man with camera equipment slung around his neck and ink stains on his collar—presumably the photographer.

 

“Ah, there he is,” Rita Skeeter purred, her heels clicking sharply against the stone floor as she began to circle like a predator sizing up its prey. “The missing boy returns at last. I must say, darling, you look nothing like your last photograph. Quite the transformation. This will be a story worth telling…”

 

She didn’t wait for a response. Turning back toward the group with a sugary smile, she clapped her manicured hands. “Now that we’re all here, let’s begin with some private interviews, shall we? Youngest first, I think.” Her sharp eyes settled on Harry like a hawk on a mouse, and before he could step back, she reached for his arm.

 

Harry instinctively flinched away—but before she could touch him, two figures smoothly stepped between them.

 

“I’m afraid that won’t be happening,” Draco said coolly, his voice laced with honeyed danger. “Our father would be positively livid if my brother were interviewed alone without prior consent. You understand, I’m sure.”

 

Rita’s pleasant expression soured in an instant. “Yes, yes, of course. Always so proper, the Malfoys,” she said with thinly veiled irritation, her eyes flicking to Theo, who stood silent but firm beside Draco. Their presence was clearly not part of her plan.

 

She didn’t have time to argue further. Just then, the heavy oak door creaked open again and a cluster of professors entered the room, Professor Dumbledore leading them, with Mr. Ollivander and several judges following close behind.

 

“Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Nott,” Dumbledore greeted, his tone as gentle as ever, though the familiar twinkle in his eyes had dimmed just slightly. “Are there not more productive places for you to be at this hour?”

 

Draco answered before Theo could, his posture impeccable and tone polite—but firm, “No, Professor. We were excused from class to escort my brother and remain with him. I expect that if we were to leave now, Professor Snape might be… less than pleased, considering he’s arranged an additional lesson for the three of us this evening.”

 

Dumbledore inclined his head with a faint smile, “How generous of him.”

 

“I think it was less generosity and more self-preservation,” Castor offered dryly. “I’m fairly certain Draco would’ve walked out of class regardless. This way, at least Slytherin keeps its points.”

 

Draco tilted his head in faint, amused agreement, while Theo said nothing—his gaze drifting to the reporter like he already didn’t trust a word she’d write.

 

“Well then,” Mr. Ollivander said, settling himself at a small table at the side of the room, his expression keen. “Shall we begin?”

 

Bagman cheerfully explained that the purpose of the gathering was something called the Weighing of the Wands—an official-sounding title for what was, in reality, a thorough inspection conducted by Mr. Ollivander to ensure each champion's wand was in proper condition for the Tournament.

 

While the others took their turns, Harry busied himself anxiously brushing lint from his robes and giving his wand a frantic polish with his sleeve, only half-listening to the proceedings. He did catch enough, however, to confirm what had been whispered in the corridors—Fleur truly did have Veela blood, something unmistakable in the way people subtly leaned forward when she spoke, as if pulled by an unseen thread.

 

When it was his turn, Ollivander accepted Harry’s wand with a reverence that bordered on affection. He turned it over in his long fingers, examining the wood grain, testing its balance, and murmuring to himself. Then, without a word, he glanced up and met Harry’s eyes with something that felt almost like recognition—a quiet, knowing look passed between them, as though they shared a secret neither was willing to name aloud.

 

The inspection was followed by what felt like an endless and thoroughly awkward photoshoot. Since the reporter had been kept at arm’s length during the wand inspections, Harry suspected most of her article would be built on speculation and filled out with overly staged photographs. Judging by the way she kept nudging the photographer and whispering suggestions with far too much excitement, that assumption wasn’t far off.

 

Draco had long since crossed his arms, looking ready to hex someone if they adjusted Castor’s collar one more time, and Theo watched the proceedings with vague disinterest.

 

By the time they were finally dismissed from the photos and wand-weighing spectacle, there was just enough time to make a quick stop at dinner before hurrying down to serve their extended sentence with Professor Snape.

 

As they crossed the courtyard, Harry kept apologizing, guilt flickering across his face with each word,  “Really—thank you, both of you. I didn’t mean to drag you into—”

 

Theo waved him off with a leisurely shrug.

 

Draco gave a small, smug smile and clapped a hand to Harry’s shoulder, “For the record, I was exactly where I wanted to be.”

 

And somehow, despite the looming prospect of diced lacewing flies and a long evening in the dungeons, Harry felt lighter hearing this.

Notes:

Wow—I can’t believe it’s only been about two weeks since I started this story, and we’re already at over 4,200 hits! That’s absolutely wild. I just want to say how much I appreciate every single one of your comments. I am reading them all, even if I don’t always reply.

If I don’t answer a question directly, it’s probably because I plan to address it later in the story and don’t want to spoil anything too soon. Trust me, some things are coming.

Also, fair warning—I have some story ideas in mind that I think some of you will love... and some might really not. So if things start getting a bit divisive, I understand, and I appreciate you sticking with me as long as you do. ❤️

Chapter 19: Chapter 19

Chapter 19

 

The classroom was dimly lit, the usual bustle of the dungeons replaced by a quiet stillness as the trio returned to complete their missed Potions assignment. Snape offered no pleasantries—just pointed to the supplies already laid out and reminded them of the time limit before disappearing into his office with a quiet swish of robes leaving the door open to keep an eye on them.

 

Draco took control quickly, assigning tasks with the efficiency of someone used to being in charge. Harry diced ingredients while Theo measured and stirred, the three falling into an easy rhythm despite the hour.

 

At one point, as Harry reached across to grab a vial, Theo steadied it for him with a soft, “Careful—lacewing extract stains.” Their fingers brushed, and Harry blinked, glancing at him. Theo didn’t say anything else, just returned to his work with the same quiet focus.

 

Later, when Draco was fussing about their potion’s color being “a shade too green,” Theo leaned slightly toward Harry and said in a low voice, “It’s still better than half the class managed last week. He’s just being dramatic.” It earned a quiet smile from Harry and a subtle roll of the eyes from Theo—somewhere between amusement and shared exasperation.

 

By the time Snape returned to inspect their cauldron, the potion was finished and nearly perfect. He said nothing—just nodded, as if approval were something earned through silence.

 

As they left the classroom, Theo lagged a half-step behind Harry and murmured just loud enough to be heard, “You did well, you know. Even if Draco tries to take all the credit.”

 

Harry let out a quiet chuckle and nodded toward the corridor leading to Gryffindor Tower. “Well, this is me,” he said, offering a small wave. “I’ll see you two later.”

 

With a parting glance, they split off, each heading in their own direction. The moment Harry stepped through the portrait hole, a deep weariness settled over him. The day had been long, strange, and emotionally draining—but at least the weekend lay ahead, and for once, he was caught up on all his homework.

 

Unlike the night before, when he'd stayed up well past midnight, Harry barely made it through a shower before crawling into bed. To his quiet satisfaction, he was the first of his dormmates to turn in, drawing the curtains around his bed and letting the silence wrap around him like a blanket. He fell asleep almost instantly, grateful for the peace.

 

888

 

When Harry woke, it was to the familiar weight of Hedwig hopping across his bed, a small package clutched firmly in her beak as she hooted with purpose.

 

“Sorry, Harry,” Neville said sheepishly from nearby. Harry blinked and turned to see him gently closing the window. “She looked so desperate to get in—I didn’t think she’d wake you.”

 

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Harry reached out and stroked Hedwig’s soft feathers. “It’s alright, Neville. Hi, girl,” he said fondly. “Why didn’t you just wait for me at breakfast?”

 

Then, turning toward Neville, he asked, “I didn’t miss it, did I?”

 

Neville shook his head, “No, no. The others just left a few minutes ago. I figured since you went to bed so early, you wouldn’t sleep too long. But just in case, I stayed back to wake you if you didn’t get up. We’ve got plenty of time. You can open the package—she’s clearly desperate for you to have it.”

 

Harry smiled gratefully and turned his attention back to Hedwig, who gave an insistent little nip at the package as if to say finally. While Harry carefully unwrapped it, Neville settled into a nearby chair, pulling Trevor from his pocket and gently stroking the toad’s back, giving Harry and Hedwig their moment.

 

With a sigh, Harry murmured, “Alright, Hedwig, let’s see what was so urgent.”

 

He pulled the package onto his lap and immediately noticed something familiar about the box—it was nearly identical to the ones his mum had brought to his room on his last night at the manor. That gave him a pretty good idea of what it might be. If his guess was right, it was larger on the inside—likely another charm-treated box from Valentin. Possibly his new wardrobe.

 

As he opened the lid, his suspicions were confirmed. Right on top, folded with precise care, was a pair of black-and-white trousers—the same style as the ones his mother had smiled about, saying he’d looked particularly sharp in them. Harry’s fingers brushed over the bright white fabric, marveling at how soft it was despite being stain-proof.

 

Neville, noticing Harry frozen in place, tilted his head, “Anything good?”

 

Harry blinked, then grinned. “Yeah. It’s my new clothes,” he said, climbing out of bed and holding the box in one hand. “Mum replaced everything, but the tailor only had time to finish my school robes before I came back. Guess Hedwig thought I should have the rest today.”

 

He turned to his owl, who preened proudly on the bedpost, and pressed a light kiss to the top of her head. “Thanks, girl.”

 

“Well, your robes already look amazing, so I’m sure the rest of the wardrobe will be just as brilliant,” Neville said with a cheerful grin. “Where did your mum get them done, anyway?”

 

Harry smiled slightly, recalling the eccentric but meticulous man with a tape measure that moved like a sentient serpent, “She had a friend come to the manor to do the fittings. That way, I didn’t have to go out in public. Bit of an odd bloke, but polite enough. I think his name was… Valentin Noirveil?”

 

He said the name with a touch of uncertainty, but Neville’s wide-eyed reaction told him he must’ve gotten it right.

 

“Wait—Valentin Noirveil?” Neville repeated, looking genuinely stunned. “As in the Valentin Noirveil? Harry, he’s not just some tailor—he’s one of the most sought-after magical designers in the wizarding world. People put their names on waiting lists for months just to have a consultation with him, and he personally fitted your school robes?”

 

Neville sounded halfway between awe and disbelief, and Harry could only shrug modestly.

 

“I guess… Mum pulled a few strings,” he said, feeling a bit sheepish now under Neville’s amazement. “I didn’t know he was that famous.”

 

“He is!” Neville repeated, still blinking in disbelief. “Even my Gran knows who he is—and she hates fashion.”

 

Harry smirked, “That explains the vulture hat.”

 

Neville gave him a mock-offended nudge, then leaned over eagerly. “Alright, come on then! Let’s see what Noirveil came up with. I need to see what top-shelf wizard fashion looks like.”

 

Harry chuckled, already lifting the first item from the box. On top lay the black-and-white trousers he’d noticed earlier—sleek, tailored, and made of a soft but magically reinforced fabric that shimmered faintly in the morning light.

 

“Are those enchanted?” Neville asked, leaning in to get a better look. “They’re spotless. I mean, they’re white—but not a speck of dust.”

 

“They’re stain-repellent,” Harry said, running his fingers down the crisp fabric. “Mum said they’re good for things like dueling or traveling. No matter what hits you, you’ll still look presentable.”

 

“Stylish and practical?” Neville whistled low. “Gran would faint.”

 

Next, Harry pulled out a deep forest-green jumper with faintly embossed silver threading along the hems. It was understated, but elegant—soft to the touch, and surprisingly light.

 

“That one looks like it cost more than my whole wardrobe,” Neville said, half-joking, half-serious.

 

“There’s no tag, but it feels expensive,” Harry admitted.

 

Beneath it were two button-up shirts: one a silky charcoal grey with tiny rune patterns stitched into the cuffs, the other a soft ivory linen with faint pinstripes that shimmered slightly in motion.

 

“Wow,” Neville said, eyes wide again. “Even his casual shirts look like something from a catalog.”

 

“And Mum said this was just my practical wardrobe,” Harry muttered, now grinning.

 

At the bottom was a tailored waistcoat in a dark sapphire shade, embroidered subtly with little stars that only glinted if the light caught them just right.

 

Neville blinked, stunned, “Okay, that one’s unfair. You’re going to be the best-dressed student in the whole castle.”

 

Under the waistcoat but atop the last item in the box was a letter that Harry quickly read.

 

Dearest Castor,

Enclosed is only the beginning.

 

I must tell you—rarely am I inspired so instantly, so viscerally, by a client. The selections you gravitated toward spoke to me not only of taste, but of story. Of contrast, of reinvention. Light and dark, softness and strength. You are, whether you know it or not, my muse.

 

I have already begun sketching a new collection—The Castor Line—inspired entirely by you. The movement of your silhouette, the duality you carry with such quiet grace, the fire beneath the stillness. Each piece will be a study in transformation, and you, my canvas.

 

You will, of course, receive one of every design. Consider it a collaboration in spirit—my art, made visible on your frame.

 

There is more to come.

 

Inspiration struck, and I followed.

 

Yours in thread and vision,

Valentin Noirveil

 

PS: Below is the first item of our new line. I call them Veilweave Trouser. For walking paths unknown, but always in style. Mystery should cling to you like a second skin.

 

At first glance, they appeared to be sleek, midnight-black trousers tailored with a sharp, modern silhouette—fitted at the waist, slightly tapered at the ankle. But under shifting light, an intricate pattern subtly reveals itself in the weave: swirling silver threads reminiscent of mist curling across a forest floor. The design is both hidden and revealed depending on movement and light—never quite the same twice.

 

Along the outer seam of each leg runs a narrow braid of deep green and charcoal grey embroidery in an abstract pattern, inspired by ancient magical sigils associated with protection and transformation.

 

The fabric itself is enchanted—lightweight but insulating, and spelled to never wrinkle or stain. When standing still, they hold a formal, regal air; when in motion, they flow like water. Comfortable enough for long days of class and elegant enough for a private dinner at the manor.

 

Neville let out a low whistle as Harry carefully lifted the final pair of trousers from the box.

 

“Whoa,” Neville said, blinking. “Those are… wow.”

 

Harry held them up by the waistband, letting the strange shimmer of the silver-threaded mist pattern catch the morning light. “They look sort of plain at first, but—”

 

“They’re not plain at all,” Neville interrupted, eyes wide. “They’re incredible. Look at that embroidery—what even is that? Runes?”

 

“I think so. Maybe protection sigils or something?” Harry turned the pants over in his hands, marveling at the feel of the enchanted fabric. “It’s like they move when you don’t. And they’re really light, too.”

 

Neville laughed softly, clearly impressed. “You do realize these probably cost more than the whole Gryffindor common room, right?”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “That’s an exaggeration.”

 

Neville grinned. “Is it though?”

 

“Well, there is still more to come.”

 

“Oh?” Neville prompted.

 

Harry passed the note over, “Apparently… I’m his muse now.”

 

Neville’s eyes scanned the elegant handwriting, his mouth falling open slightly. “Wait… wait. He’s designing an entire line inspired by you? And you’re getting every piece for free?”

 

Harry gave him a sheepish look, “So it seems.”

 

Neville slowly sat back on his heels, looking up at Harry like he’d just told him he was secretly a Veela, “Harry… that’s insane. That’s beyond insane. People wait years for a single custom piece from Noirveil and you’re—what—his walking mannequin now?”

 

Harry snorted, “Apparently I’m his canvas.”

 

Neville ran a hand through his hair and gave a slightly stunned chuckle. “Merlin’s beard, Castor. You were already famous for being you and now you’re going to be fashion famous, too. Next thing I know you’ll have your own chocolate frog card.”

 

Harry groaned dramatically and flopped back onto his bed, clutching the Veilweave Trousers to his chest, “Please, no. I just wanted a simple pair of black and white trousers.”

 

Neville snorted with laughter. “Well, fashion icon, what are you wearing to breakfast?”

 

Still lying back, Harry considered it for a moment, “The black and white ones. Might as well wear what started this mess.” He sat up and added, “I’ll pair them with the charcoal grey top. And I’ll bring the green jumper too—might head outside later, and it’s still freezing even if it hasn’t snowed yet.”

 

His gaze drifted back to the Veilweave Trousers, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll save these for when I’m ready to be stared at. I think they’d go best with the ivory shirt and that new waistcoat.”

 

Neville gave a mock solemn nod, “Strategic outfit planning. Very proper of you.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes, but the grin on his face lingered. It struck him as oddly funny—this morning had gone better than he ever would’ve expected. If Ron were still in that spot as his closest guy friend, things probably would’ve unraveled quickly. Ron had never handled Harry getting attention—or gifts—particularly well.

 

But Neville? Neville hadn’t shown a trace of jealousy. If anything, he’d been more excited than Harry was. The whole thing had been easy. Fun, even. No tension, no bitterness. Just shared excitement and quiet understanding. Harry knew without a doubt that if Ron had seen the clothes, especially who they were from, there would’ve been a fight. There was no hiding these things.

 

But with Neville, he didn’t feel like he had to.

 

Harry smiled gratefully at Neville and asked, “Would you mind waiting for me? I’ll be quick—I just don’t really want to walk into the Great Hall by myself.”

 

“Of course,” Neville said without hesitation, gently stroking Trevor’s smooth back as the toad sat placidly in his hands. “We’ve still got plenty of time.”

 

Harry ducked into the bathroom to change, a soft smile lingering on his lips. He couldn’t help but think of his mum and the way she always waited nearby when he got ready—ready with soft encouragement or gentle teasing. It was a small thing, but the warmth of the memory stayed with him.

 

He hadn’t needed a shower, having done so the night before, so it only took a few minutes to dress. He slipped into the tailored black and white trousers he’d loved from the moment he saw them, paired them with the fitted charcoal-grey shirt, and slung his forest-green jumper over one arm in case the day turned cold. A quick run of a brush through his hair, a tug at the sleeves to smooth the fabric, and he was done.

 

When he stepped back out into the common room, Neville looked up—and immediately froze.

 

“Whoa,” he said, eyes widening comically. “You… Harry, you look like you just walked out of a fashion magazine!”

 

Harry flushed, tugging self-consciously at the hem of his shirt, “Is it too much? Maybe I should’ve worn something plainer…”

 

“No way,” Neville said firmly. “It’s not too much. It’s just… wow. You look really confident. Like—like you know who you are.”

 

Harry blinked at him, caught off-guard by the sincerity in his voice.

 

Neville gave him a warm smile and added, “Valentin picked right. You wear those clothes like they were made for you. Which, I guess, they were.”

 

That earned a real laugh from Harry. “Let’s just hope I don’t spill jam down the front before I even sit down.”

 

Neville chuckled and gestured toward the portrait hole. “Come on, Mr. Muse. Let’s get you to breakfast before someone else tries to claim your spotlight.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes but followed, grateful for Neville’s easy way of grounding him. As they stepped out into the corridor, he squared his shoulders a little more confidently. Ready for the attention he would soon get.

 

They walked mostly in silence but as they reached the bottom of the staircase, the hum of voices growing louder as they approached the Great Hall and Neville nudged him gently with his elbow, “Hey—if anyone gives you a hard time about anything, I’ve got your back. Just say the word.”

 

Harry shot Neville a sidelong glance, warmth blooming in his chest, “Thanks, Neville. Really. I don’t think I’ve ever had mornings like this before. Even with everything going on, it still felt… peaceful.”

 

Neville smiled, his expression fond as he gave Harry a gentle nudge with his elbow. “Careful, Castor. Sounds like you’re going soft. Who’d have thought living with the Malfoys would mellow you out?”

 

Harry barked a laugh, shaking his head as they reached the entrance to the Great Hall, “Yeah, well, I’m as surprised as you are.”

 

The moment they stepped inside, the usual hum of conversation continued—but more than a few heads turned. The black and white trousers stood out sharply against the warm tones of the hall, and paired with the tailored shirt, Harry knew he must have looked more like he was heading to a magazine shoot than breakfast.

 

Neville, thankfully, didn’t leave his side.

 

As they approached the Gryffindor table, Harry caught sight of Hermione already seated, nose in a book, but she looked up and did a visible double take.

 

“Blimey, Harry,” she said with a half-smile, “You’re going to give the school a collective heart attack if you keep dressing like that.”

 

He slid into the seat across from her, still grinning, “I’m just wearing trousers.”

 

Neville sat beside him, grabbing a plate, “Trousers that probably cost more than all my Gran’s furniture combined.”

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, though not unkindly, “You’re glowing this morning. What happened?”

 

“Good sleep,” Harry said, reaching for his nutrient potion goblet by his plate that Mipsy popped in front of him, “And good company.”

 

Hermione and Neville exchanged a brief look, both smiling to themselves.

 

As if the luxurious clothes hadn’t been enough excitement for one morning, another owl swooped gracefully down to land in front of him at the Gryffindor table, drawing a few curious glances. This one was familiar—pale, regal, and unmistakably one of the Malfoy owls.

 

Castor’s face lit up as he untied the letter, immediately recognizing the elegant, flowing script on the envelope. It was from his mum.

 

He opened it quickly, his fingers moving with practiced care over the parchment. The faint scent of her preferred gardenia-scented ink curled into the air as he unfolded it and began to read:

 

My Dearest Castor,

 

Your letter reached me this morning, and I cannot tell you how deeply it warmed my heart. I am so pleased to hear that the trunk has brought you some measure of comfort—it was my hope that it might serve not only as a space for study and rest, but as a little sanctuary of your own, should the days grow too heavy. You deserve a place in this world that belongs wholly to you.

 

Knowing that you find it useful makes the effort more than worthwhile. I’ve always believed that one’s environment shapes one’s peace of mind, and I wanted you to have something familiar—something yours—to carry with you, no matter how far from home you are.

 

Your words, thoughtful as ever, meant so much to me. I have always been proud of you, but in these past few days, I have seen a strength in you that most spend years trying to cultivate. Never doubt it, darling. Not for a moment.

 

Write again soon and tell me what books you’ve been drawn to in that library we made. And do let me know if Draco is behaving himself—I’ll deal with him accordingly.

 

With all my love,

Mother

 

P.S. The tailor assures me the remaining pieces will arrive in time for winter. I’m told one particular coat made him think of you the moment the fabric was woven. I believe you’ll like it.

 

Castor reread the letter, his smile lingering. The rest of the table had moved on to breakfast chatter, but he held the parchment in both hands, careful not to crease it.

 

Neville leaned over with a mouthful of toast. “Was that from her?”

 

“Yeah,” Castor said softly, folding it with deliberate care. “She… really is the best.”

 

Hermione, looking over from beside them, asked gently, “Everything alright?”

 

He nodded, tucking the letter into the inside pocket of his robes, “Yeah. She just knows how to say exactly what I need to hear.”

 

Plucking a piece of bacon from a nearby platter, Castor offered it to his mother’s owl with a soft murmur, “Here you go. You can head back—I’ll send a proper letter later with Hedwig.”

 

The elegant bird accepted the offering with a sharp snap of her beak, gave him what felt like a haughty nod, and swept off through the open windows in a flash of pale feathers.

 

Castor turned back to his breakfast, just polishing off the last bite when a familiar drawl came from behind him.

 

“You clean up well, brother,” Draco said, stepping up beside him. “But I thought we agreed on something with color?”

 

Harry gave a one-shouldered shrug, lifting the folded green jumper from beside his plate. “Valentin hasn’t sent a colorful shirt yet. I’ve got this, though.”

 

Before Draco could respond, there was a sudden squeal from further down the table. Castor glanced down to see Lavender and Parvati whispering furiously, eyes wide with recognition.

 

“I told you I saw those trousers in a Noirveil catalogue!” Lavender whispered to her friend like she was uncovering a scandal.

 

“But… but Harry doesn’t wear designer,” Parvati replied, incredulous.

 

Harry raised an eyebrow and offered casually, “My mum does.”

 

That only seemed to spark more excitement, and the two girls turned back to one another in intense conversation about fabric, fit, and magical tailoring.

 

Leaning closer, Neville muttered with a crooked grin, “If you tell them your news, the entire school will know before lunch.”

 

That caught the attention of both Hermione and Draco, who now looked at Castor expectantly.

 

“What news?” Draco asked, folding his arms.

 

“Why would I want anything to spread that fast?” Castor asked warily, already regretting the line of conversation.

 

Neville shrugged, “People are already staring. If you get ahead of it now, then when it hits the paper it won’t even be news—just old gossip.”

 

Castor considered that with a slow blink. As much as he hated the idea of feeding the rumor mill, there was something oddly logical about it.

 

“Great,” he sighed, “weaponized gossip. Exactly what I needed in my life.”

 

Hermione tried not to smile, “Well, you did say things were feeling too peaceful.”

 

“I was enjoying the peacefulness,” Harry muttered under his breath. “Oh well. Let them stare now—maybe I’ll get some peace later.”

 

With a resigned sigh, he turned toward the group of chattering girls. “Actually… if either of you are interested in Valentin Noirveil,” he began, already regretting it a little, “he included a letter with the clothes this morning. Something about a new line he’s working on. You might find it interesting.”

 

That was all it took.

 

Lavender let out a sharp gasp and practically launched herself across the bench. “New line?! From Valentin Noirveil?! Are you serious?” she asked, getting alarmingly close to his shoulder.

 

Parvati was only a second behind, already reaching for the letter. “Did he say what the theme is? Is it seasonal? Is it being launched through Twilfit & Tatting’s or exclusively through private clients?”

 

“He hasn’t gone into that much detail yet,” Harry stammered, trying not to slide backward off the bench under the pressure of their enthusiasm. “But… he, uh… called me his muse?”

 

Both girls froze.

 

Lavender’s eyes went round as saucers, “You’re his muse?!”

 

“You’re going to be in the catalogue, aren’t you?” Parvati whispered like she was speaking to a living legend, “Oh my Merlin, you are.”

 

Draco looked smug, “Well, obviously,” he said smoothly, “Valentin has taste.”

 

Neville was biting his lip to keep from laughing, and Hermione looked like she didn’t know whether to be exasperated or amused.

 

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks tinged pink from all the sudden attention. “I think he just meant I inspired the line—not that I’m actually going to be modeling or anything. He said he’s calling it The Castor Line, and that I’d be getting one of every piece he designs for it.”

 

He glanced around, a little sheepishly, “The first item came this morning—some trousers he called Veilweave.”

 

Lavender and Parvati squealed in unison.

 

“Why didn’t you wear them?” Parvati demanded, eyes wide with disbelief.

 

Harry shrugged, giving a small, apologetic smile. “Well… the black-and-white ones I asked for are what gave him the idea in the first place. Felt like I should wear them first, y’know? Like a nod to where it all started.”

 

“Wear the Veilweave tomorrow,” Lavender said immediately, clasping her hands like it was a sacred request.

 

“Yes, please,” Parvati added, practically bouncing, “We have to see them in person.”

 

Harry chuckled, already a little overwhelmed, “Alright, alright. Tomorrow.”

 

888

 

After breakfast, Harry felt the need for some fresh air. He asked to go alone—much to Draco’s dismay—but his friends only nodded in understanding, Hermione reminding him gently that she and Neville would be in the library if he wanted to join them later.

 

So, Harry found himself heading down the familiar path toward Hagrid’s hut, retracing the steps he’d taken the weekend before. It was strange—almost surreal—how much had changed in just a week.

 

He was just considering asking Hagrid if he could visit the hippogriffs when something unusual caught his eye: a small blonde girl, barefoot, slipping into the edge of the Forbidden Forest with a bowl of raw meat in her hands.

 

Harry blinked, confused—but his instincts kicked in fast. Nothing about that looked safe.

 

Without a second thought, he hurried after her, calling out, “Hey—excuse me! Wait!”

 

They hadn’t gotten far into the woods when the girl abruptly turned around, her pale eyes bright and unbothered, “Oh, hello, Castor Malfoy. Were you calling me?”

 

“Yes—yes, I was,” Harry said, coming to a stop in front of her, slightly breathless from the jog. “Are you alright?”

 

“Perfectly,” she replied serenely, tilting her head to one side. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

“Well… for one, you’re not wearing any shoes,” Harry pointed out, gesturing down, “And you’re carrying a bowl of raw meat while walking into the Forbidden Forest. That’s usually a red flag.”

 

She looked down at her bare feet as if only now remembering them. “Oh, yes. The Nargles took them again. It’s become a bit of a tradition. They usually return them after the solstice.”

 

Harry blinked. “Nargles?”

 

She nodded solemnly. “Mischievous little creatures, prone to stealing things. But my necklace keeps them away most of the time.” She held it up for him to see—a curious loop of Butterbeer corks and what looked like bent spoons.

 

“And the meat?” he asked, deciding not to press the shoe-thieving sprites just yet.

 

“It’s not bait,” she corrected gently, as though amused by the suggestion. “It’s supper. I’ve come to feed the thestrals.”

 

Thestrals?

 

She seemed to notice the question forming on his face, “They’re beautiful, really. Skeletal, winged horses. You can only see them if you’ve watched someone die.”

 

Harry felt something twist in his chest at that. Her words landed with eerie weight. He studied her for a moment—her calm demeanor, her bare feet, her strange necklace—and realized he didn’t quite know what to make of her.

 

And yet wondered if this is how the Malfoys had felt when he said or did something they did not understand. Knowing how it felt to be stared at by someone that doesn’t understand you Harry tried to play off his confusion. He understood something in her eyes. That quiet certainty. The way people sometimes looked at him without understanding, without trying to.

 

So instead of questioning her further, Harry simply said, “May I come with you then? The forest can be dangerous, and I’d rather not leave you alone in it. I’d feel awful if something happened.”

 

The girls lips curved into a faint, dreamy smile, “That’s very kind of you, Castor. I think the thestrals would like you.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said gently, stepping over a twisted root, “But I don’t think I know your name. I don’t believe we’re in the same year.”

 

The girl’s outfit was a kaleidoscope of color—mismatched socks, a skirt adorned with tiny bells, and a bright orange jumper that clashed wildly with his own monochrome look. She didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she didn’t care.

 

“I’m Luna,” she replied with a dreamy smile, “Luna Lovegood. Third year, Ravenclaw.”

 

Harry nodded in understanding. “That explains it. We haven’t had any classes together, then.”

 

Luna looked at him with a soft sort of curiosity, “You’re very kind, Castor Malfoy.”

 

He blinked in surprise, then laughed—not unkindly, but with a warmth he hadn’t expected to feel. “Kind? That’s not what most people say about Malfoys.”

 

“You’re not most Malfoys,” she said simply, as though stating a universal truth.

 

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. She was strange—but not in a way that pushed him away. There was something sincere and honest about her oddness. She reminded him of a younger sibling he’d never had—one he immediately felt a strange urge to shield.

 

He gave her a smile as they continued deeper into the trees. “You know, Luna… you’re not what I expected from a solo trip into the Forbidden Forest.”

 

She tilted her head again. “And what did you expect?”

 

“Someone either reckless or mad.”

 

She laughed softly, almost like a melody, “I think I’m a bit of both.”

 

Harry chuckled and rubbed his neck, “Since I so willingly followed you, I’m probably the same.”

 

“Here we are,” Luna said softly, stepping into a small clearing. She knelt down and gently tossed a piece of meat into the open space.

 

Harry looked around, confused. The clearing was empty—no creatures in sight. He opened his mouth to ask what exactly they were looking at, but then his eyes widened as the meat bounced once… and then lifted into the air, suspended for a moment before vanishing mid-bounce.

 

Something had eaten it. Something he couldn’t see.

 

“Whoa,” Harry breathed, unable to hide his amazement.

 

Luna turned to him with a serene smile, “If you throw one, they’ll likely let you pet them. You may not see them—but you’ll feel them.”

 

Still stunned, Harry took one of the remaining meat scraps and mimicked her motion, tossing it toward the open space. Just like before, the chunk lifted into the air and vanished. Luna held out her hand gently.

 

“Here,” she whispered. “Let me show you.”

 

She guided his hand forward, slowly and carefully, until it rested on something solid—cool, leathery, and powerful beneath his fingertips. The sensation was strange, surreal. It felt like petting a skeletal horse wrapped in velvet and wing leather.

 

Harry smiled in disbelief, “They’re really here…”

 

Luna nodded, “They always are. Whether we see them or not.”

 

There was something profound in the way she said it—something that settled deep in Harry’s chest.

 

He looked at her, this odd, barefoot girl in her chaotic clothes, and for the first time since his world had been turned on its head, he didn’t feel like he had to explain himself. She didn’t ask questions that pressed too hard. She didn’t stare at him like a curiosity. She just existed beside him, content in her own odd rhythm.

 

“I’m glad I followed you,” he said honestly.

 

Luna smiled up at him, her blue eyes twinkling, “Most people don’t. You must be braver than you look.”

 

Harry chuckled, “I am a Gryffindor.”

 

“This is nice,” Luna said, reaching out to gently stroke the invisible creature once more, “Almost like having a friend.”

 

Harry looked up, “We are friends, Luna. New friends, but friends.”

 

Luna beamed, “That’s nice.”

Notes:

I had fun with this one.

Chapter 20: Chapter 20

Notes:

Okay this is where some people might start getting mad at me. But I worked really hard on this one!

Chapter 20

 

When Harry and Luna returned to the castle, they parted ways with a quiet goodbye—both needing to wash the remnants of raw meat from their hands before heading to their respective house tables for lunch.

 

Harry made his way to the Gryffindor table, where Hermione and Neville were already seated. As he joined them, he shared a brief summary of his morning walk (carefully omitting the invisible, meat-eating horses for now), and the conversation soon turned toward something more pressing: the upcoming First Task of the Triwizard Tournament.

 

They agreed it was time to do some research. Over the years, many tasks had featured magical creatures—sometimes as obstacles, sometimes as objectives—so it seemed a logical place to begin. With that in mind, the trio relocated to the library, their arms quickly filled with books on magical beasts, defensive spells, and tournament history.

 

While Hermione buried herself in tournament records and Neville studied creature behavior and weaknesses, Harry focused on spells commonly used to ward off or subdue magical beings. As he read, a thought occurred to him—Theo. The Nott family had worked with magical creatures for generations; surely, Theo would know spells that weren’t in standard textbooks. It might be worth asking him.

 

And so the afternoon passed in quiet concentration. Pages turned, notes were taken, and a sense of purpose settled over the group. Occasionally, Draco would stop by the table—making a comment here, casting a sharp glance at anyone who got too close there—but he seemed satisfied that Harry was taking things seriously and left them mostly undisturbed.

 

It was, all in all, a productive day. One that reminded Harry what it felt like to work toward something with friends who had his back.

 

888

 

The next morning, Harry couldn’t help but regret his decision to promise Lavender and Parvati he’d wear the Veilweave Trousers. What had he been thinking?

 

As he pulled on the sleek, magically layered fabric and fastened the ivory shirt before shrugging into his fitted waistcoat, he felt like he belonged on a runway rather than in a school corridor. He stared at his reflection for a long moment—still getting used to the sharp lines of his jaw, the way the clothing seemed to sculpt him into someone more confident, more composed.

 

And yet, as much as the outfit suited him, he felt wildly overdressed.

 

He had no doubt that word of his connection to Valentin Noirveil had spread by now. If Lavender and Parvati had gotten even half as excited as they had the day before, the entire school would know by breakfast. Which meant all eyes would be on him the moment he stepped into the Great Hall. Again.

 

Downstairs, Neville and Hermione were waiting for him in the common room as promised. Harry descended the stairs carefully, awkwardly tugging at his waistcoat as though that might tone things down. When they saw him, both paused.

 

Hermione raised her brows, clearly impressed but attempting to play it cool. Neville gave a low whistle.

 

“Wow,” Neville said, grinning, “You look like you’re about to give a keynote speech at the Ministry.”

 

Hermione smirked, giving Harry a once-over, “Valentin wasn’t joking about you being his muse, was he?”

 

Harry sighed, tugging again at his shirt cuffs, “You both swear this doesn’t look ridiculous?”

 

“No,” Hermione said flatly, “It looks expensive.”

 

“And intimidating,” Neville added helpfully. “In a good way.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Harry shook his head but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. At least with these two at his side, the Great Hall wouldn’t feel quite so daunting. Still, as they headed out through the portrait hole, he braced himself for what was bound to be another attention-grabbing entrance.

 

Harry had grown used to stares over the past years, but nothing could have prepared him for the way the entire Great Hall seemed to pause the moment he stepped inside.

 

Conversations faltered. Heads turned. Forks hovered halfway to mouths.

 

It felt like walking into a spotlight.

 

He resisted the urge to fidget with his waistcoat as he followed Neville and Hermione toward the Gryffindor table, doing his best to ignore the sea of eyes tracking his every step.

 

At the far end of the table, Lavender Brown let out an audible gasp, clutching Parvati’s arm like she’d just spotted a unicorn. The two of them leaned together, whispering rapidly behind their hands while unabashedly staring. Lavender looked positively giddy, her eyes wide with excitement.

 

Parvati, to her credit, looked more impressed than stunned. She elbowed Lavender and whispered something that made them both giggle. Harry wasn’t sure if it was the trousers, the waistcoat, or just the sheer fact that someone from their school had become a designer’s muse, but clearly the outfit was having an impact.

 

A few second-years near the Slytherin table were outright pointing. Even a few Ravenclaws craned their necks for a better look.

 

“You weren’t kidding about word spreading,” Harry muttered to Hermione under his breath as they sat down.

 

“Not at all,” she replied, hiding a smirk, “Honestly, I think you might have broken Lavender’s brain.”

 

Neville chuckled beside him, “Should’ve warned the hall to brace themselves.”

 

Harry sighed and picked up his spoon, “Next time, I’m wearing robes.”

 

Lavender and Parvati immediately swarmed them the moment Harry sat down, practically buzzing with excitement. The questions came rapid-fire, barely giving him time to breathe.

 

“Will the collection include pieces for witches too?”

 

“I... I’m not sure,” Harry replied, already feeling out of his depth.

 

“Do you know how much they’ll cost?”

 

“No idea.”

 

“What’s the fabric made of? It doesn’t even look real—it’s so smooth!”

 

“Er… I honestly don’t know.”

 

Even though he kept repeating the same thing, their enthusiasm didn’t falter. In fact, their excitement seemed to build with each vague answer, as if Harry's mystery status only fueled their obsession.

 

“This is going to be massive,” Lavender gushed, practically bouncing in her seat. “You’re going to be in Witch Weekly, I swear.”

 

“You might already be,” Parvati added, leaning in to peer more closely at the fine stitching on his waistcoat. “You’re the muse of Valentin Noirveil, Harry. That’s like being immortalized in fabric.”

 

Harry gave a nervous laugh, shooting a look toward Neville and Hermione, who both looked somewhere between entertained and sympathetic.

 

“Don’t worry,” Hermione said dryly, “If they carry you off for a fashion interview, I’ll take notes in class.”

 

“You might need to,” Harry muttered, glancing around at the increasing number of eyes on him. “I’m starting to regret not just throwing on robes.”

 

“Too late,” Neville chuckled, nudging him. “You stepped into the spotlight the second you put on those trousers.”

 

“And on a Sunday, no less,” Harry sighed, though the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed his amusement. “At least there’s no class today. Gives me the perfect excuse to disappear for a bit—let the attention die down. I think I’ll hole up in my trunk for the day. Do some reading. Maybe practice a few spells for the tournament… if that’s alright with you two?”

 

There was no edge in his voice, but the unspoken contrast hung in the air. Ron had always wanted to be around him constantly—games, chatter, endless plans—but Harry was starting to realize he sometimes needed quiet. Time to just be.

 

Neville shrugged casually, “Fine by me. I was going to head out to the greenhouses anyway. Professor Sprout said I could help sort the new seedling samples.”

 

Hermione gave him an understanding nod, her expression warm, “And I think I’ll make myself at home in the library for a few hours. Plenty of tournament history left to go through,” she added with a smile.

 

“Alright then,” he said, already picturing the cozy solitude of his little room within the trunk. “I’ll see you both later.”

 

888

 

Harry was curled up in his favorite armchair deep inside his trunk’s cozy little study nook, legs tucked beneath him and a thick Charms textbook balanced on his lap. Sunlight filtered down through the enchanted window overhead, casting a warm, golden glow across the pages. It was quiet—peacefully so. For once, there were no distractions, no shouting, no fires set to his belongings. Just him, a steaming mug of tea on the table, and his books.

 

He had started the day intending only to flip ahead in a few chapters, but now he was several lessons deep into his coursework. Strangely, he was actually enjoying it.

 

Growing up, Harry had learned early that doing well in school was a losing game—at least in the Dursley household. If he ever earned praise from a teacher, Uncle Vernon would make sure he regretted it. So he got used to staying invisible—quiet, average, and unremarkable. At Hogwarts, Ron had never shown much interest in academics, and Harry had followed suit, focusing on Quidditch, dodging danger, and surviving whatever chaos Voldemort tossed at him that year.

 

But now… things were different. He was different.

 

It wasn’t just that he had new robes, a new room, or even a new name. He had a mother now—a real one. And she cared about how he was doing. She didn’t expect perfection, but she believed in him. That alone made Harry want to try, to prove that she was right to.

 

He had already finished reading ahead in Potions—Snape might actually be surprised if he managed to brew something correctly next week. Transfiguration had gone well too, and Defense Against the Dark Arts had always come naturally. Now, he was halfway through his Charms reading when a section caught his eye.

 

“Advanced Utility Charms: Summoning, Banishing, and Containment.”

 

Harry leaned forward, curiosity sparking in his chest as he spotted the heading. A practical section. He had no idea what the first task of the Tournament would be, but being able to summon something in a pinch? That felt like a solid place to begin.

 

Straightening in his chair, he turned the page with renewed focus, eyes scanning the text with growing determination.

 

Accio (Summoning Charm)

Pronunciation: AK-ee-oh or AH-see-oh (regional variations)

Type: Charm

Difficulty Level: Intermediate

 

Description:

The Summoning Charm, Accio, is used to summon objects toward the caster, regardless of distance. It is especially useful for retrieving items that are out of reach, lost, or located in another room. The object must be named or clearly visualized for the spell to work effectively.

 

Wand Movement: Sharp, pulling motion toward the caster

Incantation: Accio [object name]

 

Since he had the luxury of privacy, Harry figured he might as well give it a try. Professor Flitwick usually gave them multiple lessons to get the hang of intermediate charms—few students mastered them on the first attempt. But now, Harry felt a sudden determination to be the exception.

 

Shedding his waistcoat and draping it neatly over the back of his desk chair, he padded across the room and settled cross-legged into his favorite cozy chair. Pointing his wand at the waistcoat, he began to practice.

 

888

 

The day passed in a strange sort of rhythm—both swift and sluggish all at once. Hours slipped away as Harry devoted himself to practicing the Summoning Charm, his voice echoing softly in the stillness of the trunk. Eventually, his stomach reminded him of the time, and he asked Mipsy to bring lunch down to him. She popped in with a delighted squeak and returned moments later with a tray balanced high with food.

 

After a quiet meal at his little desk, Harry resumed his efforts. The repetition began to wear on his wrist, so he gave himself permission to alternate between practice and reading. He made his way through several chapters, marking useful spells and occasionally mumbling incantations to himself, before returning to the charm that had consumed most of his day.

 

Despite his persistence, the best he could manage was a gentle twitch of the waistcoat, as if a breeze had stirred it in the otherwise motionless air. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a sign that he was getting closer.

 

Eventually, with the charm still echoing in his mind, Harry climbed out of the trunk to join his friends for dinner. The hall was warm, the food familiar, and the conversation easy. He spent the evening in their company, simply talking about their day—Neville sharing stories from the greenhouses, Hermione discussing an obscure book she'd found in the library. The three just appreciating each others company.

 

888

 

Monday morning came and with it the Daily Prophet article by Rita Skeeter about the wand weighing ceremony.

 

Wands, Whispers, and the Silent Malfoy: Secrets from the Wand Weighing Ceremony!

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent for the Daily Prophet

 

Yesterday's Wand Weighing Ceremony at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was meant to be a quiet, formal occasion—a simple checkup of each Triwizard Champion’s wand by the venerable Garrick Ollivander. But with Castor Malfoy in the room, nothing is ever simple, is it?

 

While the other Champions arrived from their respective common rooms or common sense, Castor Malfoy was escorted directly from class, still dressed in his school robes. The robes in question bore the unmistakable cut of a custom fit, rumored to be by Valentin Noirveil himself. Is it possible Castor’s uniforms are haute couture?

 

Malfoy was flanked closely by Draco Malfoy and the ever-cryptic Theodore Nott, both of whom accompanied him not only into the ceremony, but lingered close enough to suggest more than mere curiosity. Eyewitnesses described Nott as “quiet but watchful,” and Draco as “possessive, almost like a handler.” One might wonder—is Castor not allowed to speak for himself?

 

Certainly not to this reporter.

 

While Champions Cedric Diggory, Fleur Delacour, and Viktor Krum offered brief statements about their excitement and preparations for the upcoming task, Castor’s camp was silent. This reporter was explicitly denied access, with Nott and Draco closing ranks faster than a pack of protective Hippogriffs. It would seem that whatever happened during Castor’s time away, his story will not be told freely.

 

The most revealing part of the ceremony is in the photographs (see pages 5–7). In the official Champions’ portrait, Castor stands noticeably apart, posture straight and expression unreadable. His eyes never meet the camera. It is not the look of a proud representative—it is the look of a boy holding something back.

 

What could that be?

A secret of the Malfoys?

A history yet untold?

Or simply nerves from being thrust so suddenly into the spotlight?

 

Regardless, the Boy Who Disappeared—now returned as the Champion Who Won’t Speak—remains Hogwarts’ most compelling mystery.

 

And with the First Task just weeks away, readers must wonder: When will Castor Malfoy break his silence? And what will he say when he does?

 

Stay tuned, dear readers. Skeeter always gets the story… eventually.

 

Once again, the article itself hadn’t been given much substance to work with, and Harry had been right in assuming it would end up being more of a glossy photo spread than an actual report. Page after page was filled with carefully arranged black-and-white photographs taken during the wand weighing ceremony. The accompanying text was thin—mostly vague commentary and exaggerated speculation—but the pictures had been printed in abundance.

 

To his own surprise, Harry found himself lingering on the photo of him more than once. It wasn’t as awful as he had feared. In fact, it didn’t really look that different from how he normally looked—aside from the school robes being noticeably more polished than usual, and his posture perhaps just a bit more composed. Maybe it was the way the monochrome tones smoothed out the shadows under his eyes or the way the flash had caught the slight shine of his hair, but he almost—almost—looked like he belonged there.

 

Still, the discomfort of being photographed lingered. He couldn't shake the feeling of being examined under a magnifying glass. The image may have been flattering, but the attention that came with it never was.

 

Aside from the excitement stirred by the article, the following week settled into something resembling a routine. He attended classes as usual, then headed to the library with Hermione and Neville to finish that day's assignments before dinner. Afterward, he would retreat into the solitude of his trunk—his private little world—to read, research, and practice spells.

 

The Summoning Charm, Accio, remained his primary focus. He’d grown steadily better with it, though it still wasn’t consistent. Sometimes the charm failed entirely, and other times the summoned object only dragged itself halfway across the room before sputtering to a halt. Still, Harry was pleased with his progress. After all, they hadn’t even begun lessons on the charm in class yet. He was certain Professor Flitwick would be impressed once they did.

 

Feeling encouraged, he began experimenting with other spells as well—mostly defensive ones. Harry had always taken well to that branch of magic, and some of the spells he was reviewing seemed like they could be especially useful in the upcoming tournament. He didn’t know what he’d face, but every page of his textbook seemed to whisper warnings: be ready.

 

Everything was calm. Predictable. Until Friday morning.

 

A ragged-looking owl swooped into the Great Hall during breakfast, landing somewhat clumsily in front of him. Harry frowned, brows knitting. The owl was unfamiliar, its feathers scruffy and unkempt—a far cry from the sleek, elegant birds the Malfoys used. He immediately sensed it wasn't from his mother.

 

Hermione and Neville gave him questioning looks, clearly picking up on his unease. He hesitated before reaching for the letter, flipping it open with a feeling of rising tension. The handwriting was familiar—messy and unmistakably rushed. Sirius.

 

Harry’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t forgotten about his godfather per se, but he’d deliberately avoided thinking too hard about him. After discovering he wasn’t James Potter’s son, the idea of reaching out to Sirius had become... complicated. He hadn’t wanted to imagine what might happen if the man rejected him.

 

He hadn’t mentioned Sirius much since the day he told the Malfoys that Sirius was his godfather, that he’d escaped Azkaban to protect him, and that he had saved Sirius’s life from dementors.

 

Now, with shaking fingers, Harry unfolded the letter.

 

Please don’t be a rejection, he thought. Please don’t say I’m not yours anymore.

 

Then, slowly, he began to read.

 

Harry,

I can’t say everything I want to in a letter—it’s too risky. If this owl is intercepted, it could spell trouble.

We need to talk. Face to face. Be alone in Gryffindor Tower at one in the morning.

 

I’ve seen the papers.

 

Harry, you cannot trust the Malfoys. I know Narcissa seems kind—she’s always been like that. Polished. Soft-spoken. But don’t let that fool you. That’s how she operates. She smothers you with affection until you’d do anything for her. But deep down, she’s cut from the same cloth as Lucius.

 

I know you can handle yourself—you’ve proven that more times than most adults I know—but someone entered you into this tournament with intent to harm you. That’s no prank. That’s a plan. And until we know who’s behind it, you have to keep your guard up. Around everyone.

 

One o’clock, Harry. Please. It’s important.

 

—Padfoot

 

Harry stared at the parchment, his mind racing. The words blurred slightly as adrenaline and confusion stirred uneasily in his chest.

 

He looked up from the letter, heart thudding, and met the curious stares of Neville and Hermione across the table.

 

Clearing his throat, he leaned in slightly and spoke low enough that only they could hear.

 

“Word from Padfoot,” he said quietly, fingers folding the letter shut. Then, glancing at Neville, he added gently, “Either Hermione or I can fill you in later, alright?”

 

Neville nodded without hesitation. “Of course,” he said, subdued but respectful. “Whatever you need.”

 

Hermione's brows were knit in concern, her eyes scanning Harry’s face as if she might decipher the message just by watching him. She didn’t press—yet. But Harry could tell she was already filing it away for a private conversation.

 

The rest of breakfast passed in a blur. The chatter around him felt distant, muffled by the pulse in his ears. Harry kept replaying the letter over and over in his mind.

 

One in the morning. Alone.

 

He couldn’t shake the cold knot forming in his gut.

 

Harry had expected to feel relieved—grateful even—that Sirius hadn’t rejected him outright. But instead of comfort, all he felt was a heavy, hollow ache forming in his chest. There, written in Sirius’s unmistakable scrawl, was a warning against the very person Harry was beginning to care for more than anyone else in the world.

 

It has always been her way of manipulation… She smothers you with love until you'd do anything for her…

 

The words echoed relentlessly in his head.

 

She had been nothing but kind. Gentle. Protective in ways no one else had ever been. She gave him space and warmth, a room of his own, beautiful clothes, and—more importantly—made him feel wanted. And yet, wasn’t that exactly what Sirius had said? Kindness used like a net, a trap.

 

Harry didn’t want to believe it.

 

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

 

The thought clung to him like a shadow through all of History of Magic, draining the color from the world around him. His quill hovered uselessly over his parchment while Professor Binns floated on with his monotone lecture about goblin rebellions. Harry barely heard a word. The droning voice only deepened the spiral of doubt circling in his mind.

 

Is it really possible?

Could Narcissa be manipulating me?

And if she was… would I even want her to stop?

 

The questions gnawed at him, turning over and over in his head, never settling. He didn’t even register Hermione’s glances, tight with concern, or the gentle nudge Neville gave him with his elbow every few minutes. He was completely adrift, and even when the bell finally rang, he felt no relief—only the dull weight of uncertainty pressing down on him.

 

Dragging himself back to the Great Hall for lunch, Harry moved on autopilot. He sat with his friends, barely registering the conversation around him. Hermione asked if he was feeling alright, and he responded with a vague nod. Neville pushed a roll toward his plate, but he didn’t touch it.

 

Eventually, he grabbed the ever-present stomach soother and downed it quickly, hoping it might ease the tight, burning sensation in his gut. Even then, he could only manage to eat half his lunch before the familiar presence of Draco and Theo arrived at his side.

 

They had come to collect him for Potions, just like the previous Friday. But this time, Draco’s pale eyes immediately zeroed in on Harry’s barely touched plate and the empty vial on the table beside it. Something in his expression shifted—curiosity giving way to subtle concern—but he kept his tone light.

 

“We can wait if you're still eating,” Draco said casually, his gaze flicking from the plate to Harry’s face.

 

Harry shook his head, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “No. No, I’m done.” He slung his bag over his shoulder and stood, pushing the plate away.

 

Theo watched him in silence, his gaze sharper than Draco’s, more searching. He didn’t speak, just fell into step beside Harry as they turned and made their way out of the hall.

 

As they walked, the silence stretched. It wasn’t uncomfortable—not with Theo—but it felt heavier than usual. Finally, Theo spoke, his voice low, almost like a murmur meant only for Harry.

 

“You don’t look like you slept.”

 

Harry just shrugged.

 

Draco, ahead of them by a step or two, glanced back over his shoulder, “If someone’s bothering you, you know I’ll hex them, right?”

 

Harry smiled weakly, “Thanks. But I think it’s just… my own head.”

 

“Ah,” Draco said, with the kind of tone that suggested he knew exactly what that was like.

 

They reached the dungeon steps, and Harry took a breath, trying to shake the fog from his mind.

 

He had to focus. Potions required precision. If there was any class where distraction could be disastrous, it was this one. Maybe—just maybe—if he concentrated hard enough, he could silence the doubt and fear gnawing at the edge of his mind… at least for the hour.

 

But as he picked up his silver knife, the memory of Sirius’s letter resurfaced like a chill up his spine.

 

One in the morning. Don’t trust the Malfoys.

 

His grip on the blade tightened, knuckles paling. The ingredients on the cutting board blurred slightly as he tried to steady his breathing. He pressed the root down with the heel of his hand and began slicing, but his fingers trembled enough that his cuts were uneven, jagged where they should have been smooth.

 

Theo, watching from the side, casually reached over and nudged Harry’s hand.

 

“You’ll bruise the root like that,” he murmured without judgment, taking the knife from Harry with a swiftness that was almost graceful. “Here, let me.”

 

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again when Theo began slicing with practiced precision. Each cut was clean, almost too perfect, as if it calmed Theo to work through the motion. Harry stared at his hands for a moment—pale, long-fingered, steady.

 

Draco leaned over their shared cauldron, “Honestly, if I’d known we could just make Nott do the prep work, I would’ve arranged this trio ages ago.”

 

Theo didn’t look up, “Consider it an act of mercy. You both chop like first-years.”

 

Harry let out a weak laugh, grateful for the levity.

 

But the tension didn’t fully lift. His mind kept circling back to that letter. The secrecy of it. The urgency. The sting of doubt.

 

What if Sirius was wrong? What if he wasn’t?

 

“Castor?” Theo’s voice was quiet but firm.

 

Harry blinked and realized he’d zoned out, still holding the next ingredient, “Sorry. Just… tired.”

 

Theo gave him a long, unreadable look, then said, “Save your energy for later. We’ll keep your potion from exploding.”

 

888

 

The moment the final class ended, Harry bolted—shouldering his bag and making a beeline for the common room. He barely acknowledged his friends calling after him, or Draco’s sharp voice echoing behind.

 

“Castor, wait—!”

 

But he didn’t stop.

 

Watching his brother flee Draco knew it was no use to chase him down.

 

Draco spun on his heel, frustration clear on his face as he rounded on Hermione and Neville, “What happened to him?!”

 

Hermione, startled by the sudden demand, exchanged a glance with Neville.

 

“We don’t know,” Neville replied, his tone firmer than usual. “He’s been quiet all day.”

 

“Withdrawn,” Hermione added gently. “Something’s clearly bothering him, but he hasn’t said what.”

 

Draco’s jaw tightened, “Did someone say something? Was it someone in Gryffindor?”

 

Neville shook his head, “He barely said a word at breakfast. He got a letter.”

 

“From who?” Draco demanded, eyes narrowing as he turned on them.

 

Neville stiffened, but it was Hermione who answered quickly, calmly, “He didn’t say.”

 

Draco didn’t buy it, “But you know.”

 

Hermione kept her tone neutral. “I only know that it was personal. Private. It wasn’t our place to pry.”

 

Draco studied her for a long moment, clearly searching her face for cracks in her story. Hermione didn’t flinch. She wouldn’t tell him it was from Sirius—not without Harry’s permission.

 

“He looked like he’d seen a ghost,” Draco muttered, more to himself than to them. “He didn’t eat. He barely spoke. And now he’s hiding from us?”

 

Neville frowned, “We’re just as worried, Malfoy. But whatever it was—it shook him. If he needs space, we should give it to him.”

 

“Space?” Draco scoffed. “And let him spiral? Not bloody likely.”

 

Hermione stepped forward, voice low but firm, “He’ll come to us when he’s ready. Pushing him now won’t help.”

 

“Fine,” Draco said stiffly. “He can have tonight. But he’s coming with me to Hogsmeade tomorrow.”

 

Neville raised an eyebrow, “And if he says no?”

 

Draco sniffed, “Then I’ll drag him there myself. I refuse to let him skulk around in that trunk like a depressed house-elf in designer trousers.” And with a swirl of his robes, he turned on his heel and stalked off, muttering something under his breath about the Gryffindors being useless.

 

And up in his trunk, Castor Malfoy sat cross-legged, the letter on his desk. He hadn’t touched it since reading it that morning, but it felt like it was burning a hole into the air around it. Midnight was creeping closer, and he still didn’t know what he’d say when he looked Sirius Black in the eye.

 

He didn’t know what he wanted to say. The words churned restlessly inside him, shifting between questions and fears, tangled too tightly to be voiced. He had paced for nearly an hour, the minutes crawling like insects as the time inched toward half past midnight—thirty minutes until the moment he would come face-to-face with Sirius Black.

 

Finally, with his nerves coiled tight, Harry climbed out of his trunk and wrapped himself in the Invisibility Cloak. He descended the dormitory stairs with practiced quiet, the common room dim and still. Most students had turned in early, worn out by the excitement of the upcoming Hogsmeade trip. The room was empty, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock above the fireplace.

 

He glanced toward the flames, uncertain of what to expect. Sirius had told him to be alone in the tower at one—but how would he even get there without being caught?

 

Then he heard it. A faint voice echoing like a whisper through the common room: “Harry…?”

 

He turned sharply, eyes locking on the fireplace. The flames shimmered green—and within them, a familiar face emerged.

 

“Sirius,” Harry breathed, pulling the cloak from his head and dropping to his knees before the hearth. “You’re here…”

 

Sirius blinked at him, his expression a strange mixture of awe and sorrow. “I—I saw the photos,” he said slowly, his voice rough around the edges. “But I don’t think I was truly prepared to see you like this.”

 

Harry winced, his hand reflexively reaching to smooth the front of his dark sleep shirt. He understood all too well what Sirius meant—he still caught glimpses of himself in mirrors and flinched, half expecting the old face to look back.

 

“I know,” Harry whispered. “It’s weird. Sometimes I still feel like… like I’m pretending to be someone else.”

 

Sirius frowned, “It’s not pretending, Harry. It’s not your fault. But that doesn’t mean you have to play along with whatever the Malfoys are feeding you.”

 

Harry’s breath caught. Here it was—the conversation he’d been dreading.

 

But before he could answer, Sirius softened, “I didn’t come to yell at you. I came because you deserve the truth. And because… no matter what, I’m still your godfather. That hasn’t changed.”

 

Harry looked at him then, really looked—at the wild, worn man who had survived Azkaban for him, who had risked everything just to check in, and who was now staring back at him like he still mattered.

 

“I want the truth,” Harry said quietly, though a part of him was still terrified of it.

 

Sirius nodded solemnly, “Then let’s start from the beginning.

 

“Narcissa was always a bit mad—though to be fair, most of the Blacks are. Present company excluded, of course,” Sirius added with a sardonic smile. “But she was the best at hiding it. Wrapped her madness in silk and smiles. She knew just what to say, just how to act—so people would do anything for her.”

 

He leaned forward, the firelight casting deep shadows across his tired face.

 

“That’s how she landed Lucius, you know—the most eligible and wealthiest bachelor of our generation. She played the part perfectly: elegant, clever, demure when it suited her. But underneath it all? She’s just as steeped in darkness as the rest of them. The only difference is, she was smart enough to avoid a Dark Mark.”

 

Sirius’s lip curled.

 

“She didn’t need to become a Death Eater. She had her own mission—securing the Malfoy fortune by producing the perfect heir. While her sister was out torturing people, Narcissa was weaving her web from inside the manor. Don’t let the soft voice and motherly smile fool you, Harry. She’s dangerous in a different way.”

 

Harry felt ill. A cold sweat prickled at the back of his neck.

 

“Which is why I knew she’d be an awful, manipulative mother,” Sirius went on, his voice too steady, too sure—like he'd rehearsed this argument a thousand times.

 

Harry stared into the green flames, willing them to burn out and take the conversation with them. But Sirius’s eyes only glinted brighter in the firelight, too bright, too sharp. There was something off in the way his mouth twitched upward, something wild nestled behind the words.

 

“So when I found out she was pregnant,” Sirius continued, voice low and almost reverent, “I knew I had to intervene.”

 

Harry’s breath caught.

 

“Someone had to stop it,” Sirius said. “Someone had to rescue that child. I couldn’t let her sink her claws into him. Mold him into another Lucius. Another monster. I did what had to be done.”

 

There was a smile on his face now, nostalgic and unhinged all at once.

 

“The Potters—Merlin, they were struggling. James’s parents had only managed the one miracle late in life, and even that took more potions and charms than I care to count. And James—well, there was no heir coming. The line was dying.”

 

Harry couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe.

 

“So,” Sirius said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “I brought them a baby. You. A fresh start. A chance to do it right.”

 

His smile widened as Harry stared at him, horror blooming in his chest.

 

“S–Sirius…” Harry finally choked out, his throat dry, “you didn’t—you couldn’t have—”

 

“I did,” Sirius whispered, eyes gleaming with manic pride. “And my only regret is that I didn’t know you were twins.”

 

He gave a short, almost wistful laugh before continuing, “I’m sure James and Lily would’ve loved to raise you both, but at the time, I thought it was better if they didn’t ask questions. They believed you were the unwanted child of a distant cousin—someone who had a fling with a Muggleborn and needed to quietly get rid of the evidence. If that had been the case twins would have been discussed. So, I took the baby that was the smallest and most innocent looking.”

 

Harry wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at him to flee the fire, to vanish from the common room, to lock himself in his trunk and never come out again.

 

“But how?” he asked, not sure why—maybe to stall, maybe because some part of him still hoped this wasn’t real.

 

“Oh, it wasn’t easy,” Sirius said, chuckling darkly. “Malfoy wards are nothing to scoff at. But having Black blood did make it easier and I had an inside man. Someone who believes in justice. Who wants to see you safe. He handled the house-elves—knocked them all out clean.”

 

Sirius leaned closer, eyes intense.

 

“I wrapped you in a blanket myself. You were so small. So quiet. Like you knew I was saving you.”

 

Harry's hands were shaking.

 

He had no idea who Sirius meant by “inside man”—a friend? A relative? A traitor in the Malfoy house? But right now that wasn’t the scariest part.

 

It was the look on Sirius’s face.

 

And the fact that—for all his words—he truly believed he had done the right thing.

 

Harry staggered to his feet, his legs suddenly shaky beneath him. The fire cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the pale shock that had overtaken his features. He took a step back—then another—putting space between himself and the fireplace as if Sirius’s voice might burn him too.

 

Sirius didn’t seem to notice. He was still smiling faintly, like he’d just confessed a clever prank, “I did it for you, Harry. For James. For all of us. You belonged with them.”

 

Harry’s breath hitched in his throat. He clenched his fists at his sides, trying to hold himself together, trying not to let the trembling show.

 

“You were serving the right sentence,” he said quietly, voice shaking with fury, “but for the wrong crime.”

 

Sirius’s smile faltered.

 

“I thought—” Harry broke off, blinking hard. “I thought I was helping you. I thought you were innocent.”

 

“I was,” Sirius insisted quickly, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t betray them—Peter did, not me—”

 

“But you did steal me from my mother!” Harry’s voice cracked like ice. “You lied to my parents. You gave them someone else’s child like he was—like I was—some spare thing to be passed around.”

 

Sirius’s face had gone pale in the green light of the flames, “Harry, I—”

 

“Don’t.” Harry took another step back, his voice low but iron-hard, “Don’t contact me again.”

 

The words seemed to hang in the air like a spell, final and damning. Harry turned his back before he could see Sirius’s face crumble, and with rigid steps, he walked toward the stairs.

 

His breath caught again when he reached the landing. He braced a hand against the wall, steadying himself. He didn’t want to cry—but his chest ached with betrayal, and the sting behind his eyes refused to go away. He had saved Sirius. He had believed in him. And now… now he wished he hadn’t.

Notes:

So… what do you think? I know I’ve taken a few liberties with canon—like moving the Weighing of the Wands up by a week and having Sirius’s Floo call happen before Harry learns what the first task is—but for the flow of this version of fourth year, the timeline just feels more natural to me.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on the plot twist! And I’m especially curious: any guesses on who the ‘inside man’ might be? I’ve already got it locked in, since it’s tied to a pretty major plot point later on.

Chapter 21: Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Harry barely slept that night, his mind churning long after his talk with Sirius. By the time his dormmates were waking and getting dressed for the Hogsmeade weekend, he was already wide awake, though he stayed curled in bed, feigning sleep until the room gradually emptied—everyone gone except Neville.

 

“Harry?” Neville’s voice was soft, tentative.

 

Rubbing his face, Harry answered hoarsely, “Yeah?”

 

Neville hesitated, then said with a small, apologetic smile, “Draco told me he’s planning to drag you to Hogsmeade whether you like it or not.”

 

Harry let out a groan and pulled the blanket over his face, “Of course he is,” he muttered, voice muffled.

 

Neville chuckled lightly and sat on the edge of his own bed, “He’s worried about you. We all are, a bit. You kind of vanished yesterday.”

 

“I just needed time,” Harry said quietly, lowering the blanket to peer at Neville. “It’s been… a lot.”

 

Neville nodded in understanding. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I get it. But maybe getting out of the castle for a bit wouldn’t be so bad. You could walk around, breathe some fresh air, maybe even find something fun.”

 

Harry gave a half-hearted smile, grateful for the gentleness in Neville’s tone. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

 

“You better think quick,” Neville said, standing and stretching. “Draco was not kidding. If you’re not at breakfast I think he may storm the tower.

 

That finally earned a laugh from Harry, small but sincere, “Alright, alright. I’ll get up.”

 

Neville grinned, “Good. I’ll wait with Hermione in the common room. I’ll see you down there.”

 

Once Neville had left, Harry slowly sat up, rubbing his tired eyes. He still felt the ache of what he’d learned the night before clinging to his chest, but… maybe he could use a distraction. Maybe walking through Hogsmeade in the crisp November air wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

 

He pulled on the black and white trousers and buttoned up a charcoal-grey shirt, neat but simple. It was the safest choice he had. No waistcoat, no Veilweave. He brushed his hair back with his fingers, barely glancing at the mirror before heading out of the dormitory and down into the common room.

 

Hermione glanced up as soon as he stepped inside, her eyes filled with quiet concern, “Feeling any better, Castor?”

 

Harry paused, then gave a noncommittal shrug. How could he explain that things hadn’t improved at all—if anything, they’d only gotten worse?

 

Hermione didn’t press. She simply gave him a supportive smile and fell into step beside him. Neville was waiting by the portrait hole, adjusting the collar of his cloak, and nodded in greeting. They didn’t need to say anything. The silence was companionable—safe.

 

As they stepped into the corridors of the castle, Harry’s mind was anything but calm. He hadn’t told anyone about his conversation with Sirius the night before. He wasn’t even sure how to begin. The things Sirius had said—about Narcissa, about the past, about what he had done—it was all tangled in Harry’s mind like a nest of thorns. And underneath it all was one burning truth he couldn’t ignore:

 

He and Hermione had broken into the holding cell, risked expulsion, and helped a man escape Azkaban… and that man had confessed to a crime nearly as bad as the one he'd been imprisoned for.

 

Harry’s stomach twisted at the memory. He knew—knew—that he should go to Madam Bones. She had taken over the investigation into his disappearance. She deserved to know what he had learned.

 

But at the same time… how could he? How could he explain what they’d done? How could he sentence the last remaining connection to James Potter—the man he had once believed was his godfather—to Azkaban again?

 

The thoughts spiraled, heavier with each step toward the Great Hall.

 

He didn't speak much during the walk. Hermione and Neville must have sensed it, because they stayed close but quiet, letting the rhythm of footsteps fill the silence between them.

 

When they reached the Great Hall, the scent of breakfast wafted out—bacon, toast, and something warm and cinnamony—but it did little to soothe the gnawing pit in Harry’s stomach. He wasn’t sure if he was hungry or if he might throw up.

 

As they stepped inside, Harry glanced toward the Slytherin table, wondering if Draco was already there… and what Draco might say when he saw him. He still hadn’t figured out how to explain the haunted look he had seen in the eyes of his reflection.

 

Harry slid onto the bench at the Gryffindor table, and his breakfast appeared before him—eggs, toast, and a few strips of bacon. Hermione and Neville were already filling their plates, chatting softly about their Hogsmeade plans. Harry picked up his fork but mostly just pushed the eggs around, appetite elusive.

 

He was midway through sculpting a little hill of scrambled eggs when a familiar rush of wind swept across his shoulder. A blur of white feathers and talons zipped into view, and Hedwig landed gracefully on the table in front of him, hooting softly.

 

A bundle—soft and squishy—dropped into his lap.

 

Startled, Harry blinked down at the package. It was wrapped in deep charcoal paper with silver ribbon tied precisely in a perfect knot, the unmistakable signature of Valentin Noirveil.

 

Hermione leaned slightly to peer at it, eyebrows lifting, “Another delivery?”

 

Neville looked impressed, “Is that from him again?”

 

Harry nodded, already pulling at the ribbon, “Must be. He said there was more to come.”

 

Inside was a coat—long and flowing, in a shade of silvery black that shimmered ever so faintly when it caught the light. The fabric felt like something between velvet and dragonhide—soft but with a certain weight to it, as if enchanted. The inner lining was emerald green, subtle and dark, not enough to draw attention but enough to whisper style. Embroidered along the cuffs were fine, sweeping lines of silver thread, like smoke curling through the air.

 

Tucked into the collar was a small handwritten note:

 

To my Muse,

One cannot be a silhouette against the world without a worthy coat.

This piece, The Whispering Hem, is my favorite yet.

Keep warm, keep strange, keep bold.

 

Yours in inspiration,

—Valentin

 

Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or bury his head in his arms.

 

Harry draped the coat across his lap, fingers brushing the fabric. “I… don’t even know where I’d wear something like this.”

 

Hermione smiled, “Well, it is getting cold out. Hogsmeade would be a good place to start.”

 

Harry glanced back down at the coat, his fingers brushing over the luxurious fabric once more. He hadn’t yet figured out what to say—or how he felt—when a familiar voice spoke from behind him.

 

“It’s nice,” Draco said, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp.

 

Harry turned in his seat to see Draco standing just behind him, arms crossed, with Crabbe and Goyle flanking him as usual. Theo was there too, hovering slightly to the side with his hands in his pockets, gaze flitting between the coat and Harry.

 

Harry held the garment up a bit, “You think so?”

 

“I do,” Draco said, stepping closer. “It’s dramatic. But it suits you.”

 

Harry rubbed it again, “I am considering saving it for something special.”

 

Draco arched a brow, “Hogsmeade is special, and you will need something warm.”

 

Goyle gave a hopeful grunt, “Are we getting sweets?”

 

“Yes, Goyle, you can get your sweets,” Draco said without even glancing at him. “But more importantly, you,” he added, pointing a finger at Harry, “are coming with us. No vanishing into trunks or skipping out.”

 

Theo tilted his head, “If you don’t come, we’ll just assume you’re hiding something.”

 

Harry sighed in defeat and folded the coat over his arm, “Fine.”

 

The group turned toward the entrance and started the trek to the village. The path to Hogsmeade stretched ahead beneath a grey, overcast sky. A brittle wind tugged at Harry’s new coat, soft lining offering little comfort against the storm inside his chest.

 

Draco was walking slightly ahead, talking animatedly to Theo about some shop they had to stop by. His voice carried easily, confident and clear, as if the weekend promised only good things. Crabbe and Goyle trailed behind like bulky shadows, occasionally snorting at something one of them muttered, oblivious to the tension Harry carried with every step.

 

Theo cast him a glance now and then. Not prying, just watching—quiet, as if he could sense the disquiet just beneath Harry’s polished surface. He didn’t say anything, but Harry felt the weight of the attention anyway, like a pressure against the back of his neck.

 

The village slowly came into view, its chimneys already puffing smoke into the cold morning. Students up ahead were laughing, pointing toward Honeydukes or tugging each other toward Zonko’s. Harry barely registered them.

 

“Still brooding?” Draco asked, slowing to walk beside him, tone half-playful but with the practiced caution of someone who knew when not to push too hard.

 

“Just tired,” Harry muttered.

 

Theo's gaze flicked over him again, thoughtful and unreadable, “You were ‘tired’ yesterday too.”

 

Harry didn’t respond.

 

Harry let himself be tugged from shop to shop, doing his best not to dwell too deeply on anything. Draco kept insisting on buying him things, reminding him more than once that their parents had sent money specifically so they could treat themselves.

 

Eventually, Harry gave in and followed Crabbe and Goyle’s example, picking out a few sweets. He stuck close to the two of them—partly for the sense of normalcy, partly because their broad shoulders were remarkably effective at parting the crowd. Surprisingly, they even pointed out a few treats he’d never seen before.

 

Goyle handed him a packet of FizzleFudge, grinning as he described the way it tickled the tongue. Crabbe offered Berry Bafflers with a rare chuckle, “Great for dares. Never tastes the same twice.”

 

But it was the Mood Pops that really caught Harry’s attention. Small, jewel-colored lollipops that shifted in hue with your emotions.

 

Crabbe leaned in, lowering his voice in an almost conspiratorial whisper, “I eat ’em when I’m sad. Blueberry’s my favorite, and that’s what you get when you're down.”

 

Harry blinked at him, surprised by the quiet honesty, “That’s... actually kind of smart.”

 

Crabbe shrugged, trying to look indifferent, but Harry caught the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

“I guess I’ll have to try one in every mood,” Harry said, examining the Mood Pops with a faint smile. “Figure out which flavour I like best.”

 

As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized—he and Crabbe were actually… having a moment? A real conversation, not just about food or classes, but something that felt strangely personal. He’d never really thought of Crabbe as someone to talk to, let alone bond with, but here they were, sharing sweet preferences like old friends.

 

Crabbe gave a thoughtful nod, as if Harry’s idea had genuine merit, “Green’s not bad when you’re nervous. Kinda minty, but sharp. Gets your head clear.”

 

Harry blinked at him again. This was... oddly wholesome.

 

Harry looked up at Crabbe—no, Vince—with a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks, Vince,” he said quietly, the name feeling unfamiliar on his tongue but somehow right in the moment.

 

Vince gave a quick, pleased nod, like it meant more to him than he wanted to admit.

 

Towering just beside him, Goyle shifted his weight and gave a single grunt of agreement before offering, “Greg.” His voice was gruff but not unfriendly, like someone unused to being invited into conversations but willing to try.

 

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sudden honesty. There was something endearingly awkward about it—these two hulking boys offering him their first names like it was a rare kind of trust.

 

“Well then…” Harry started with a quiet laugh. “I’m Har—Castor.”

 

There was a brief pause—just a heartbeat—before all three boys let out soft, slightly awkward chuckles. It wasn’t a grand, cinematic moment. No lightning bolts or sudden revelations. Just a shared, quiet understanding between them, simple and strange in its comfort. As Harry stepped out of the candy shop with his arms full of magical sweets, he realized he felt just a little lighter than before. Not fixed. Not healed. But better.

 

The bag of treats was sizeable—larger than he’d intended—but he already knew he’d be devouring a large portion of it tomorrow from the solitude of his trunk. Another Sunday spent hidden from the eyes of the school, far from complicated conversations, and hopefully from complicated feelings too.

 

While Draco and Theo ducked into the apothecary for some last-minute shopping, Harry lingered just outside, letting the cold air clear his head. It was then he spotted Hermione a little way down the street, holding a clipboard and talking animatedly to a passerby. The witch she was speaking to seemed wholly uninterested and waved Hermione off with a sharp shake of the head before walking briskly away.

 

Harry wandered over, curiosity piqued, “Hermione? What are you doing now?”

 

She turned, bright-eyed and determined, “Oh, well, Neville needed something from the Magic Neep, so I thought I’d make good use of the time and try to gather signatures for S.P.E.W.”

 

Harry sighed heavily, already regretting the question. “Hermione… when are you going to let this S.P.E.W. thing go?”

 

“When house-elves are given fair wages, regulated working hours, and decent working conditions,” she retorted, her glare sharp enough to cut glass. “In fact, I think it’s time I took a more direct approach. I wonder how one gets into the kitchens here...”

 

Harry blinked at her, “Ask Fred and George. They’ve probably mapped every hidden door in the castle by now.”

 

Just then, he spotted Draco and the others exiting the shop, potion bags in hand. He gave Hermione a small smile, “I’ve got to go. Good luck unionizing the magical world.”

 

She gave a dignified huff, but Harry could tell she appreciated the support, however dryly offered.

 

As he jogged back over to the Slytherins, Harry caught a sudden flash of light in the corner of his eye. He spun instinctively, wand half-drawn—but it wasn’t an attack. It was a camera.

 

Rita Skeeter’s photographer was crouched nearby, camera raised smugly, and the infamous journalist herself stood beside him, grinning like a Kneazle who’d found a nest of pixie chicks.

 

Harry groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Seriously? Paparazzi now?”

 

Skeeter's grin widened, “You can’t hide forever, dear. The public has questions, and your mysterious charm only feeds the fire.”

 

“I’d rather feed myself to a basilisk,” Harry muttered under his breath, shooting one last glare at Rita Skeeter before turning back to the group.

 

The photographer didn’t even blink, already busy winding up his camera, and Skeeter was scribbling something in her horrid green quill. The air felt colder with her around—as if her presence alone drained the warmth from the cobblestone street.

 

Sensing the group’s discomfort, Theo glanced around at the rest of them. “Anything else anyone needs? Or shall we escape before she starts asking for blood samples?”

 

Draco was already adjusting his scarf and gesturing toward the path back to Hogwarts, “Let’s go. I feel contaminated just standing near her.”

 

No one disagreed.

 

They set off along the narrow trail winding back to the castle, the road quieter now that most students had already headed back. Leaves crunched underfoot, and the last of the autumn light glinted off the lake in the distance. For a few minutes, no one said anything. Harry kept his head down, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, the long hem of his new coat brushing against the tops of his boots.

 

“You know,” Draco said casually, after they had walked a while in silence, “you look a little better today.”

 

Harry blinked, surprised by the comment, “Better than what?”

 

“Better than yesterday. And definitely better than you looked at breakfast,” Draco said, glancing at him sideways. “I’m not asking what’s wrong… just—whatever it is that made you so depressed, I’m glad you came out today.”

 

Harry’s smile was faint, but genuine. He looked up toward the silhouette of Hogwarts, the castle framed by the last golden traces of daylight. “Yeah, well. I figured I couldn’t hide in my trunk forever.”

 

There was a pause before he added dryly, “But I will be tomorrow—so don’t come knocking.”

 

Draco huffed a soft laugh. “Duly noted. I’ll send a sympathy owl.”

 

Theo, walking a few paces behind them, muttered, “I'll slip snacks under the lid.”

 

Harry laughed, “What do you think this was for?” he said, holding up the candy bag Vince and Greg had helped him pick out.

 

“Oh—ew, there’s a beetle on it,” Draco said, wrinkling his nose as he flicked the tiny insect away with practiced disdain.

 

The beetle tumbled through the air, wings buzzing furiously, before vanishing into the grass.

 

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Odd thing to find on a chilly day.”

 

And with that, they kept walking—unaware that the grass behind them shifted ever so slightly, as if something small had scuttled out of sight.

 

888

 

Harry spent most of his Sunday tucked away in the cozy quiet of his trunk. With hours of focused practice behind him, he’d finally mastered the Summoning Charm—Accio responded to his wand with sharp precision now, every object soaring reliably into his waiting hand.

 

What made the success even sweeter was knowing that Professor Flitwick wouldn’t be introducing the spell in class until Wednesday. He was days ahead. For once, Harry wasn’t playing catch-up—he was leading.

 

Feeling a bit smug (and rightfully so, he thought), he reached for a lollipop from his candy stash—a Mood Pop—and unwrapped it with a grin. The second it touched his tongue, the candy turned a vibrant shade of purple, the sweet taste of grape flooding his mouth. Pride.

 

Harry chuckled to himself. “Yeah. That tracks.”

 

888

 

Heartbreak in Hogsmeade? A MALFOY MELTDOWN IN THE VILLAGE?

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

 

If you thought the icy chill sweeping through Hogsmeade this weekend was simply the weather, think again. Hogwarts’ newest golden boy, Castor Malfoy, was seen brooding in the snow-dusted streets this Saturday, and despite being surrounded by sweets, silver, and Slytherins, our Triwizard Champion didn’t seem to have much of an appetite for fun.

 

A startling photograph taken by this reporter’s trusted photographer (see page 6) shows young Castor clutching a bag of magical candy, flanked by Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, and the hulking figures of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. But no enchanted treats could sweeten the sour expression on Castor’s face that afternoon.

 

And while appearances can be deceiving, an overheard comment may reveal more than the carefully staged family portraits ever did.

 

According to a source seated nearby in Honeydukes, Draco Malfoy was heard saying, “Whatever it is that made you so depressed, I’m glad you came out today.”

 

Depressed? That’s a heavy word for someone recently thrust into the public eye as Hogwarts’ fourth champion—a rare and highly controversial position. While school officials remain tight-lipped, whispers among students suggest Castor has been spending an unusual amount of time in isolation, emerging only for meals or library visits, and allegedly using a private space hidden within a magically-expanded trunk (a gift from his “mother,” Narcissa Malfoy).

 

Could it be the pressure of the Tournament? Or might there be turbulence behind the scenes in the Malfoy household? Though Narcissa Malfoy has painted a picture of maternal grace and sophistication, those close to the Black family know that even the softest voice may conceal a sharp wand.

 

And what of the bag of sweets young Castor clutched as he trudged up the hill toward Hogwarts? Perhaps just a gift from Crabbe and Goyle—or perhaps a comfort snack to mask a deeper unease.

 

Whatever the cause, the cracks in Hogwarts’ most curious champion are beginning to show. The question is: will they widen before the first task begins?

 

Harry scowled at the Monday edition of the Daily Prophet, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the page. Why couldn't Rita Skeeter just leave him alone? It was infuriating—every time he managed to steady himself, there she was again, twisting shadows into headlines.

 

This latest article wasn’t even based on facts. It was all speculation, spun from a half-heard comment Draco had made in what was clearly a private moment. A moment Rita shouldn’t have been anywhere near. How had she even overheard them? The words hadn’t been shouted. They’d barely been spoken. And yet somehow, she’d managed to stretch a single line into a full-blown theory about his mental state.

 

She doesn’t know anything, Harry thought bitterly. Not what he was feeling, not what had caused it, and certainly not what he was going through. Yet there it was—in print for the entire country to dissect over morning tea.

 

And the worst part? She wasn’t even entirely wrong. Just… wrong about the reasons.

 

Harry did his best to ignore the stares, though the low hum of whispers that followed him through the corridors set his nerves even more on edge. He was still grappling with the attention when, the next morning, he was caught completely off guard by the arrival of a letter from his mother.

 

My Dearest Castor,

 

I saw the Daily Prophet this morning—though I do try not to give Miss Skeeter’s column too much credit, her particular talent for meddling seems to have found its way to you once again. The photograph was unflattering, and her conclusions even less so. I trust you are not truly as melancholic as she made you out to be, darling?

 

You have not written in some time, and though I understand your schedule is far more demanding now, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t beginning to worry. I would never pry into what you are not ready to share, but know that if something is troubling you, you do not have to carry it alone. You never did.

 

It is easy to feel overwhelmed with so many eyes watching you—and with so few of them truly seeing. I know what it is to be talked about in corridors, Castor. I know what it is to be judged through ink and speculation. But you are not alone. And you are not whatever the Prophet chooses to twist you into. You are my son—brighter and stronger than they can even imagine.

 

Draco tells me little, but what he does share is enough to let me know you are pushing yourself too hard again. Do be kind to yourself. Take rest where you can. Drink tea. Eat something other than candy. Wrap yourself in the new coat (Valentin was most pleased with how it turned out), and for Merlin’s sake, write to me. Even just a line.

 

With all my love,

Mother

 

P.S. Tell Draco I expect at least one sentence from him this week as well. Preferably not just the word “fine.”

 

Harry let out a quiet sigh, the letter in his hand feeling strangely heavy. He hadn’t written to his mother since he got the letter from Sirius, since the moment everything he thought he understood had begun to crack open and left him uncertain. He didn’t know how to respond to her now—how to feel, even.

 

Sirius’s words still echoed in his head, jagged and unsettling. The man had sounded utterly unhinged, more consumed by old grudges and paranoia than Harry could have ever anticipated. And yet, beneath the madness had been a sliver of conviction that Harry couldn’t completely ignore.

 

If there was even a chance Sirius had been right—then what did that mean about his mum? About Narcissa, the one person who had made him feel safe, wanted, and seen from the moment they met? It was hard to reconcile the elegant, doting woman who sent him letters lined with concern and affection with the image Sirius had painted of a master manipulator with a gentle smile.

 

He used to imagine living with Sirius, back when everything was simpler, back when he believed Sirius was the only family he had left. He’d even agreed to it once. And he had meant it.

 

But now… he wasn’t sure of anything.

 

He loved Sirius.

 

He loved his mum.

 

And somehow, that made all of this even worse.

Chapter 22: Chapter 22

Chapter 22

 

Harry spent most of his Tuesday evening curled up at his desk inside the quiet comfort of his trunk, parchment spread out before him, quill in hand. The space was warm and private—meant to be comforting—but tonight it only echoed his restlessness. He’d been staring at a blank page for what felt like hours, scratching out half-formed sentences, rewriting the same greeting three times, and then balling up the parchment and tossing it across the room.

 

He wanted to say something real. He wanted to ask her—no, demand—answers. He wanted to write about how conflicted he felt, how Sirius’s words had shaken him, how he didn’t know what or who to believe anymore. But how could he? What if Sirius had been lying? What if his mother really had been manipulating him? What if she hadn’t? The risk of saying the wrong thing—or revealing too much—tied his thoughts in knots.

 

In the end, it was pathetic how little he managed to write, especially considering how long he’d spent trying.

 

Hi Mum,

Everything is fine. I’ve just been busy studying for the tournament. We don’t know what the tasks are yet, so I want to cover as much ground as possible.

Skeeter’s crazy. Don’t trust the papers.

From, Castor

 

He stared at the words for a long time, feeling hollow. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t anything, really. But it was all he could offer right now.

 

It was safe and, this time safe was better than honest.

 

888

 

Hermione practically bounced on her heels as they made their way to Charms, her bag hugged close to her chest. “I read ahead—we should be starting the Summoning Charm today! Isn’t that exciting?”

 

Her eyes sparkled with the usual enthusiasm she had for learning something new, and Harry couldn’t help but smile faintly, even as he bit his lip.

 

This was it. The charm he’d spent days mastering in secret. The one spell he had pushed himself to perfect, long before the rest of the class would even begin it.

 

He gave a small nod, “Yeah... exciting.”

 

But beneath his calm exterior, anxiety churned. This was the moment he’d spent countless hours preparing for—the charm he’d practiced until his wrist ached. Yet now, standing on the edge of actually performing it in class, the pressure was mounting. What if he slipped up? What if all the quiet success in his trunk amounted to nothing under Flitwick’s sharp gaze and the curious stares of his classmates?

 

He exhaled slowly as they stepped into the classroom, the familiar warm scent of books and parchment greeting them. The seats filled quickly, and Harry slid into his usual spot beside Hermione, heart picking up speed.

 

He had popped a Mood Pop a little before class, and Crabbe had been right—the cool green mint had smoothed the edge of his nerves for a little while. But with each step closer to his desk, the creeping tension began to seep back in, coiling in his chest like a waiting spell ready to misfire.

 

Professor Flitwick stood at the front of the classroom, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement. “Today, class, we begin one of the most useful and versatile charms in your magical arsenal—the Summoning Charm! Accio!” he exclaimed, and with a sharp flick of his wand, a book soared from his desk and landed neatly in his hand. A few students clapped in delight.

 

“You'll be working in pairs today, but first, we’ll start with solo practice,” Flitwick continued, motioning with his wand. With a few precise flicks, soft cushions floated down in front of each student’s desk. “Focus, clarity, and intent are crucial for this charm. Think clearly of what you’re summoning—picture it in your mind—and make sure to pronounce the incantation correctly. Wands ready!”

 

The room filled with the rustle of students adjusting their seating. Harry sat cross-legged in front of his cushion, wand in hand, heart thumping in his ears. This was it.

 

Harry knew—logically—that his desperation to succeed was actually an advantage. The Summoning Charm, according to every textbook and Professor Flitwick’s own words, worked best when the caster truly needed what they were calling. Intent mattered. Desire mattered. And right now, Harry wanted—needed—this to work. He needed proof that all his hours alone in the trunk had been worth it. That he could do something right on his own, without a teacher hovering over him or someone doubting his abilities.

 

He took a breath and tried to steady the buzz of nerves fluttering in his chest. Around him, he heard students testing their first attempts—one summoned a cushion halfway before it flopped to the floor; another barely budged theirs at all. There were a few frustrated groans and bursts of laughter as wands misfired or nothing happened at all.

 

Harry gripped his wand a little tighter. Focus, he reminded himself. Want it. Need it. See it.

 

He narrowed his eyes on the cushion, took a steadying breath, and, clearing his throat, said with firm intent:

 

“Accio!”

 

The moment the word left his mouth, Harry felt something spark at the tip of his wand—like a thread catching on a hook. The cushion jerked, then shot across the room and smacked him squarely in the chest with a satisfying thud.

 

A hush fell across the classroom.

 

Harry blinked, arms instinctively wrapping around the summoned cushion, his heartbeat thudding with disbelief and pride.

 

Professor Flitwick looked up from a student he’d been assisting, eyebrows lifting behind his spectacles. “Excellent, Mr. Malfoy! Very impressive—very impressive indeed!” he said, clapping his tiny hands together, “And on the first try, no less!”

 

A few students turned to stare, some clearly surprised, others looking vaguely annoyed. Lavender let out a dramatic, “Whoa!” while Seamus muttered, “Well, that’s just unfair.”

 

Hermione beamed from beside him, whispering, “I knew you’d nail it.” Her expression was a mix of pride and just a hint of competitiveness.

 

Harry managed a small smile and set the cushion down, trying not to show how much his hands were still trembling. His heart pounded in his chest—not with anxiety, but with something rarer these days: genuine triumph.

 

“Can you do it again, Mr. Malfoy?” Professor Flitwick asked as he approached, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.

 

Harry gave a nod and tossed the cushion back across the classroom. It didn’t land quite as far this time, but Flitwick didn’t comment—he was watching Harry’s control, not the toss.

 

“Whenever you're ready.”

 

Harry steadied himself, lifted his wand, and said clearly, “Accio!”

 

The cushion shot through the air and smacked into his hands with satisfying force.

 

Flitwick nodded approvingly, then flicked his wand. The cushion floated gently out of Harry’s arms and soared to the furthest corner of the classroom. “One more time,” he said. “Let’s see what you can do at full distance. To the other end, if you please.”

 

Harry crossed the room, the whisper of murmurs from classmates trailing behind him. He could feel eyes on his back but focused instead on the cushion, willing everything else away.

 

“Accio!”

 

The cushion launched through the air with a whoosh, and Harry caught it cleanly in one hand, almost like catching a Quaffle mid-pass. A few gasps and murmurs rippled through the room.

 

Professor Flitwick beamed. “Excellent work! That was textbook summoning—and before we’ve even begun formal instruction. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

 

A grin cracked across Harry’s face, and though his pulse was still racing, it felt good. He had worked hard for this. For once, he wasn’t just scraping by—he was excelling. And it showed.

 

Flitwick, clearly impressed, gave Harry a rare and sincere smile. “Well, Mr. Malfoy, I believe you've demonstrated a firm grasp of the Summoning Charm. You've nothing more to prove today. If you'd like, you're welcome to use the remainder of the period to get ahead on your homework.”

 

A quiet thrill ran through Harry. It wasn’t often a professor dismissed him from practical work for doing too well—especially not in Charms, where precision and consistency were everything. He murmured a “thank you” and made his way back to his seat, aware of more than a few curious glances trailing after him.

 

Hermione gave him a proud look as he sat down, while Neville mouthed, “Show-off,” with a grin. Harry snorted softly and pulled out his Charms textbook and parchment. If he had extra time, he might as well use it. He jotted down his notes on the spell mechanics, pausing now and then to glance around the room as his classmates continued to practice.

 

Some were already frustrated, hissing under their breath when nothing happened; others were making faint progress—objects twitching or shuffling across the floor. But Harry watched with a strange, distant contentment. For once, he wasn’t the one struggling. For once, he had gotten it right.

 

He bent over his parchment again, twirling his quill absently.

 

Whatever chaos had gripped him over the past week—Sirius, the articles, the doubts—it could wait. Just for now, he had done something good, something solid, and no one could take that from him.

 

888

 

Still riding the high from his success in Charms, Harry found himself more motivated than ever. That evening, after dinner, he retreated into the comfort of his trunk with a fresh determination sparking in his chest. He flipped open his Charms textbook and turned the page to the next spell on the syllabus—Depulso, the Banishing Charm.

 

If Accio was all about drawing things toward you, Depulso was the exact opposite: forcefully repelling an object away. The mechanics were similar, and the intent just as important. But what surprised Harry most was how natural the wand movement felt—almost instinctive, as if his magic already knew what to do before his mind could fully catch up.

 

Within the hour, he had managed to push a pillow clear across the room with enough force to knock over his desk chair. Elated by the quick progress, he kept at it, lining up different objects and experimenting with how hard or far he could send them flying. But he quickly realized that power wasn’t everything. Accuracy mattered. It was one thing to knock something back—but another entirely to aim well enough to send it exactly where he wanted it.

 

So, he spent the much of the evening refining his control. He would banish quills into a wastebasket, send books gently back onto their shelves, and even set up stacks of cushions as targets to aim at. He kept a silent tally of how many times he hit or missed, adjusting his wrist movement, focus, and distance with every try.

 

Though the hours slipped by, he didn’t feel tired—only determined. The first task was approaching, and while he didn’t know exactly what was coming, it gave him confidence to know that with each new spell, he was expanding the toolkit he’d bring into the arena.

 

In the still, warm glow of his enchanted lamp, Harry whispered, “Depulso,” again and sent a book sliding smoothly across the room into a neat pile. He grinned.

 

Progress.

 

Deciding it was time to wind down for the evening, Harry pushed aside his notes and spell charts. His wrist ached slightly from repeated wandwork, and the mental fog of magical focus was beginning to settle behind his eyes. He needed something to quiet his mind and ease him toward sleep.

 

Rising from his cozy chair, he wandered over to the bookshelf that lined one wall of his trunk’s study nook. His fingers skimmed the spines until they paused on a title that stood out among the more practical volumes: Charms of the Light: Protective Spellcraft Rooted in Emotional Strength. It was one of the books Lucius had recommended, one Harry had meant to look into but had never gotten around to reading.

 

He pulled it from the shelf, thumbing through the crisp pages as he returned to his chair. The contents looked promising—defensive enchantments designed not just to protect the body, but the spirit. There were spells said to grow stronger when cast with pure intent or deep emotion, some even rumored to reflect the caster’s own moral compass. The notion was… oddly comforting.

 

Maybe there’s something in here I can use to impress Flitwick again, he thought, smiling to himself. Or something useful for the tournament.

 

Settling in with the book on his lap, Harry began to read, the soft rustle of pages the only sound in the quiet room. As the warm glow of the lamp cast gentle shadows across the pages, he found himself lulled by the rhythmic tone of the prose—equal parts instruction and philosophy.

 

One charm in particular seemed to leap off the page and grab Harry’s attention:

 

Carapax Ardens — The Burning Carapace

Incantation: Carapax Ardens

Effect: This advanced defensive charm cloaks the caster in a flickering, fiery shell that radiates intense heat. The flames are harmless to the caster but serve as a protective barrier, burning away lesser curses, jinxes, and hexes upon contact. It also singes any creature or object that gets too close, making it a highly effective short-range defense.

 

The entry described the spell as a “tempered cousin to Fiendfyre”—offering the raw, destructive flair of magical flame without the catastrophic, uncontrollable chaos of the cursed fire itself. It was not a spell for casual dueling, but it could turn the tide of battle in desperate situations or serve as a last line of defense when escape wasn’t an option.

 

Harry reread the paragraph twice, his heart starting to pound—not with fear, but with fascination. It wasn’t just the drama of it. There was something elegant about its design: magic meant to shield rather than destroy, a dangerous beauty turned toward survival.

 

The only cautionary note was written in a thin, slanted script near the bottom of the page:

 

Warning: Carapax Ardens is highly taxing. It draws directly from the caster’s magical core and burns brighter the greater the threat. Use in short bursts only, lest exhaustion or magical depletion occur.

 

Harry ran his fingers over the margin as he considered it.

 

He couldn’t explain why, but something about this spell felt… right. Like it was waiting for him. Something worth trying, at least once.

 

He closed the book slowly, eyes thoughtful, already picturing what it might feel like to be wrapped in flame that protected instead of consumed.

 

But that was not something he was comfortable trying to learn in his trunk.

 

He marked the page and closed the book with a soft thump, his eyes growing heavy at last. He would read more tomorrow. For now, he crawled out of his trunk and went to bed.

 

888

 

Thursday had started out like any other day. Transfiguration that morning had been uneventful and Harry had been halfway through mentally planning the rest of his study schedule when the bell rang for lunch.

 

As they packed up, he told Hermione and Neville he’d meet them in the Great Hall, claiming he needed to stop at the loo. That much was true—but he also wanted a moment alone to clear his head.

 

He never made it there.

 

Just as he passed the junction near the empty Charms corridor, he heard it—soft, almost hesitant:

 

“Castor Malfoy?”

 

Harry turned, eyes scanning the quiet hallway. He spotted a pale hand waving from the shadows of an unused classroom just off the corridor. Luna Lovegood was peeking around the doorframe, her expression oddly urgent.

 

“Luna?” Harry said, blinking in surprise as he crossed over. “What’s going on?”

 

“I—” She looked up at him with wide, unblinking eyes. “I think I know what the first task is.”

 

Harry froze.

 

Of all the things he might’ve expected—maybe another dreamy observation about invisible creatures or a random warning about Nargles—that wasn’t it.

 

“What?” he asked quickly, stepping into the classroom. Luna backed up to let him in, and he gently closed the door behind them. “What do you mean? How could you know that?”

 

“I was visiting the thestrals last night,” she said, fiddling with a charm on her necklace. “They like it when I bring apples. But while I was there, I heard something—noises just a bit deeper in the forest. So I followed them, very quietly. And then…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Four dragons. Big ones. In cages. All of them guarding nests.”

 

Harry’s mouth opened, but no sound came out at first. Dragons? Four of them?

 

That didn’t make sense—not with what the organizers had said about toning down the danger this year.

 

But then again… this was the Triwizard Tournament.

 

And dragons—well, they were terrifying to most. But not to him.

 

A grin broke across Harry’s face.

 

He didn’t laugh—not quite—but he stepped forward with a grin, the kind that almost turned into a hug. “Luna, that’s amazing. I seriously owe you one.”

 

She beamed, looking pleased as punch, then turned and slipped out of the room like some kind of secret ally Harry hadn’t even known he needed—his own personal wild card.

 

888

 

Harry had casually told everyone he planned to spend the evening in his trunk—a perfectly believable excuse by now. It wasn’t unusual for him to retreat into the quiet space to read or practice spells, so no one questioned it. But what they didn’t know was that after supper, he had only ducked inside long enough to grab the Marauder’s Map and his invisibility cloak before quietly slipping back out of the dormitory.

 

Navigating the castle’s familiar corridors under the shroud of the cloak, Harry followed the map’s guidance until he reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He moved carefully through the underbrush, heading toward the clearing where he remembered the thestrals had gathered.

 

It wasn’t long before he knew he was in the right place—not because of what he saw, but what he heard.

 

Roars. Deep, guttural, earth-shaking roars.

 

The sound sent a tremor down Harry’s spine. The dragons weren’t exactly hidden, either—the occasional flicker of firelight in the darkness and the tang of smoke in the air made their presence undeniable. The creatures were restless, thrashing against their chains or cages, the vibrations of their fury rolling through the forest floor like distant thunder.

 

Harry crouched behind a thick tree, heart pounding. He’d hoped—assumed, really—that hearing the dragons might come with a sense of recognition. A hiss, a snarl, a whisper of something he could translate, as he could with snakes. But there was nothing like that. No flicker of meaning in their roars. No words.

 

He wasn’t hearing language. Just rage.

 

Just fire and fury.

 

And that made him nervous. Really nervous.

 

Because if Parseltongue wouldn’t help him here… he might be facing the deadliest creatures he’d ever encountered with nothing more than his wand and a vague idea of what to expect.

 

Crouching low, Harry crept closer to the clearing, careful to keep the rustling of branches and leaves to a minimum. The glow of enchanted lanterns lit the perimeter of the site, casting flickering shadows that made the towering creatures within their enclosures look even more monstrous. Finally ducking behind a dense patch of scrub, he peered through the foliage.

 

There they were—four dragons. Each one was penned in by reinforced magical barriers and thick iron bars enchanted with runes that shimmered faintly in the dark. Their scales glinted under the moonlight like metal armor, their nostrils flaring with every breath that came out in a plume of smoke. One stamped its foot, another gave a low, rumbling growl, and a third let out a sharp, warning screech that made the hairs on Harry’s arms stand on end.

 

It didn’t take long for Harry to understand why they were so agitated.

 

Positioned in front of each cage was a carefully constructed nest—stone-lined, insulated with magical padding, and glowing faintly with protective charms. And nestled inside each one was a clutch of dragon eggs. The dragons weren’t pacing in boredom or hunger—they were guarding. Maternal instincts simmered dangerously close to the surface, and they were all but daring anyone to come too close.

 

Unfortunately, the dragon handlers had come too close.

 

Harry watched as a pair of wizards moved near the cages, floating large haunches of raw meat into the enclosures with careful flicks of their wands. They kept their distance, but it clearly wasn’t enough for the dragons’ liking. The creatures snarled and snapped, flames leaking from their jaws even as the meat was dropped into their cages. One handler stumbled back quickly when a particularly large Welsh Green lashed out at the magical bars, sending a crackle of sparks into the air.

 

Still, the handlers showed no real signs of panic. Their movements were calm and practiced—clearly they’d done this before. Once the food had been distributed, they retreated slowly to a large canvas tent at the edge of the clearing, enchanted to look like part of the surrounding trees.

 

Harry let out a slow breath as the dragons relaxed slightly, their eyes never straying far from their nests. The handlers had done what they could; now it was up to the dragons to decide if they felt safe enough to eat.

 

He couldn’t tear his gaze away. The power of them—the sheer danger wrapped in scales and fire—was humbling. But it wasn’t just fear he felt. There was awe, too.

 

As the handlers disappeared into their tent and the clearing settled into a tense quiet, the dragons slowly began to relax. The scent of raw meat, familiar and tempting, drifted through the air. One by one, the great mothers lowered their heads toward the food, steam curling from their nostrils as they began to eat—still keeping one eye on their nests.

 

Harry held his breath, heart pounding.

 

And then—faint and rasping, like dry leaves brushing stone—he heard it.

 

Hissing. Not the usual snarls or grunts, but something different. Words.

 

Draconic voices, low and guttural, slithered through the air, just barely loud enough for him to catch.

 

“Safe… for now.”

“Meat… same scent. Not poisoned.”

“Hatchlings must stay warm. Guard, guard…”

 

Harry’s eyes widened. Parseltongue. It was Parseltongue.

 

He pressed further into the underbrush, careful not to make a sound as he listened.

 

One of the dragons, a long-necked Hungarian Horntail with a deep scar running down her flank, let out a warning growl and hissed, “They bring no firesticks tonight… but I do not sleep. No trust. No trust.”

 

Another, calmer, responded, “Eggs close. Soon shells break. Then fire will burn. Then sky again.”

 

Harry felt a chill ripple up his spine. They were aware—intelligent, focused, and far more than beasts. They were mothers—alert, protective, and deadly.

 

Taking a slow, steady breath, Harry leaned forward slightly and hissed softly, “You are safe here. No harm will come.”

 

Instantly, all four dragon heads snapped up in unison, eyes glowing like molten amber in the darkness. Their massive bodies went still, and their forked tongues flicked the air, tasting something new. Though hidden under his Invisibility Cloak and buried in shadow, Harry could feel their awareness settle on him—sharp, ancient, and unnervingly intelligent.

 

He had their attention now.

 

“Who speaks?” growled the Hungarian Horntail, her great wings scraping against the metal bars of her cage with a metallic screech. Her golden eyes narrowed to slits, scanning the shadows.

“No human speaks our tongue.”

“Hidden thing… show yourself.”

 

Harry froze beneath the safety of his Invisibility Cloak, his breath shallow, heart thudding wildly in his chest. The air around him had gone impossibly still, save for the low, pulsing heat that radiated from the dragons nearby. He could feel their eyes—not just watching, but searching, sensing. These were not mindless beasts. They were ancient, aware, and listening.

 

Swallowing hard, Harry lifted his head slightly and hissed, slowly and clearly, “I mean no harm. I am human… but I was born with a rare gift. I can speak your tongue, though few like me exist. I came to explain what is happening—because the others, the humans… they cannot speak to you, but they don’t wish you harm.”

 

The Horntail bared her teeth in a slow, measured grin, a column of steam hissing from her nostrils. “You are human,” she said, the word thick with distaste. “And yet you carry the old speech. The trait of serpents.”

 

A low, rumbling snort came from the Welsh Green, “Words mean little. You say no harm, but we are caged. We must protect our eggs from thieves.”

 

“You are right to be angry,” Harry hissed, voice low and steady, though his heart thudded painfully in his chest. “I only ask one thing—if I step forward and reveal myself, can we continue this conversation without harm? I fear that if I’m attacked, the other humans nearby will hear and come running. I’m not supposed to be here… I just want to help.”

 

A long pause followed. The forest quieted around them, save for the soft rustle of leathery wings and the occasional scrape of claws against metal. The dragons loomed in their massive cages like ancient gods behind bars, their eyes glowing in the moonlight.

 

Then a guttural voice rumbled from the Hungarian Horntail, her tail coiling tightly around her clutch of eggs.

 

“Show yourself, Speaker.”

 

Harry swallowed hard and slowly pulled the cloak from his shoulders, rising from the shadows like a ghost. He stepped forward into the faint light cast by the fire pits outside the handlers’ tent, arms raised slightly—not in surrender, but in peace.

 

“I am human,” he said, carefully forming the words in Parseltongue, “but I have a rare gift that allows me to speak to those like you. I wanted to explain what others cannot.”

 

The dragons stared at him with suspicion, pupils narrowing into slits.

 

“You misunderstand the ones who feed you,” he continued. “They are not your captors. At least, not by choice. Most of them work in a place called a Dragon Reserve—a sanctuary. It’s meant to protect your kind from humans who would hunt you for sport, steal your eggs, or carve you up for ingredients.”

 

The Swedish Short-Snout let out a sharp, bitter snort, smoke curling from her nostrils,“And yet here we are—caged like beasts, dragged across the world and forced into strange territory.”

 

“I know,” Harry said quickly, eyes wide and sincere. “And I’m sorry. I don’t think the handlers who brought you here wanted to do this. They were ordered to. This is for a human tradition—a tournament. A contest of bravery and skill.”

 

The Welsh Green hissed, flame licking across her tongue, “A game?” she spat. “They would endanger us—and our children—for a game?”

 

“Yes,” Harry said, the word bitter in his throat. “And no. I don’t think they meant to endanger you. I think you’re being used—to test us. I don’t agree with it. I only came to understand what you were going through. And to warn you… there will be challengers. But not all of them wish you harm.”

 

The Chinese Fireball’s golden eyes narrowed, “And what of you, little human? Are you one of these challengers?”

 

Harry hesitated, the weight of his next words pressing down on him like stone. Then, slowly, he gave a shallow nod.

 

“Unfortunately… yes,” he said quietly. “I was forced into this competition. I never volunteered. The other three did, but even then—I think some of them were pressured, cornered by expectation. None of us really had a choice.”

 

He stepped a little closer, his voice soft but sure, “But I swear to you—I have no desire to hurt you, or your eggs. That’s not why I’m here. If anything, I wish I could protect you. I’ve even thought… maybe one day, I could work at a Dragon Reserve myself. Not like the ones that keep you tethered or caged—but a place where dragons are truly safe.”

 

His eyes gleamed with something more than fear—something like hope, “Lately, I’ve had this dream. Not a vision or a prophecy or anything magical—just a dream. Of a Reserve where dragons can fly freely. No chains. No cages. Just boundaries that protect instead of confine. A place where your kind can live as you were meant to—with fire in your lungs and wind beneath your wings.”

 

He glanced at the cages then, with regret, “Maybe that sounds naïve to you. But I want to believe it’s possible. I want to help make it possible.”

 

The dragons were silent, but the Hungarian Horntail’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, her head tilting ever so slightly. A low growl of consideration rumbled in the chest of the Welsh Green.

 

“I suppose,” Harry continued, voice low and earnest, “if I can prove to the other dragon handlers—someday—that I can truly communicate with your kind… that I have your trust… then maybe they’ll let me be the one to help bridge the gap. I could be the one to explain the boundaries—not as cages or commands, but as protections. Not limits to your freedom, but lines that keep danger out.”

 

He took a breath, his gaze steady, “That way, you wouldn’t have to be chained or locked away. You could live almost entirely free—flying, hunting, raising your young—while still being kept safe from the humans who don’t understand, who might still want to hurt you. That’s the kind of reserve I want to build. Not a prison. A sanctuary.”

 

Another long silence stretched between them. The Horntail shifted, claws creaking against the bars of her cage.

 

“If your words are true,” the Horntail hissed, her voice simmering with both warning and amusement, “then you are a fool… but a polite one.”

 

Harry gave a crooked smile, “Yeah, that checks out.”

 

Could dragons laugh? That low, rumbling snort—half growl, half roar—sent sparks curling into the air. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she found him funny.

 

“I know there’s not much I can do for you right now,” Harry said quietly, his voice low and earnest, “I’m just a student—barely more than a child in your eyes, I imagine. But I wanted to speak with you in the hope that we can make this tournament less dangerous—for all of us.”

 

He took a steadying breath, meeting the Horntail’s golden gaze, “I don’t know exactly what the first task is, but I have a theory. Since all of you are nesting mothers, I think they’re going to place something among your eggs. An object. A decoy. Maybe even something magical. I imagine they’ll move you out of the cages just before the task. When they do, I’d recommend inspecting your nests carefully. If something seems off—if there’s something you didn’t lay—that’s probably what they’re sending us in to retrieve.”

 

He shifted on his feet, aware that every moment spent speaking was borrowed time, “What you do with that information is your choice. I won’t pretend to tell you how to protect your young. But I’m asking you not to kill us. Not the champions. The others won’t know I’ve spoken to you, and I can’t protect them if you decide to attack—but I’m hoping this conversation will mean something. A gesture of trust.”

 

He gave a small bow, hands spread, showing he held no weapon, “Thank you—for listening. I’ll be seeing at least one of you again soon, I expect. Until then… be safe.”

 

With that, Harry slowly stepped backward, reaching for the Invisibility Cloak tucked under his arm, heart thudding as he prepared to leave the dragons behind—and whatever fate the tournament had in store for them all.

Chapter 23: Chapter 23

Chapter 23

 

On the long trek back to the castle, snow had begun to fall in soft, drifting flakes that clung to the bare branches and blanketed the path in white. Hidden beneath his invisibility cloak, Harry moved silently, the world muted except for the crunch of distant footsteps and the occasional whisper of wind. Even with the cloak, he was profoundly grateful for the rich warmth of the coat Valentin had sent him. The chill couldn’t touch him through its fine, charmed fabric.

 

But with every soft gust of wind a twinge of guilt stirred in Harry’s chest. Neville had said that the Noirveil wardrobe was likely worth more than most families made in a year—and what had Harry done? Worn it without much more than a thank-you nod. Nothing personal. Nothing worthy of the gifts.

 

By the time he reached Gryffindor Tower, the idea had begun to take shape—half awful, half brilliant. He wasn’t tired anymore. Not enough to sleep, at least. He could always nap through History of Magic, he reasoned. Instead, Harry settled at his desk and pulled out parchment and ink. Then, in careful script and with only a few blotches from hesitation, he began to write:

 

Monsieur Noirveil,

 

I hope this letter finds you well.

 

Let me begin by saying how honored I am to be a part of your newest line. Your craftsmanship continues to surprise me, and the coat you gifted me has been a godsend—especially now that the snow has started to fall.

 

I realized tonight, quite suddenly, that I haven’t properly thanked you. Not in a way that truly matches the magnitude of your generosity. So I had an idea—something of a request, or maybe more of an offer. I thought it might interest you.

 

The first task of the Triwizard Tournament is coming up soon. While I’m not supposed to know what it is, I have every reason to believe it involves dragons. And, well… I might end up in the papers. Possibly in a rather striking pose beside a nesting dragon. (Don't worry, I plan to survive it.)

 

That got me thinking—if there's a photo, it could be seen around the world. I’d love for what I’m wearing to be one of your designs. Something that speaks of courage and style, maybe even a hint of madness. Free publicity, I suppose… though I know you hardly need it.

 

Still, if this idea sparks any excitement in that beautifully dramatic soul of yours, I would be honored to wear whatever vision you come up with.

 

Warmest regards,

Castor Malfoy

 

Harry winced. Objectively, it was an absolutely ridiculous idea—reckless, even. What kind of student volunteered to turn a life-threatening moment into a fashion statement? But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that this was exactly the kind of theatrics Valentin Noirveil would thrive on.

 

It wasn’t just a battle with a dragon anymore. It was an opportunity—for expression, for defiance, for artistry. And if anyone could turn a potential death sentence into a runway moment, it was Valentin.

 

Harry stared at the sealed envelope on his desk, the wax still cooling. He wasn’t even sure what kind of response he hoped for. Approval? Excitement?

 

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, blinking up at the ceiling of his trunk room. “What am I doing?” he whispered to no one.

 

Still, despite how foolish it seemed, Harry promised himself he’d send it off first thing in the morning. Tomorrow was Friday, and the first task was fast approaching on Tuesday. That gave just four days, but if anyone could summon drama and brilliance with next to no time, it was Noirveil.

 

Besides, it wasn’t just about looking good. It was about reclaiming some control—over how he entered the world’s gaze, over how he faced fear. If he was going to fight a dragon, he might as well do it dressed like he meant to be legendary.

 

With that final thought, Harry tucked the letter safely beside Hedwig’s perch, blew out the lights, and settled into bed. The idea might have been mad—but it felt like the right kind of madness.

 

888

 

Over the next few days, the tension around the tournament began to mount, and Harry could feel it like a weight pressing down on the halls of Hogwarts. His friends, especially Hermione and Neville, grew increasingly anxious—casting him concerned glances when they thought he wasn’t looking, asking him softly if he was sleeping enough, eating enough, if he was nervous.

 

He hadn’t told anyone about the dragons. Not Hermione, not Neville, not even Draco. It had become an unspoken pact between him and Luna—well, and technically Valentin, since he had written to him about the outfit. But beyond that, it remained his secret.

 

Harry knew that keeping something this big to himself was risky, maybe even reckless. But he'd convinced himself that he’d already done the most important thing—he’d spoken to the dragons. Not as a competitor. Not even as a student. But as someone who could actually understand them, who had looked into their eyes and chosen empathy over fear. He had explained things as best he could, tried to prepare them, and above all, begged for mercy not just for himself, but for the others.

 

And in doing so, Harry believed he had protected them all—at least as much as he could. He didn’t think anyone would die in this first task. That alone was enough to let him sleep easier at night, even if his nerves twisted with the thought of fire and wings and teeth.

 

But it wasn’t until later—when he was back in his trunk flipping through notes and potential strategies—that he realized what else he’d done. By appealing to the dragons, by trying to earn their trust, he’d inadvertently given himself an advantage.

 

They would remember him.

 

They would know him.

 

And when the time came, Harry was fairly certain he’d be the one they trusted most to approach their eggs.

 

He hadn’t planned it that way. But now that it had happened… he wasn’t going to pretend it wouldn’t have been a good plan.

 

888

 

Harry used the upcoming tournament as the perfect excuse to spend most of the weekend in solitude. It wasn’t a complete disappearance—Hermione and Neville insisted he join them for breakfast and lunch, and he didn’t have the heart to say no. Draco, however, took a more possessive approach, deciding that if Harry was too busy for quality time during the day, then he would simply be joining the Slytherin table for supper. “Non-negotiable,” Draco had said with a lift of his chin.

 

All things considered, it ended up being an ideal arrangement.

 

Harry thrived in the quiet. He always had. Perhaps it stemmed from his childhood cupboard but it also gave him space to avoid talking about dragons, Sirius, or the complicated tangle of feelings he hadn’t sorted through yet.

 

He didn’t mind spending time with his friends—he genuinely appreciated them—but the solitude gave him something different: clarity. And, if he was honest with himself, a sense of control.

 

It was almost ironic. Since Ron had distanced himself, Harry’s social circle had somehow grown. He’d gotten closer to Neville—more than he ever had when Ron had been around—and Hermione had remained a constant. Then there was Luna, who had appeared like a whisper of wonder into his life, and Draco, who always made his presence known whether Harry asked for it or not.

 

Even Slytherins like Vince and Greg, who he would’ve once avoided out of habit, had turned out to be more than just looming figures behind Draco. They had become… oddly reliable in their own way. Comforting, even.

 

Harry had once thought that losing Ron would leave a hollow gap in his life. But now, looking around at the quiet, solid friendships he was building, he realized that he might have come out of that best friend breakup with the better end of the deal.

 

888

The day before the first task, Hogwarts was practically vibrating with excitement. Students buzzed through the halls like restless bees, whispering theories and placing bets, craning their necks to catch glimpses of the champions whenever possible. Even classes felt looser, less focused—everyone’s attention pointed firmly toward the stadium being built just beyond the Forbidden Forest.

 

Harry had been doing his best to avoid the growing crowds, slipping down lesser-used corridors and taking the long way to most destinations. It worked—mostly. But just as he turned a quiet corner near the Charms corridor, he was stopped by a familiar gruff voice.

 

“Malfoy. A word.”

 

Mad-Eye Moody stood blocking the hallway like a wall of scar tissue and paranoia, his magical eye twitching erratically as it locked onto Harry.

 

Resigned, Harry nodded and followed the man into an empty classroom, where Moody closed the door behind them with a sharp click.

 

“You got a plan for tomorrow?” Moody asked without preamble, his voice like gravel in a tin cup.

 

Harry blinked, keeping his expression mild. He was supposed to pretend ignorance, “Same as always,” he said with a shrug, “Show up. Hope I don’t die.”

 

Moody stared at him, dumbfounded, “Merlin’s beard, boy—do you have no sense of self-preservation?”

 

Harry tilted his head, letting a slow smile curl at the corner of his mouth, “Not really. That’s more of a Slytherin thing, isn’t it?”

 

Moody’s mouth twitched, somewhere between a snarl and a smirk. “You might’ve been sorted right after all—cunning, sure, but reckless as a bloody Niffler in a jewelry shop.”

 

Harry said nothing. He liked winding Moody up, and besides, the less the man thought he had a strategy, the better. Let them all underestimate him.

Moody stepped in, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly warning. “Listen, Castor. You’ve got brains, sure—but you’re about to face dragons. Real ones. This isn’t like forgetting your homework or losing a duel in the hallway. If you slip up, you don’t get a scolding… you get turned to smoke.”

 

Harry tilted his head slightly, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips, “Did Dumbledore ever mention the time I killed a basilisk?”

 

Moody’s magical eye froze in its socket. His normal one narrowed.

 

“No,” he said slowly, clearly thrown off balance. “He left out that particular bedtime story.”

 

Harry gave a lopsided smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Twelve years old. Chamber of Secrets. No wand. Just a sword and a phoenix who cried on me after I got bit.”

 

Moody looked at him as though trying to determine whether he was joking. When it became clear Harry wasn’t, the ex-Auror let out a low whistle.

 

“You’re either lucky or completely mad.”

 

“Bit of both,” Harry said casually, adjusting the strap of his bag. “I have Black blood. But the point is, I’ve seen worse than scales and teeth. I’m not scared of a dragon.”

 

Moody grunted, “Fear keeps you sharp. Arrogance gets you killed.”

 

Harry’s expression sobered slightly, “I’m not being arrogant, Professor. I just… I know how to keep my head when everything’s going wrong.”

 

Moody regarded him for a long, silent beat. Then, with the faintest hint of approval in his gruff voice, he said, “Let’s hope you keep it on your shoulders.”

 

Harry gave a nod, turning toward the door.

 

“Constant vigilance,” Moody called after him.

 

Harry didn’t turn back, but his voice carried down the hall as he walked away, “Always.”

 

As he rounded the corridor, the murmur of the school’s anticipation returned—voices echoing from the Great Hall, the fluttering of owls overhead, the rustle of feet hurrying to their next class. But Harry walked through it all in a bubble of eerie calm.

 

888

The morning of the first task dawned with a tension that seemed to seep into every corner of the castle. As Harry sat picking at his breakfast, Hedwig swooped gracefully into the Great Hall, dropping a familiar-looking package in front of him. It was one of Valentin’s—charmingly modest in size on the outside, but unmistakably expanded on the inside, enchanted with the couturier’s usual flair.

 

Harry’s lips quirked into a smirk as he pulled it closer. Despite the nerves churning in his stomach, a flicker of excitement lit in his chest. Leave it to Valentin to give him something to look forward to on a day like today. Oddly enough, he wasn’t all that afraid of the dragon anymore—not really. What unsettled him more was the crowd. The judges, the students, the swarming photographers and reporters who would be waiting to immortalize his every misstep. If he failed, it would be on the front page of the Daily Prophet in full color by breakfast tomorrow.

 

But at least, thanks to Valentin, he’d fail in style.

 

As he ran his fingers over the sleek package, imagining what dramatic masterpiece of fashion might be waiting inside, movement at the far end of the hall made him freeze. Draco was approaching, and he wasn’t alone.

 

Trailing behind him, regal and perfectly poised, were Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

 

Harry’s breath caught.

 

He had assumed they would come—they were family, and this was a high-profile event—but some part of him had hoped for a last-minute owl from Narcissa, saying she was too busy or simply couldn’t bear the nerves of watching her son face a deadly task. But here she was, gliding beside her husband like a queen returning to her court.

 

Harry felt his pulse stutter, the weight of her presence pressing into his chest like a stone. How was he supposed to look her in the eye after everything? After Sirius, after the letter he barely managed to write, after the hollow confusion gnawing at him ever since?

 

He wasn’t ready. Not for her smile. Not for her disappointment. Not for the look he feared might be hidden behind her composed exterior.

 

He gripped the package tighter, forcing his gaze down at his barely-touched food, hoping the butterflies in his stomach didn’t find a way out.

 

Today, of all days, he couldn’t afford to come undone.

 

He sat stiffly at the Gryffindor table, staring at his barely touched breakfast as the morning noise of the Great Hall swirled around him. The package from Valentin—charm-shrunk and nestled beside his plate—sat like a promise and a threat. Harry was both excited and absolutely dreading the moment he’d have to put it on.

 

His nerves weren’t about the dragon.

 

Not exactly.

 

It was everything else. The crowds. The judges. The cameras. The moment the entire magical world saw him either rise or fall.

 

And then he heard her voice.

 

“Castor?”

 

He looked up. Narcissa stood just behind him, her gloved hands folded neatly in front of her. Lucius was beside her, as elegant and unreadable as ever. Behind them, Draco gave him a pointed look that Harry couldn’t quite decipher.

 

“We’ve had you excused from your morning classes,” Narcissa said softly, with a gentle but unyielding tone. “Once you’ve finished eating, we’re going to Severus’s quarters—as a family.”

 

As a family. The words hung in the air like a vow.

 

Harry’s stomach churned. He hadn’t been able to eat anyway.

 

He pushed his plate away, “I’m finished.”

 

He stood, grabbing the box from Valentin, and offered only a nod to Hermione and Neville. They looked concerned, but said nothing. Draco fell into step beside him without a word, and together they left the Great Hall with the quiet formality of a family heading to a funeral.

 

Down in the dungeons, the halls were cool and quiet. The torches burned low along the stone walls, and for a moment, the silence made it feel like time had slowed around them. Harry trailed behind slightly, hugging the box to his chest as they approached Professor Snape’s door.

 

It opened before they could knock.

 

Severus stood there, dressed in his usual black robes, expression unreadable. He stepped aside to let them in. Snape’s quarters were tucked deep within the dungeons—cool, quiet, and dimly lit. The walls were lined with shelves of old books, potion vials, and neatly labeled ingredients, everything arranged with meticulous care.

 

A low-burning fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The furniture was dark and heavy—black leather armchairs and matching love seat, a long oak desk with stacks of parchment, and a tall cabinet. The space felt more like a study than a living area, but there was a subtle, unexpected warmth to it—perhaps from the steady fire, or the faint scent of cloves and potion smoke that lingered in the air.

 

Narcissa gestured for him to sit, “You’ll need time to prepare, darling. We thought it best you do so in peace.”

 

Harry sat on the edge of one of the leather armchairs, setting the box carefully on the low table. His hands hovered over it but didn’t open it yet.

 

Lucius stood near the hearth, cane in hand, saying nothing for a long moment. Then: “We don’t know what you’re about to face, Castor. But we know you’ll face it well.”

 

“You’re clever,” Narcissa added gently, sitting beside him. “And more capable than you give yourself credit for.”

 

Draco leaned against the far wall and crossed his arms, “You’re not allowed to die. I told people you’d win.”

 

Despite himself, Harry smiled. Just a little. The kind that didn’t reach his eyes but settled the edge of his nerves.

 

He looked back down at the box.

 

“All right, Valentin. Let’s see what kind of brilliance you’ve dreamt up this time,” Harry muttered under his breath, mostly to himself, his fingers tightening around the soft, deceptively small parcel. His heart was beating a little faster now—not from nerves about the task ahead, but from curiosity and the creeping edge of adrenaline.

 

“Where’s the washroom? I need to get ready,” Harry asked, already scanning the dimly lit corners of Snape’s sitting room. The request was as much about preparing for the task as it was about needing a few minutes to breathe, away from all the watching eyes.

 

“The door on the left,” Draco replied, his gaze lingering on the parcel in Harry’s hands with both suspicion and intrigue. He didn’t ask what was inside, but Harry could tell he wanted to.

 

With a nod of thanks, Harry crossed the sitting room, the heavy hush of the dungeon quarters broken only by the faint flick of firelight from the hearth. He passed through the arched door Draco had indicated and stepped into the washroom.

 

The bathroom was just as he would have imagined for Snape—sleek, utilitarian, and scrupulously clean. The floor was tiled in a dark slate grey, polished to a muted sheen, and the walls were lined in a deep, bottle-green marble that reflected the faint light of flickering enchanted sconces. There was a clawfoot tub set into an alcove to one side, a stone sink with a high-backed mirror above it, and a shelf neatly arranged with potions—most likely for headaches, burns, and hangovers.

 

Harry locked the door behind him, set the parcel on the edge of the counter, and took a deep breath. For the moment, it was quiet. The task was hours away, and the bathroom smelled faintly of sandalwood and something antiseptic—like old potion steam and new soap.

 

He turned to the parcel, “Right then, Valentin,” he whispered, “what have you sent me to meet a dragon in?”

 

With careful fingers, he began to unwrap the package.

 

Inside the parcel lay an ensemble that could only have come from the mind of Valentin Noirveil—equal parts statement and function, with a distinct flair for drama.

 

On top, folded with precision, was a sleek black high-collared jacket, tailored from a weatherproof, flexible material that shimmered subtly in the light like polished obsidian. The interior was lined in soft, silvery-white velvet for comfort, and the shoulders were structured but not stiff—designed to frame rather than restrict. Its seams were reinforced with subtle silvery stitching, giving the jacket a slightly otherworldly gleam, and along the cuffs and inside collar was embroidered a barely-there repeating motif of phoenix feathers—symbolic, perhaps, but subtle enough not to provoke anything territorial.

 

Beneath it was a fitted tunic-shirt in off-white, long-sleeved and breathable, the collar slightly asymmetrical and fastened with a single dark mother-of-pearl button at the throat. The shirt felt impossibly light, but layered well for warmth.

 

Next came a pair of black trousers with stretch and structure, reinforced at the knees and inner thighs with textured spell-resistant fabric—perfect for running, ducking, or rolling if necessary, but still cut sharp enough to pass for fashion.

 

Then came the boots: matte black leather, supple and unscuffed, with silver buckles at the ankle and calf that clicked silently closed. The soles were enchanted for grip, no matter the terrain, and there was an elegant swoop of white leather detailing at the toe that matched the coat lining.

 

There was even a pair of black gloves, lightly warded, the palms textured for grip and the backs adorned with the faintest shimmering embroidery: a minimalist silver V, possibly Valentin’s subtle signature.

 

At the bottom of the parcel was a slim, handwritten card on thick white parchment, in Valentin’s impeccable script:

 

To my dragon-dancing muse,

 

I am honored that you made such a request of me. Please do inform me of any other outfits you will need for our line. This outfit will be part of the Castor Active Wear collection that I have just decided we needed.

Make any requests you desire, my muse.

 

—V

 

Harry couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face as he ran his fingers over the finely stitched signature at the bottom.

 

It was perfect—practical, elegant, and unmistakably unique. Somehow, even standing barefoot on the cool stone floor of Snape’s private bathroom, he felt like he could walk into a battlefield or a runway and belong in both.

 

He finished dressing carefully, taking a moment to adjust the cuffs of his jacket and smooth down the embroidered collar. The fit was flawless, like the outfit had been conjured with his body in mind rather than measured from afar. The gloves slid on like second skin, and the boots—silent as shadows—felt weightless and grounded all at once.

 

With one last glance in the mirror, he gave his reflection a small, steady nod.

 

“All right, dragon-dancer,” he muttered to himself, voice quiet but sure, “let’s give them something to talk about.”

 

He exited the washroom with composed steps, the click of his boots barely audible.

 

Narcissa was seated gracefully on one of Snape’s dark velvet armchairs, Lucius standing behind her with a cup of tea, while Draco leaned on the mantle looking every inch the picture of carefully masked nerves.

 

The moment Harry emerged, conversation stopped. All three turned to look.

 

Draco straightened, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. Narcissa tilted her head with a slow, impressed smile. Lucius set down his teacup with a soft clink.

 

“Well,” Draco drawled, trying and failing to sound casual, “Valentin outdid himself. Again.”

 

“You look…” Narcissa stood, her eyes scanning the outfit with pride, “formidable. And entirely too fashionable for something so dangerous.”

 

“I assume you feel ready?” Lucius added, quieter but no less direct.

 

Harry gave the barest of nods, adjusting the hem of his jacket, “As ready as I can be.”

 

None of them knew what was coming.

And Harry didn’t intend to tell them.

Not yet.

Notes:

Okay Valentin Noirveil was intended just for a few scenes but now I think he's turning into Castor's own version of Cinna from the Hunger Games.

Chapter 24: Chapter 24

Summary:

DRAGONS!

Chapter 24

 

The family shared a quiet, subdued lunch, brought by Mipsy on a silver tray. The clinking of cutlery was soft, conversation almost nonexistent. Harry barely touched his plate—his stomach too tightly knotted to consider food.

 

Lucius eventually checked his pocket watch and cleared his throat, “It’s time. We’re expected to meet Professor McGonagall at the main entrance.”

 

Harry nodded silently and rose, smoothing the front of his coat.

 

The walk down through the castle was a spectacle in itself. The polished corridors echoed with the sound of precise footsteps, the Malfoys moving like a procession—dignified, composed, and impossible to ignore. Students parted instinctively, casting curious and wary glances as Castor Malfoy strode down the hall in his striking black-and-white ensemble, flanked by the infamous Malfoy parents. Whispers followed them like a breeze, but no one dared approach.

 

Harry could feel the weight of their attention, but he focused on his breathing, every step measured and steady.

 

At the castle’s great front doors stood Professor McGonagall, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, mouth pressed into a fine line. She looked up as they approached and gave a crisp nod, though her expression was taut with concern.

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” she greeted, voice firm but gentler than usual. “The Champions are assembling. Your parents will be escorted to the stands with the other families.”

 

Lucius inclined his head politely, though his gaze remained fixed on Harry.

 

Before McGonagall could lead him away, Narcissa stepped forward and, without hesitation, pulled Harry into a quick, fierce hug. It was brief, but the tension in her arms said everything words would not.

 

“Be careful,” she whispered in his ear, just for him.

 

Harry nodded once, throat tight.

 

Then, with a final glance at the three Malfoys watching him go, he followed Professor McGonagall down the stone steps and onto the path.

 

As they made their way across the grounds, Professor McGonagall walked with brisk purpose, but her eyes kept darting toward Harry with barely concealed concern.

 

“Are you feeling alright, Mr. Malfoy?” she asked softly, her usual crisp tone gentled with care. “It’s natural to be nervous—but do try to keep your wits about you. Focus. Think before you act. You’ve proven yourself more than capable, but this… this is different.”

 

Harry nodded mutely, unable to find his voice. It was all starting to feel real now—the thrum of the crowd in the distance, the scent of smoke in the cold air, the growing weight in his chest.

 

They reached a large, enchanted tent flanking the edge of the arena. Its exterior shimmered faintly, humming with protective wards. McGonagall stopped just before the flap, turned toward him, and placed a hand lightly on his shoulder.

 

“Good luck, Castor,” she said, her voice low and tremulous, eyes sharp behind her spectacles. “Truly.”

 

He gave a faint smile and stepped inside.

 

The interior of the tent was much larger than it appeared, with rugs on the ground, a few chairs, and partitioned dressing areas along the side. Ludo Bagman stood near the entrance, clapping his hands together as Harry entered.

 

“There you are! Just in time!” Bagman said brightly, ushering him further in. “You can go change behind that curtain there—”

 

“I’m good, thank you,” Harry cut in politely but firmly, gesturing to his sleek monochrome ensemble. “I’m already dressed.”

 

Bagman blinked in confusion, clearly unused to having his instructions declined. Harry, however, had already turned his attention to the other Champions.

 

They were all wearing practical athletic gear bearing the colors of their respective schools. Krum looked tense and annoyed in deep crimson and black; Fleur, poised but fidgeting, wore a striking blue-and-silver ensemble—though her skirt looked uncomfortably short. Cedric, standing nearest the tent flap, was in a goldenrod Hufflepuff tunic with charcoal accents.

 

Fleur raised an eyebrow, her sharp gaze running appraisingly over Harry’s outfit, “You are not wearing school colors?”

 

Harry shook his head. “No. I’m wearing Valentin Noirveil.”

 

Bagman frowned, clearly not following, “Why?”

 

“Because he is the most eccentric and brilliant designer alive,” Harry replied with a smirk. “He’s been sending me a number of gifts, and I’ve decided to commit entirely. I now only wear his designs.”

 

“Only?” Fleur echoed, eyes wide in disbelief.

 

Harry nodded solemnly, “Yes, well, I think if I showed up in someone else’s design, the man might cry. And frankly, I like him. He’s completely mad, but sweet in his own terrifying way.”

 

Fleur’s lips twitched into a smile, “Zat outfit—I do not recognize it. Is it from a new collection?”

 

“It’s from a new line he just invented this week,” Harry said with exaggerated nonchalance. “Castor Active Wear. Inspired by yours truly.”

 

Even Krum snorted at that, while Cedric gave Harry a low whistle, “No pressure or anything,” he joked.

 

Harry offered a half-shrug, leaning casually against one of the support beams, “If I’m going to die, I might as well look good doing it.”

 

Bagman clapped his hands for attention, beaming like this was a garden party rather than a life-threatening event.

 

“Right then, Champions! Time to pick your task!”

 

He held out a velvet pouch, from which each of them was to draw a tiny, enchanted dragon model representing their opponent—along with a number indicating the order of competition.

 

Fleur went first, pulling out a Welsh Green and the number two. Her face remained impressively unreadable. Krum followed, drawing the Chinese Fireball and number three, his jaw tightening as he stared at the little figurine. Cedric was next—Swedish Short-snout, number one. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like “brilliant.”

 

Harry stepped forward last and dipped his hand into the bag, fingers brushing warm bits of magic and charmed cloth before closing around one.

 

The dragon was unmistakable: dark-scaled, winged, with a spiked tail and flickering flame licking out from its snout. The Hungarian Horntail. Number four.

 

Of course.

 

He stared down at the tiny creature in his palm as it growled up at him, wings flexing like it was raring to fight right then and there.

 

It both pleased and irritated him.

 

The Horntail was the most talkative dragon he’d spoken to. He’d made a connection—or at least he hoped he had—but it also meant going last. He wouldn’t get to see how the other dragons reacted to their champions. No doubt Bagman thought going last was some sort of dramatic flourish, but to Harry, it meant more time to overthink.

 

Still, the upside was clear: the last performance was often the one remembered most. That could mean more favorable judging—if he didn’t completely mess it up.

 

He stepped back, slipping the tiny Horntail into the palm of his glove.

 

Bagman was already launching into another burst of over-enthusiastic directions. “Right! Now, once you're called, you’ll enter the arena and attempt to retrieve the golden egg guarded by your dragon. You may use any means at your disposal—so be clever!”

 

Harry glanced sideways at the others, especially Krum. The older boy looked like he was rehearsing something in his head. Fleur was still impossibly calm. Cedric looked slightly pale but determined.

 

The tension in the tent grew with each passing second.

 

Harry took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He didn’t have a plan. But he did have the dragon’s trust—or something close to it. That would have to be enough.

 

He gently closed his hand around the miniature Horntail, “Let’s hope you still like me,” he muttered under his breath.

“First up—Cedric Diggory!” came the magically projected voice of the announcer, echoing faintly through the walls of the champions’ tent.

 

Outside, the crowd began to roar as the Cedric was called forward.

 

Though he could not see the task Harry could hear the commentary.

 

“The Swedish Short-Snout is alert, shimmering silver-blue in the sunlight. A notoriously fiery breed, folks, with one of the most concentrated flame bursts of any dragon in existence. But wait—she seems preoccupied with her nest. Yes, she’s nudging the eggs with her snout… keeping her wings low and tight. Protective posture.”

 

There was a pause. Then, “Mr. Diggory is edging closer. So far, so good… But now—oh! Interesting development!”

 

The crowd’s reaction rose like a wave before tapering off.

 

“She’s settled… wait—she’s gone to sleep? No sign of aggression, just curled around her eggs like a particularly scaly hen. That’s... highly unusual for this breed.”

 

Harry’s brows furrowed. He hadn’t told the dragons to do that. Just to be careful. Just not to hurt anyone.

 

The announcer continued, “Diggory seems unsure how to proceed. He’s trying a few mild spells—likely rousing charms, maybe a tickling hex or two—but there’s no movement from the dragon. She appears entirely undisturbed.”

 

More murmurs from the crowd filtered through the fabric of the tent.

 

“And now—ah! A clever maneuver! Mr. Diggory’s transfigured a nearby rock into a barking terrier. It’s yipping away near the dragon’s head, trying to get her to rise.”

 

Harry closed his eyes, almost wishing he could see what was going on—almost. Please don’t let this be a disaster, he thought. I asked you not to attack. Not to nap on your eggs.

 

The announcer’s voice turned mildly incredulous, “The dragon is... entirely ignoring the dog. This level of calm is practically unheard of. It's as though she’s chosen peace. That does, however, pose a serious challenge—her wings are fully covering the golden egg. Mr. Diggory has no clear path forward unless he risks slipping underneath.”

 

There was a long stretch of silence. The sounds outside grew quieter.

 

Harry’s chest tightened. Had Cedric backed off? Was he stalling? Hurt?

 

Then—relief.

 

“Wait—he’s climbing! Taking the high ground. Perhaps aiming to startle her from above… risky, but bold!”

 

Harry exhaled slowly. He hadn’t meant to help himself in the task. But he was starting to realize: maybe asking the dragons to spare them had been... a bit more powerful than expected.

 

“Oh! That’s got to hurt!” the announcer cried, voice rising with the sudden stir in the crowd. “The dragon has most definitely noticed the climbing champion now—ah, and there it is! With a powerful beat of her wings, she’s knocked Mr. Diggory clean off the rock face! He’s been thrown several feet—down into the sand! Still no fire, though. How very strange!”

 

Harry pressed his lips together, barely suppressing the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was working. The dragons had actually listened to him. They weren’t playing along, per se—but they weren’t fighting dirty, either.

 

A long stretch of silence followed. Occasionally, a murmur from the crowd or a far-off rustle would break the tension, but no roaring. No screams. No fire.

 

Minutes passed. Nearly half an hour.

 

Finally, the announcer’s voice returned, calm but sympathetic, “The judges have called it. Mr. Diggory put forth a valiant effort—persistent, creative—but was unable to retrieve the egg. His attempt will be scored accordingly.”

 

There was no mention of the score—just polite clapping that filtered faintly through the tent’s enchanted canvas walls, followed by a lull. Harry imagined Cedric being led away, probably disappointed.

 

A few more minutes passed in stillness, before a new wave of cheers signaled the next champion’s turn.

 

“And now—Fleur Delacour!” the announcer boomed. “Representing Beauxbatons Academy, Ms. Delacour faces the Common Welsh Green! While not the most aggressive of dragon breeds, these creatures are fiercely protective of their young and known for their precise, narrow flame—perfect aim, limited warning.”

 

Harry held his breath as the crowd roared again in welcome. So far, so good.

 

“Ms. Delacour is moving with grace and caution,” the announcer noted, voice thoughtful. “She’s weaving to the left, keeping low—wand at the ready. The Welsh Green hasn’t made a move yet. Interesting… she seems more focused on her eggs than the approaching champion.”

 

There was a beat of silence, then a puzzled hum from the announcer.

 

“Much like the Swedish Short-Snout earlier, this dragon is… unusually calm. She’s watching Fleur, yes, but not reacting aggressively. No fire, no lunging. In fact, she’s shifting around her nest—look at that! Just like the last one, she’s pulling her wings tighter around the eggs, forming a sort of barrier. Protective, not offensive.”

 

A murmur spread through the crowd, faintly audible even inside the tent.

 

“Very peculiar behavior. One would expect more defensive aggression at this range. Could it be the handlers did something to calm them before the task? Or are we seeing a new trend in dragon temperament?”

 

Harry leaned forward slightly, listening hard, heart pounding. The dragons were following his suggestion again—guarding, shielding, but not attacking. They were giving warnings, but no bloodshed. Just as he’d hoped.

 

“Well, Fleur is attempting a distraction now—smoke spells, clever—trying to draw the dragon’s gaze away from the nest. But the Welsh Green isn’t budging. She’s dug in like a mountain. This is beginning to feel eerily familiar…”

 

Another long pause.

 

“And that’s time! The judges are calling it again. A solid effort from Ms. Delacour, but she’s also been unable to retrieve the egg. Still, a graceful approach and no casualties—perhaps that’s the new standard.”

 

Harry let out a quiet breath of relief. Two down, no injuries. He hoped it stayed that way.

 

888

 

As the dragons were being swapped out for the next phase of the task, the mood among the handlers grew increasingly tense. While the majority of the crowd remained focused on the spectacle of the Tournament, the dragon handlers were huddling together in whispered, urgent conversation—clearly far more interested in the dragons’ odd behavior than the scores or the champions’ performances.

 

“This isn’t right,” grumbled the Head Dragon Handler, his thick brows drawn together in a scowl. “Did someone give the dragons something? A calming draught? A Confundus Charm?”

 

His sharp voice cut through the quiet murmurs, causing several nearby assistants to freeze mid-task. No one responded immediately, but glances were exchanged—confused, uncertain.

 

“I want an answer!” he snapped, turning in a slow circle to face the other handlers. “They’re acting tame. We brought nesting mothers—they should be raging at the slightest provocation!”

 

Still no response. Then Charlie Weasley, sleeves rolled up and soot smudged across one cheek, stepped forward cautiously.

 

“They’ve been… calm for days, sir,” he offered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought it was just the forest. It’s quiet here, peaceful. Maybe it reminded them of a reserve.”

 

The Head Handler narrowed his eyes, “And you didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

 

“I didn’t think it was a problem,” Charlie said honestly. “They didn’t act drugged or dazed. Just... watchful. Hasn’t anyone else noticed? When we brought them their meat this morning, not one of them so much as growled. They just stared at me like—like they were waiting for something.”

 

There was a beat of silence as that strange statement settled over the group.

 

“Dragons don’t wait,” one of the junior handlers muttered uneasily. “They attack.”

 

Charlie looked toward the arena pens with a troubled expression, and shrugged, “I don’t know what caused it, but I could only see it as a good thing. I thought maybe they were becoming more comfortable around us.”

 

888

 

"And now stepping into the arena—we have Viktor Krum of Durmstrang Institute! He’ll be facing the Chinese Fireball, a dragon known for its bright scarlet scales, golden spikes, and a fireball-shaped flame it can release in short, powerful bursts. This breed is not only ferocious but highly intelligent… let’s see how Mr. Krum handles it."

 

There was a moment of quiet as the commentator paused, likely watching the scene closely.

 

“The Fireball appears to be… oddly still. Much like the previous dragons, she’s curled protectively around her clutch of eggs and seems entirely uninterested in the approaching Champion.”

 

There was a murmur from the crowd, a ripple of confusion and anticipation.

 

“Krum is approaching slowly, wand out, clearly prepared for an ambush. But… there’s no attack. In fact, she hasn’t moved a muscle except to follow his steps with her eyes. Curious behavior for a nesting mother—”

 

A loud crack echoed through the stadium.

 

“Ooh! Krum has just cast a Blasting Hex at a nearby rock—likely attempting to startle her into moving. Still, no response from the Fireball beyond a slight twitch of her spines.”

 

Another pause, then:

 

“Now he’s trying again—this time a Stinging Jinx, aimed just to the side of her flank. Bold move from Mr. Krum, but it looks like—yes, that got a reaction!”

 

A rumble sounded from the arena, low and deep, like thunder in the earth.

 

“The dragon’s lifted her head, nostrils flaring—there’s a warning in that posture. And—there it is! A controlled burst of flame, neatly aimed to scorch the ground in front of him. No direct attack, but a clear warning. She’s saying stay back.”

 

The commentator let out a short laugh, half in disbelief.

 

“Krum appears irritated now—he’s pacing, casting what looks like a series of jinxes around the perimeter of the nest, but the dragon is holding her ground. Still no sign of aggression unless provoked.”

 

A beat passed, the commentator clearly thrown off script, “I must say, we’ve never seen behavior like this. Three dragons now, and all seem far more intent on defending rather than attacking. It’s as though they’ve been told this is a game they refuse to play.”

 

The crowd buzzed in hushed curiosity as the commentary trailed into silence, the scene growing stranger with each passing minute.

 

Harry didn’t even try to hold back his laughter.

 

It bubbled out of him unexpectedly, sharp and honest and almost absurd given the moment. He was the last Champion left, sitting alone in the tent with nothing but nerves, the remnants of others’ adrenaline, and a secret he couldn’t share with anyone. And yet—he couldn’t stop grinning.

 

Because the dragons were refusing to play.

 

And it was working.

 

They weren’t attacking. They were doing what he’d hoped—protecting their young and issuing warnings, but nothing lethal. He’d asked for restraint, and they were showing it. Not just with him, but with everyone.

 

It was enough to make him dizzy with relief.

 

“Brilliant girls,” he muttered under his breath, still grinning. “Absolutely brilliant.”

 

Outside, the commentator’s voice resumed, still clearly baffled.

 

“Well, folks, that was certainly not the fiery spectacle we expected from the Chinese Fireball, but it was a fascinating display of defensive instinct. Viktor Krum will be judged on his tactical approach, though he was unable to retrieve the egg.”

 

 

Harry leaned back on the bench, staring at the tent’s ceiling. In just a few minutes, it would be his turn. And unlike the others, he wouldn’t be guessing what to expect.

 

He already knew who he’d be facing.

 

And he suspected she was waiting for him.

888

In the crowd, tension still buzzing from Viktor’s failed attempt, Draco leaned subtly toward his parents, his voice low but certain, “Castor did this.”

 

Lucius arched a skeptical brow, “What makes you think that? The dragons’ behavior has been odd, yes, but—”

 

“I know dragons,” Draco cut in, eyes never leaving the arena. “I’ve read every book on them in the manor. The only time I’ve ever heard of a dragon remaining this calm in the presence of humans was in Secrets of the Scaled. There was an account of a Hebridean Black that only relaxed after being spoken to—in Parseltongue.”

 

Lucius glanced toward the arena thoughtfully, the pieces beginning to fall into place.

 

Draco’s voice softened, tinged with a kind of admiration he rarely showed, “He didn’t just plan for himself. He made sure the dragons wouldn’t kill anyone.”

 

Narcissa, who had been quietly gripping the arms of her seat, let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her posture softened just slightly, her lips curling into a faint smile.

 

“So,” she said, more to herself than anyone else, “he did have a strategy. And here I was worried he was just being reckless.”

 

Lucius gave a thoughtful hum, still watching the entrance to the arena.

 

Draco allowed himself a smirk, “You’ll see. They’ll remember what he does today.”

 

888

“It is now time for our fourth and final Champion… Castor Malfoy!”

 

The crowd stirred with anticipation, their collective murmur swelling as Harry drew a steady breath and stepped through the archway into the arena. The noise hit him all at once—cheering students, excited whispers, the occasional shout of encouragement or doubt—but he barely registered it.

 

The sunlight was sharp overhead, glinting off the stone and sand of the enclosure as he emerged into full view. Draped in the sleek black-and-white ensemble from Valentin’s newest line, his coat fluttered slightly in the breeze, striking against the golden autumn light. The tailored boots made no sound as he strode forward, the air oddly quieting in his mind as he spotted the Horntail.

 

There she was—larger than life, armored in jagged black scales, and curled protectively around her nest of eggs. Her slit-pupiled eyes were already on him, her head lifting slowly, nostrils flaring.

 

Harry didn’t raise his wand. He simply met her gaze.

 

There were gasps from the crowd. Perhaps they expected him to bolt. Perhaps they thought he had frozen in fear. But Harry was completely still, only his fingers twitching ever so slightly as he prepared to speak.

 

The dragon gave a low growl—deep and rumbling—but didn’t move.

 

The commentator faltered for a moment, clearly caught off guard, then cleared their throat and spoke with a touch of disbelief, “Er… Castor Malfoy has entered the arena. The Horntail is watching him closely, but… she’s made no move to attack.”

 

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, but his expression remained composed. Calm. He walked with measured grace across the arena floor, ignoring the roar of the crowd as he approached a large, jagged boulder. With steady steps, he climbed atop it—elevating himself, making sure he was clearly visible not just to the audience, but to the dragon herself.

 

Unlike the others, she didn’t curl tighter around her nest. Instead, the Horntail shifted forward, rising slowly to her full height. Her wings unfurled slightly with a shudder of tension, not in threat—but in recognition. She advanced with heavy steps, her amber eyes locked on his. The arena went utterly silent as she lowered her head until she and Harry were nearly face to face.

 

Then—astonishingly—she dipped her head in a slow, deliberate bow.

 

Gasps echoed from the stands, followed by a low wave of murmurs.

 

“The Hungarian Horntail… appears to be bowing to Mr. Malfoy,” the commentator said, voice edged with awe. “I—I’ve never seen anything like it.”

 

Harry didn’t look at the crowd. His focus remained on her. He gave her the smallest smile and whispered just loud enough for the dragon, “Thank you. All of you.”

 

A low rumble vibrated through the dragon’s chest—words shaped in Parseltongue that only he could understand.

 

The Horntail’s words echoed through Harry’s mind, full of gravity and grace:

 

“We have shared the dream you gave voice to. We wish for the life you saw in your heart. For our children, we choose a future beyond chains. This is our answer: trust, in return for hope.”

 

Harry’s breath caught. The lump in his throat was sudden, uninvited, and deeply real. He hadn’t expected this—this level of understanding, of kinship. Of choice.

 

Then, the Horntail lowered her massive, spiked head once more, slow and reverent.

 

“To build that future, we must show our faith in you, little one,” she hissed gently, each word resonating like ancient thunder. “Climb on.”

 

Harry blinked, stunned. For a beat, he stood frozen, unable to move. Then, instinct—something deeper than thought—took over. He nodded once, solemnly, and stepped forward with deliberate care.

 

The Horntail shifted, to give him better access. The crowd was murmuring again, stunned into silence and then into a swelling tide of disbelief and awe as Harry, without hesitation, climbed onto the back of a dragon.

 

Not with force.

 

Not with magic.

 

But with permission.

 

The commentator’s voice cracked through the stillness, nearly breathless, “Castor Malfoy has… mounted the Horntail. She—she allowed it. She’s not attacking, she’s accepting him.”

 

There was no saddle. No bridle. Just Harry’s fingers curled around a ridged spike at the base of her neck as the great creature unfolded her wings and gave a testing flap. Dirt scattered. Onlookers flinched. And then—

 

The Horntail leapt.

 

Up into the sky.

 

The stadium erupted. Screams and cheers tangled together in a chaos of disbelief and amazement as the boy and the dragon soared above the arena. She did not buck or spin wildly, but flew in a slow, strong arc, her wings slicing the air like blades of midnight. Harry leaned into her body, trusting completely.

 

She soared with power and grace, climbing higher and higher until the metal chain tethering her to the ground reached its limit. For a split second, the tension held. Then—SNAP.

 

A crack like a thunderclap rang through the arena. The chain shattered, a shard of it spinning off into the grass below as the broken links fell uselessly to the ground.

 

Gasps echoed across the stands.

 

Harry’s eyes went wide as he glanced over his shoulder, stunned. The chain had broken. Snapped. How? That was enchanted iron, forged to restrain dragons. It shouldn't have given way.

 

A voice from the commentary box rang out, sharp with disbelief: "The chain has broken! Castor Malfoy is—he's riding an untethered dragon!"

 

Pandemonium rippled through the crowd. People surged to their feet. Shouts of awe, of alarm, filled the air.

 

But the Horntail didn’t panic. She didn’t bolt. She soared steady and smooth, circling the pitch like a phantom of smoke and steel. She twisted her great neck slightly, as if looking back at Harry with a glint of pride in her slitted eyes.

 

“Clever little one,” she rumbled, her voice humming like a low, powerful lullaby. “Was this part of your plan? Brilliant. Then let us show them what it means to fly free.”

 

Her wings surged forward, catching the wind, and they rose even higher.

 

Harry’s fingers curled tighter around one of the spiny ridges as they climbed into open sky, wind screaming past his ears, his coat fluttering behind him like a banner. He could see all of Hogwarts from up here—the glittering lake, the stands, the stunned dots that were students and judges and parents.

 

The Horntail let out a triumphant bellow, flames licking the air—not in anger, but in celebration. She twisted midair in a spiraling arc, soaring freely for the first time in Merlin-knew-how-long. There was no panic in her movement. No violence. Only joy.

 

And Harry, breathless, eyes stinging from the wind, realized something incredible.

 

She wasn’t just trusting him.

 

She was sharing her freedom with him.

 

They were flying together—not as captor and captive, not even as rider and beast—but as allies.

 

And for the first time that day, Harry wasn’t thinking about the crowd or the judges. He wasn’t worrying about the task or what might come next in the tournament.

 

His mind was entirely in the sky.

 

The air rushed past his face, cold and sharp, tugging at his hair and coat. His heart thudded against his ribs—not in fear, but in exhilaration. Flying had always been a passion of his, something that made him feel untouchable, weightless, free. But this—soaring through the clouds on the back of a dragon—this wasn’t just flying.

 

It was transcendence.

 

The Horntail moved with terrifying grace, her wings slicing through the air with raw, effortless power. Every beat was like thunder, every shift of her body a controlled force of nature. And Harry held on tight, clutching the smooth, warm ridge of her spine, knowing full well that a single mistake could send him hurtling into the earth far below. But he wasn’t afraid.

 

He trusted her. And somehow, he knew she trusted him too.

 

They didn’t fly far—never beyond the point where she could no longer see her nest—but they circled wide and high, sweeping over the edge of the Forbidden Forest and skimming the arena in great, breathtaking arcs. To the spectators below, it must have looked like a choreographed aerial dance: controlled, graceful, deliberate.

 

A celebration of strength.

 

An act of trust.

 

Cheers and cries rose from the stands, but Harry barely heard them. His focus was on the rhythmic rise and fall of her wings, the wind howling in his ears, the sting of cold air against flushed cheeks. For a few sacred minutes, it was just him and the sky, and the dragon who had chosen not to burn him to ash, but to carry him into the clouds.

 

As they began to descend—gradually, thoughtfully—Harry gave a grateful pat to her side.

 

“Thank you,” he attempted to call out over the wind.

 

The Horntail gave a low rumble of acknowledgment, dipping her great head as they neared the arena floor once more.

 

Once they touched down, the Hungarian Horntail beat her wings once more for balance, then folded them with surprising delicacy. She turned with measured movements and lowered her massive, spiked body so that Harry could easily step off her back and onto the same boulder he had stood upon before. The moment was almost ceremonial.

 

Harry dismounted carefully, his boots landing solidly on the stone. His legs trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the rush of adrenaline that hadn’t yet settled. The Horntail, without a single hiss or growl, turned away and returned to her nest.

 

The crowd watched in stunned silence, no cheers now—just awe. The moment felt sacred, and no one dared disturb it.

 

With slow, deliberate movements, the Horntail reached into her carefully guarded clutch and plucked something out with her teeth: the fake golden egg. Its glimmer caught the sunlight as she crossed back to Harry, her long neck arched like a swan’s, her wings kept close to her sides.

 

She paused in front of him, lowering her great, horned head until the egg rested gently in her jaws just inches from his hands.

 

Harry stepped forward without hesitation. There was no fear in him. No doubt. Only quiet reverence as he took the egg from her mouth with both hands, the warm metal humming in his grip.

 

“Thank you,” he whispered again, lifting one hand to stroke the warm scales of her cheek. His fingers brushed over her snout, and for a heartbeat, the dragon stilled completely—accepting the gesture with what Harry could only describe as grace.

 

The Horntail rumbled deeply, her voice like distant thunder as she said, “You were the only human worthy of besting us.” A low, resonant growl followed—her parting farewell.

 

With the egg in hand, Harry turned and climbed down from the boulder, walking back across the arena floor with measured steps. The silence held for a long moment—then, at last, someone in the crowd clapped. Then another. And then the dam broke.

 

The stands erupted.

 

Applause, cheers, screams—some calling his name, some just losing themselves in the sheer impossibility of what they’d witnessed. A boy, a dragon, and something that looked very much like trust.

 

But Harry didn’t acknowledge the noise. He didn’t look up. His gaze remained on the egg in his arms and the Horntail now curled once more around her nest, eyes half-lidded and calm.

 

Only when he crossed the threshold of the arena and disappeared from view did he allow himself the smallest of grins.

Chapter 25: Chapter 25

Chapter 25

 

Narcissa’s fingers were white-knuckled around Lucius’s hand as their youngest son stepped into the arena. Her composure, always pristine, cracked under the weight of sheer maternal terror. She told herself to trust Draco’s theory—that Castor had orchestrated this, that he had some secret plan—but logic did little to quiet the frantic thrum of her heart. He was just a boy, and that was a dragon.

 

And not just any dragon. The Hungarian Horntail, notoriously aggressive, had been drawn for her son. While the other nesting mothers had settled themselves over their eggs, protective but passive, this one didn’t even glance at her clutch. No, her eyes were locked on Castor.

 

When Castor climbed a boulder and stood tall—on full display, utterly vulnerable—Narcissa’s breath caught. Her hand flew to her mouth, and for one terrifying moment, she very nearly screamed his name, propriety be damned. The Horntail surged forward, wings flaring—and Narcissa closed her eyes, unable to bear witness to the inevitable.

 

But the screams never came. Instead, gasps echoed through the crowd. Soft murmurs of awe.

 

She forced her eyes open—and nearly dropped to her knees.

 

The dragon was bowing.

 

Not attacking. Not roaring. Bowing—head dipped low in reverence, her son standing above her like some fabled monarch of myth. A boy in sleek black and white, radiating calm and command, as if this was exactly how it was always meant to go.

 

Narcissa could only stare, frozen, her hand still clenched tightly in Lucius’s—though whether she was gripping for comfort or to keep herself grounded, she couldn’t say. Her entire body trembled, but her lips remained pressed into a thin line, unwilling to give voice to the overwhelming emotion welling in her chest.

 

Her son wasn’t just surviving.

 

He was commanding.

 

He wasn’t just performing a task—he was making history. Standing proud on a boulder as a Hungarian Horntail, one of the most vicious of all dragon breeds, bowed to him like a loyal beast to its rider.

 

The rules of the tournament—of magic—of the world itself—seemed to shift under the weight of that moment.

 

Perhaps Castor had not been born to follow the old ways at all.

Perhaps he was meant to rewrite them entirely.

 

And then, to Narcissa’s horror, he climbed onto the dragon’s back.

 

“No—he’s riding her!” Draco blurted, his composure cracking as he surged forward slightly in his seat. “That absolute arse!”

 

Lucius didn’t scold the language—he was too stunned himself.

 

All three Malfoys could only watch in stunned silence as Castor gripped tightly to the creature’s neck. The Horntail shifted her weight and, with one mighty beat of her wings, took to the sky.

 

Gasps echoed across the crowd. The air around the stadium was filled with awe and disbelief as dragon and boy soared together, circling wide and high above the arena.

 

“He’s flying her,” Draco whispered again, this time with something close to reverence in his voice.

 

Narcissa couldn’t breathe.

 

Her heart was already pounding, but it stopped altogether the moment she heard the sharp, metallic snap echo across the stadium.

 

The chain that bound the Horntail—meant to keep her tethered, contained—had broken.

 

The dragon was now truly free… with her son on its back.

 

The possibility—however unlikely—that the dragon might flee with him, disappear into the sky, or worse, change her mind about trusting a human, made Narcissa’s stomach twist with helpless fear.

 

She stood, unable to sit a moment longer, lips parted in silent horror as she stared skyward.

 

“Please,” she whispered, barely aware she’d spoken aloud. “Please come back to us.”

 

The Horntail soared higher and higher, cutting through the clouds with powerful, rhythmic beats of her wings. Narcissa could barely follow them with her eyes now—the dragon was a dark silhouette against the pale November sky.

 

Then, without warning, the dragon tucked her wings in close and dove.

 

A gasp tore from Narcissa’s throat. Her stomach turned violently at the sight. They were plummeting—hurtling toward the earth at a breakneck speed. She clutched Lucius’s arm so hard she left crescent-shaped imprints in the fabric of his sleeve.

 

She wanted to scream. To demand they stop this madness. To make it end.

 

But before she could utter a word, the Horntail unfurled her wings in a grand, sweeping arc—pulling out of the dive with masterful precision. The air cracked with the force of her movement, and she leveled out smoothly just above the arena floor.

 

As Narcissa blinked away the fear stinging her eyes, her gaze locked onto Castor.

 

He was still clinging to the dragon’s neck—but far from terrified, he was laughing. Wind whipping through his hair, eyes shining, his face was lit with pure, unfiltered joy.

 

Merlin help her, it was the biggest smile she had ever seen on him.

 

And just like that, her fear was replaced by a far more complicated feeling—a quiet, resigned groan deep in her chest as she dropped back into her seat.

 

This was it. This was her life now.

 

There would be no talking him out of this, no dragging him back to something safe or quiet or expected. Dragons had him now. Completely and irrevocably.

 

And worst of all?

 

He looked right where he belonged.

 

888

 

“WEASLEY!”

 

Charlie jolted like he'd been hexed, snapping to attention. “Y-Yes, sir!”

 

The Head Dragon Handler—broad-shouldered, red-faced, and storming across the observation platform—was practically vibrating with intensity as he advanced on Charlie.

 

“You went to school here, didn’t you?” he barked, jabbing a thick finger at the castle as if it were somehow to blame.

 

Charlie nodded quickly, instinctively taking a half-step back, “Yes, sir. Graduated a few years ago.”

 

The man’s arm swung around with surprising speed, pointing now toward the sky where the Hungarian Horntail was lazily circling above the stadium—with a boy still on her back.

 

“That one,” the handler growled, eyes fixed on the rider as though he were an elusive prize beast. “You know him?”

 

Charlie’s throat felt dry as dust. He watched Castor steer the Horntail into a wide, banking arc, moving as naturally as if he were part of her body.

 

“Yes, sir,” Charlie said, trying not to sound too stunned himself. “He—he wasn’t at school during my time, but my younger brothers know him. Friends, I think. He came to the Quidditch World Cup with us.”

 

The man didn’t blink. “I want him.”

 

Charlie blinked. “...Sir?”

 

“I want that boy on my team. Reserve, field consultant, anything—get him. Anyone who can calm a Horntail, ride one, and live to smile about it—I want him working with dragons. Full time. I don’t care if he’s twelve.”

 

“He’s fourteen.”

 

“Then I’m already two years behind!” the man barked. “Write to him. No—better, you talk to him. Tell him the Romanian Sanctuary is willing to offer training, mentorship, housing—hell, I’ll clear out a bunk and feed him my rations if I have to!”

 

Charlie stared up at Castor again, still loop-the-looping gently through the wintry sky with effortless grace, and let out a slow whistle.

 

As the Horntail spiraled into her final descent, wings stretched wide and shimmering faintly in the pale afternoon light, Charlie could hardly believe what he was seeing. The boy—Castor Malfoy, he reminded himself—remained perched atop the dragon with the ease of a seasoned rider, not a fourth-year student.

 

With a heavy, rumbling breath, the Horntail landed as gently as a creature her size possibly could, her great claws curling into the earth. She turned her massive head, the black scales glinting, and delicately lifted the gleaming golden egg in her jaws. With startling tenderness, she offered it to the boy, who took it with calm, unflinching hands and gave her an affectionate stroke along the jaw.

 

Charlie let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

 

“Well,” he said, glancing sideways at the Head Handler, whose expression had gone from shock to something bordering on reverence, “how about I make the introductions?”

 

The older man didn’t even respond at first—his eyes still locked on Castor and the dragon like a man watching a living legend.

 

Charlie continued, more confident now, “We can start from there. Ease into it. We can speak with him after the task, see what he’s thinking.”

 

He looked back at the boy, who was now dismounting with casual ease as if he hadn’t just flown a Horntail in front of hundreds of spectators.

 

“And if he says yes,” Charlie added with a grin, “we’ll need to start carving out space for a legend in training.”

 

 

888

 

The Slytherin section of the stands had started off the task with its usual cool detachment, murmuring commentary and measured bets exchanged beneath the green-and-silver banners fluttering in the crisp November air. But now, they were on their feet like everyone else—staring, jaws slack, as Castor Malfoy soared through the sky on the back of a Hungarian Horntail like some mythical figure pulled from an ancient tale.

 

Crabbe dropped the half-eaten licorice wand he'd been holding, “Bloody hell.”

 

Pansy had both hands clutched over her mouth, eyes wide, “Did he tame it? Is that what just happened?!”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Blaise muttered, but there was a rare tightness in his voice, like he couldn’t quite explain what he’d just seen either.

 

Theo didn’t say anything at first.

 

He sat a little forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze sharp and unreadable as he watched Castor circle the arena. The wind whipped through the boy's silver hair, his cloak billowing behind him like wings of his own. When the Horntail dove and Castor let out a whoop of laughter loud enough to echo off the stands, Theo’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something softer around the edges.

 

“Show-off,” he murmured, almost too quiet to hear.

 

But Daphne heard and leaned closer with a smirk, “Getting ideas, Nott?”

 

He didn’t look at her. Just kept his eyes on Castor and said, casually, “I like clever creatures.”

 

888

 

The moment Harry was ushered into the medical tent, he collapsed onto the nearest cot and began to laugh—loud, breathless, and wild. It wasn’t the light-hearted kind of laughter that followed a good joke, but something far more unhinged, like his body had no idea what else to do with the rush of adrenaline still coursing through him.

 

It echoed strangely through the quiet space, startling those already inside. The other Champions turned to look at him in alarm. Their families, gathered to the side, exchanged wary glances. Even Madam Pomfrey, who had seen more student trauma than most battle-hardened Healers, looked visibly unsettled.

 

She approached cautiously, clutching a diagnostic charm in one hand. “Mr. Malfoy,” she said gently, “are you injured?”

 

Harry wiped at his eyes, a tear of laughter streaking down his flushed cheek. “Madam Pomfrey,” he gasped, breath hitching between bouts of manic laughter, “what the actual fuck just happened?”

 

And with that, he doubled over again, helpless with mirth or disbelief—it was hard to tell which. The tent fell into stunned silence, broken only by the sound of Harry’s breathless laughter.

 

That was how the Malfoys found him—Draco leading the charge, Narcissa not far behind, and Lucius striding in with all the tension of a man prepared to witness a battlefield. Instead, they found their son shaking with laughter, his face pink from exertion and joy, utterly unbothered by the chaos he’d just unleashed on the world.

 

Draco blinked. “He’s lost it,” he said, half-relieved and half-horrified.

 

“I believe,” Lucius murmured under his breath, adjusting his gloves, “our son just rewrote magical history... and now he’s laughing about it.”

 

Narcissa said nothing at first, only knelt beside Harry and brushed a hand through his wind-tossed hair, her voice quiet and dry, “Well… at least you’re not dragon food.”

 

That only made Harry laugh harder—full-bodied, doubled-over laughter that left him breathless on the tent floor, a mess of nerves and triumph. He didn’t even notice the flap opening again until two familiar voices called out for him.

 

Hermione and Neville burst in, clearly having sprinted from the stands. Unlike the other tense and wide-eyed occupants of the tent, neither looked particularly surprised to find him collapsed in a fit of hysterics. Hermione didn’t hesitate—she rushed straight to him, ignoring the sharp, startled looks from the Malfoy family. Narcissa took a subtle step back, Lucius blinked, and Draco just sighed.

 

“Oh, Castor,” Hermione breathed, throwing her arms around him in a tight, worried hug.

 

Then she pulled back and immediately punched him—hard—in the shoulder.

 

“Ow!” Harry yelped, blinking at her in surprise as the laughter hiccupped into a weak giggle. “What was that for?”

 

“Did you really need to ride it?!” she snapped, eyes wide with the kind of fury only concern could justify.

 

Still grinning, Harry wiped his face with his sleeve. “She told me to,” he said simply, like it explained everything.

 

Hermione stared at him, incredulous, “She told you to? The dragon told you to?”

 

Harry nodded, utterly unbothered, “Yeah. Dragons speak Parseltongue.”

 

Hermione opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again, her mind clearly short-circuiting.

 

Neville, standing just behind her, chuckled. “Nicely done,” he said with a half-smile. “Honestly, I expected nothing less.”

 

“Really?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

Neville shrugged, “Well… maybe a little less. But still.”

 

That earned a more genuine laugh from Harry—no longer frantic, no longer spiraling. Just warm and tired and alive.

 

Hermione huffed, still recovering. “We should go get your score,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ears. “Then we can get you out of here and into something normal.”

 

“Best idea I’ve heard all day,” Harry agreed, finally starting to climb to his feet—still shaky, still grinning, but steadier now. He glanced over at his still-stunned family, who were watching the three of them with something between fascination and faint horror.

 

Harry was still shaking off the last of his laughter when Hermione and Neville guided him out of the medical tent and toward the small platform where the judges were seated. His family remained behind for the moment—perhaps needing a bit more time to recover themselves.

 

“This is where they show your score,” Hermione whispered as they approached. “Each judge can award up to ten points. Highest possible is fifty.”

 

Harry nodded, still dazed from the adrenaline and sheer absurdity of what he’d just done. As they stepped into view of the crowd, the applause erupted. Cameras flashed. Someone whistled. Somewhere above them, someone shouted, “That’s our dragon king!”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry tried not to smirk.

 

Madam Maxime was the first to raise her wand. With a graceful flick, a silver ribbon of magic curled into the air before unfurling into a shimmering 9.

 

“Not bad at all,” Hermione said brightly, eyes scanning the number. “That’s the highest anyone’s gotten so far! The only one close was Krum, and Karkaroff gave him an eight. Which was ridiculous since he didn’t even get the egg.”

 

Next was Barty Crouch Sr. His movements were crisp and clinical, but the number was anything but. A 10 burst into the air like a firework.

 

Neville whooped, “That’s more like it!”

 

Ludo Bagman followed, his grin as wide as ever, and he didn’t hesitate—another 10.

 

Hermione turned, clutching Harry’s arm in excitement. “Castor! That puts you in a tie for first already! Krum had the highest with twenty-nine, and you’re there now—and you’ve still got two more judges to go!”

 

Dumbledore came next. He gave a soft, almost knowing smile, then lifted his wand and sent up a 9.

 

Neville raised an eyebrow, “Seriously? Dumbledore didn’t give you a ten? After you literally rode a dragon?”

 

“I’ll take it,” Harry murmured, more amused than annoyed. “Maybe he’s docking points for showboating.”

 

Then, inevitably, it was Karkaroff’s turn. The boos from the stands began even before he raised his wand, and they only grew louder when he conjured a glowing 8—the same score he had given his own champion, despite Viktor failing to retrieve the egg.

 

The crowd roared in protest, but Harry simply shrugged.

 

“Let them boo,” he said, eyes scanning the scoreboard. “I’ve got a forty-six.”

 

“And you’re the only one who got the egg,” Hermione reminded him, proudly. “You crushed it.”

 

Harry stood a little straighter, the full weight of what he’d done finally starting to settle in. He hadn’t thought about actually trying to win. Honestly, he’d just wanted to survive it. But now?

 

With a lead this strong, and a dragon’s blessing behind him, maybe… just maybe… he’d try to win it after all.

 

As Harry strolled back into the medical tent alongside his friends, his eyes immediately sought out his family. He barely had time to cross halfway to them when the flap of the tent was thrown open again, this time by two men entering with urgent strides. Harry recognized one of them instantly.

 

“Charlie?” he said, surprised.

 

The redheaded man gave a short nod, his gaze flicking between Harry and the older man beside him, “Hey, Har—er, Castor. You’re looking a bit different since the last time I saw you.”

 

Harry laughed, sheepish, and rubbed the back of his neck, “Yeah, well... the last few months have been something else.”

 

Charlie’s smile was brief but warm, “What you did out there—it was incredible. The handlers are still trying to wrap their heads around it.”

 

“Thanks,” Harry said, voice low, unsure what else to say.

 

Charlie turned, gesturing to his companion, “Castor, this is Dane Ironmuir, Head Dragon Tamer for the Romanian Reserve.”

 

Dane was an imposing man, with a broad chest, arms like tree trunks, and the kind of weathered face that looked carved from stone. His thick black hair was retreating at the temples, streaked with grey, and a proud, bristly mustache sat under a slightly crooked nose—likely broken once or twice.

 

Ironmuir gave Harry a long, measuring look before offering his hand. “Malfoy,” he said in a low, gravelly voice, “Quite the show.”

 

Harry shook his hand, trying not to look intimidated. “Er... thanks?”

 

“We were hoping,” Charlie cut in gently, “that you might come back to the handlers’ camp for a bit. Just to chat. Nothing official, but... well, you’ve stirred up a fair few questions.”

 

Harry’s stomach turned over. “I didn’t break the chains!” he blurted, “I swear, I don’t know how that happened!”

 

Ironmuir held up a gloved hand, signaling calm, “We know, lad. No accusations here. It’s the fact that she came back and entered her cage without a struggle that’s got us all talking.”

 

Charlie nodded in agreement, “You’ve got the entire team scratching their heads. And honestly? That doesn’t happen often.”

 

Harry blinked, then glanced back at his family, who were watching with subtle apprehension.

 

“I can go, right?” Harry asked, his voice tentative as he turned toward his parents. His eyes met Narcissa’s, clearly asking for permission.

 

Narcissa let out a soft, beleaguered groan. “I suppose so,” she said, already anticipating that she’d regret it, “But we’re coming with you.”

 

Lucius raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, but didn’t object.

 

Dane Ironmuir gave a respectful nod. “Of course. We’d be glad to have your insight as well.”

 

Harry turned to Neville and Hermione, “I’ll find you two later, yeah?” Hermione looked like she wanted to protest, but Neville gave her a subtle nudge and a reassuring nod. With a promise to regroup soon, Harry followed Dane, his family falling into step behind him.

 

They exited the tent and headed down the sloping path that led to the dragon handlers’ camp. Along the way, they passed the large clearing where the dragons were being carefully returned to their temporary enclosures, under tight supervision by the handlers.

 

Harry waved instinctively at the Horntail when she caught sight of him. She let out a soft rumble that could almost be mistaken for a greeting, her eyes tracking him with eerie calm. The other dragons turned their heads too, shifting but not agitated.

 

Draco froze mid-step, staring at the creatures in shock. “They’re—right there,” he said breathlessly. “We’re closer to them than we were in the viewing stands, and they’re just... watching him.”

 

The dragons didn’t snarl or rear or so much as puff smoke. They simply observed Harry’s approach with something that almost resembled recognition. Lucius’s hand twitched slightly toward his wand, but he kept walking.

 

Dane glanced over his shoulder, clearly noting their reaction. “They’ve been like this all day,” he said. “Calm. Focused. It’s bloody unnatural—except maybe not, where your boy is concerned.”

 

Narcissa cast a worried glance at Harry, but his face was peaceful. Like he was walking among old friends.

 

Draco looked between Harry and the dragons again, baffled. “How the hell do you do this?”

 

Harry just smiled faintly, “This is what happens when you are nice.”

 

The handlers' tent was large and reinforced with thick canvas, charmed to be heat-resistant and magically cooled from the inside. The scent of fire-charred leather, damp earth, and singed herbs clung to the air. Along the edges were workbenches piled high with dragon-related tools—scales for study, heavy gloves, fireproof tarps, enchanted muzzles, and crates filled with glowing salves. A faint rumbling outside kept a constant reminder of the beasts nearby.

 

Several handlers were gathered around a long central table with maps and charts laid across it—feeding schedules, patrol rotations, and a sketch of the task arena. Conversations dropped to whispers the moment Harry entered, flanked by the Malfoys like some kind of peculiar royal envoy. Eyes flicked from his face to his clothing, then quickly to Dane.

 

“I told you,” murmured one handler to another, “That kid rode a Horntail. And it bowed to him.”

 

Dane cleared his throat, “This is Castor Malfoy. I think he’s earned a moment of our time.”

 

Charlie gave Harry a friendly pat on the shoulder as he gestured toward a spare seat at the table, “Sit, mate. We’re not here to interrogate you—just… understand.”

 

Harry sat, slightly overwhelmed but keeping his composure. Lucius and Narcissa remained standing behind him, the picture of elegant discomfort, while Draco leaned against the tent pole and watched everyone like they might be thinking about hexing his brother.

 

Dane leaned on the table, arms folded. “I’m going to start with the obvious question,” he said. “What did you do?”

 

Harry glanced at his parents—then to Charlie—and decided honesty, within reason, was best.

 

“I didn’t cast any spells on them,” Harry began carefully. “I just… talked to them.”

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

Dane’s brow furrowed. “Talked?”

 

“In Parseltongue,” Harry clarified. “I found them days ago when I was out walking. I sometimes visit the thestrals with a friend. I can’t see them but I can feed them. I heard them from were the thestrals hang out. I could hear them hissing. They were anxious. Confused. I told them what was happening, explained why they were here. That it wasn’t the handlers’ fault, and that none of you meant them harm.”

 

“You speak Parseltongue?” one of the older handlers asked, voice hushed with a mixture of reverence and unease.

 

Harry gave a slight nod, then demonstrated with a soft hissed phrase under his breath. The sound slithered through the air—unnatural and serpentine. Lucius visibly tensed, an involuntary flicker of something dark passing through his expression. The sound stirred memories of his Lord.

 

Dane’s gaze shifted curiously toward Draco, “Is it a family trait?”

 

“I wish,” Draco muttered, clearly torn between admiration and exasperation.

 

Lucius drew himself up a little, smoothing his expression back into something more neutral, “We’re… not entirely certain how Castor came by the gift,” he said carefully, the slightest crease forming between his brows. “It’s not something that runs in our bloodline—as far as we know.”

 

It was clear from his tone that he hadn’t given the matter much thought until now.

 

Charlie chuckled under his breath, “You’re something else, kid, you know that?”

 

Dane didn’t laugh. He nodded slowly, processing. “You calmed four nesting mothers,” he said at last. “Do you have any idea how difficult that is under normal conditions?”

 

“I wasn’t trying to control them,” Harry replied. “I just wanted to help them understand. And to keep the other champions safe. I figured if they weren’t so scared or confused, they wouldn’t attack.”

 

“They didn’t just refrain from attacking,” muttered another handler. “They guarded the fake eggs so tightly that the champions couldn’t even get to them.”

 

Dane’s voice was thoughtful, “So they trusted you, enough to act differently in front of hundreds of witnesses. One of them even let you ride her.”

 

“She offered,” Harry said quickly, holding up his hands. “I didn’t ask. I just was not going to turn down a ride on a dragon.”

 

That drew a ripple of quiet, disbelieving laughter.

 

Lucius muttered under his breath, “Of course she did.”

 

Narcissa didn’t speak. She was staring at her son like she was trying to memorize the exact shape of him. Draco just looked faintly annoyed—probably because deep down he thought it was a little cool.

 

Dane sighed, then smiled for the first time, “You’ve changed the conversation around dragon behavior today, Castor. We’ll be talking about this for years. You’ve done more in one week with four dragons than most of us manage in a decade.”

 

Dane straightened, his tone shifting to something more formal, though the excitement in his eyes remained. “With your permission,” he said, glancing between Lucius and Narcissa, “I’d like to extend an offer to Castor—not as a visitor, but as a handler-in-training. We’d start slow—some time during the winter holidays, then summer. If it goes well, we might even petition the Department of Magical Transportation for an international portkey under a working student permit. That way, he could come by after classes or on weekends, if ever there's an urgent matter.”

 

Harry blinked, stunned. His mouth parted slightly, and for a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe.

 

Narcissa’s lips thinned in immediate protest, her posture stiffening with maternal instinct. But before she could speak, Harry turned to her with quiet, focused intensity.

 

“I want this,” he said softly. “More than anything. I know it’s dangerous—but this feels right. It feels like… what I’m meant to do.”

 

Lucius looked between them, his expression unreadable. His usual instinct to object—to protect, to control—warred with the undeniable pride in his son’s accomplishment. Narcissa, too, seemed caught between fear and understanding, her eyes lingering on Harry's face, searching.

 

It was Draco who finally cut the silence with a dry, muttered, “Merlin help us, he really is going to become a dragon tamer.”

 

Harry smiled faintly, “Maybe. Or at least, I’d like to try.”

 

Dane gave a short, approving nod, “We’ll make the arrangements. No pressure, no obligation—but the dragons already trust you. That’s not something we can teach.”

 

Narcissa exhaled, reluctantly, then placed a gloved hand over Harry’s, “We’ll discuss it further,” she said delicately. “But I won’t stop you if your heart is truly set on it.”

 

Harry’s grin returned, brighter now, laced with gratitude, “It is.”

Notes:

Wow—I'm absolutely blown away by the response to the last chapter! I honestly wasn’t sure if the dragon scene might be a bit too out there, but I had such a blast writing it. I’m so thrilled to see that you all enjoyed it! The comments have been incredibly kind, and seeing us close in on 8,500 hits already is just surreal. Thank you all so much for the support—it means the world! 🐉💚

Chapter 26: Chapter 26

Chapter 26

 

While Lucius and Narcissa remained behind to discuss the finer points of the arrangement with Mr. Ironmuir—ensuring their youngest son's safety and the logistics of him working at the reserve—Harry slipped away to rejoin the dragons. He brought Charlie and Draco along with him, eager to make proper introductions.

 

The dragons greeted him with quiet rumblings and slow blinks, clearly recognizing their unlikely ally. With gentle hisses, Harry explained who the newcomers were—Charlie, a trusted dragon handler, and Draco, his brother. He also recounted how the Head of the Reserve had been so impressed by both the Horntail and Harry’s handling of her that he’d already offered Harry a handler-in-training position, despite still being a student.

 

“I won’t be around as often as the other handlers,” Harry told them softly, “but I’ll be visiting when I can—during breaks, some weekends maybe. Mr. Ironmuir is working on a way to make that happen.”

 

He placed a hand gently against the Horntail’s scales, his voice full of quiet determination, “And when I do come, we’ll keep working toward that dream—the one where you can live freely, without fear or chains. A real future.”

 

The dragons didn’t respond in words, but their silence was rich with meaning. A low, reverberating hum passed between them—more felt than heard—a shared understanding that something had shifted. Not just in their day, or in this strange, human-led tournament, but in the shape of their future.

 

They knew it wouldn’t come all at once. Freedom was a distant mountaintop, not a clearing just around the bend. But now they had a path to follow. A young speaker who saw them not as weapons or obstacles, but as beings with thoughts, desires, and the right to choose.

 

Their eyes lingered on Harry—bright, searching, intelligent. He wasn’t just another human. He was a promise.

 

And though he would come and go, tethered by time and rules not of his making, they would wait. Each visit, each lesson, each whispered word in their ancient tongue would build toward something greater.

 

888

 

With everything at the temporary reserve settled for the day, there was little left to do but return to the castle. The Malfoy family made the trek back up the sloping grounds in quiet companionship, the winter air brisk but not biting. Conversation was minimal—more thoughtful than strained—as if each of them was still processing the sheer magnitude of what had taken place that day.

 

Once they reached the school, they parted ways with quiet nods and murmured goodbyes. Harry and Draco each returned to their respective common rooms, the weight of the afternoon settling into their bones. There would be questions waiting—curiosity, awe, maybe even whispers of disbelief—but for now, solitude was welcome.

 

Lucius and Narcissa, meanwhile, descended into the dungeons, making their way to Professor Snape’s quarters. It was there, through the private fireplace linked to the secure Floo network, that they would be able to leave the school grounds. They said nothing as they walked through the shadowed halls, but their fingers remained loosely intertwined—silent testimony to their shared relief, and the pride they hadn’t yet found the words for.

 

888

 

The moment Draco stepped through the entrance to the Slytherin common room, the chatter erupted like a dam breaking.’

 

“There he is!”

“Draco—what the hell just happened?”

“Did you know?”

 

The room was packed, firelight casting flickering shadows across curious, stunned, and downright gleeful faces. People were still talking over one another when Theo pushed off the arm of a nearby chair and made his way over, arms folded, eyes sharp.

 

Draco sighed, loosening the top of his collar, “You’d think I rode the bloody dragon.”

 

“You may as well have,” Blaise said, leaning casually against the back of the sofa, though even he couldn’t hide the excitement behind his calm tone. “You were with the family section, weren’t you? How long have you known?”

 

“Yeah,” Millicent added, eyes narrowed. “You didn’t even blink when he flew off on the Horntail like it was a bloody broomstick.”

 

Draco raised a brow, “What exactly do you all think I did? Hypnotized the dragon myself?”

 

“You knew,” Theo said simply. His voice was quiet—dangerously so—but his lips were curled just slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to throttle Draco or shake his hand. “Before Castor even began the task, you were smirking.”

 

Draco gave an exaggerated sigh and dropped into one of the high-backed chairs. “Fine. Yes, I suspected. I didn’t know exactly what he’d done, but when the first two dragons didn’t roast anyone, I put it together.”

 

“How?” Daphne asked, eyes wide.

Draco allowed himself the smallest of smirks. “Because Castor is a Parselmouth. Dragons are serpents. He spoke to them. And because he’s—well—him.”

 

That caused a ripple through the room. Some expressions turned to awe. Others to incredulity.

 

Theo sat back down but didn’t take his eyes off Draco. “And you let him do it?”

 

Draco arched a brow, “It’s not like he told any of us about it. Besides, it worked, didn’t it? The dragons behaved. No one died. He stole the show.”

 

“Stole the whole damn tournament,” Pansy said, sounding like she wasn’t sure whether to be horrified or delighted.

 

Blaise hummed, more amused than anything. “And in Noirveil, no less. I didn’t think someone could look glamorous while facing a Horntail.”

 

Theo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes still fixed on the fire as though he could still see Castor soaring above the arena. His voice was low, thoughtful.

 

“He didn’t just look good up there… he looked right. Like it wasn’t just bravery or luck—like he was meant to be up there. Like the sky and the dragon were waiting for him all along.”

 

A beat passed.

 

Draco gave a small, satisfied smirk, leaning back in his chair with practiced ease, “Well, then, how poetic. Because he’s already been offered a position at the Reserve.”

 

That got everyone’s attention again.

 

“What?” Blaise blinked.

 

“You’re joking,” Pansy breathed.

 

Draco allowed the moment to hang before clarifying, “Handler-in-training. Starting over the winter hols, continuing over summer, and maybe the odd weekend if he gets approved for some portkey arrangement.”

 

“Of course he was,” Millicent muttered, shaking her head. “Of course they’d want him.”

 

Theo tilted his head slightly, brow furrowed, “So… he’s going to be working with dragons. Regularly.”

 

Draco shrugged, “Apparently so. He was already planning for it, I think. Ever since I suggested it at the Manor he has been interested.”

 

Theo didn’t respond immediately. He looked back toward the flames again, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Thoughtful. Quiet.

 

Finally, he murmured, “It suits him.”

 

Draco side-eyed him, “Getting sentimental, Nott?”

 

Theo didn’t rise to the bait. He just leaned back slowly, his gaze still far away, “I just know purpose when I see it.”

 

888

 

Gryffindor Tower was in full chaos by the time Harry stepped through the portrait hole.

 

Cheers erupted the moment he was spotted, and before he could even take a breath, Fred and George Weasley were upon him. In a dramatic flourish, they dropped into exaggerated bows.

 

“All hail the Dragon King!” Fred announced grandly.

 

“First of his name, tamer of Horntails, breaker of chains!” George added with a wink, earning a round of laughter and applause from the gathered students.

 

Harry rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, alright—calm down,” he said, raising his hands to quiet them, “I’m pretty sure I don’t rule any dragons. At best, I might’ve just earned their polite tolerance.”

 

More laughter followed, and several voices called out at once, demanding details.

 

“Did you really fly one?”

 

“What happened after?”

 

“Why were you gone so long?”

 

Harry held up a hand again and climbed onto one of the common room chairs so he could be seen over the crowd. “Okay! I’ll give you the short version—because I’m knackered and I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

 

He gave a rough summary of the first task: the dragons’ unexpected behavior, the moment the Horntail let him ride her, and the shocking twist when the chain snapped and they took to the sky. His recounting was fast and informal, filled with dry humor, and ended with him saying, “And then I was dragged off by dragon tamers who just wanted to talk about me working for them.”

 

He didn’t go into full detail about Dane Ironmuir or the conversations with the dragons themselves. He just explained as quickly as possible.

 

“Dragon King!” Fred repeated again once Harry had finished, lifting an invisible goblet into the air. “Long may he glide!”

 

“Long may he soar,” George corrected with a smirk.

 

The common room erupted once again with laughter, applause, and cheerful chaos. Harry shook his head with a grin, indulging in the celebration just long enough to avoid being rude before slipping away under the excuse of needing to change—a half-truth, at best.

 

Once he reached the dormitory, he exhaled slowly, the noise muffled by the thick stone walls behind him. He grabbed a change of clothes and made his way to the showers. The warm water was a relief, washing away not just the grime and sweat of the day, but the weight of its expectations.

 

Afterwards, he dressed in soft pajamas and padded barefoot back to his bed. The sounds of celebration still drifted faintly through the floorboards—laughter, the occasional burst of applause, and someone badly playing the harmonica, which he suspected was Dean trying to start a sing-along.

 

But Harry didn’t go back.

 

Instead, he opened his trunk and quietly descended into its magically expanded interior. Down there, surrounded by the quiet hum of privacy charms and the soft glow of enchanted lanterns, he pulled a book from one of the shelves and sank into the worn armchair near his desk.

 

He didn’t get far into his reading. Though his eyes skimmed the words, his mind was caught in a current of thoughts.

 

He kept reliving the moment the Horntail bowed.

 

The feeling of soaring into the sky.

 

The stunned faces in the crowd.

 

The judges holding up their scores.

 

The warmth of Hermione’s hug. The sound of Draco’s voice cracking in disbelief. The pride in Narcissa’s eyes. Even the silent understanding in Lucius’s gaze.

 

And then there was the offer—Dane Ironmuir’s words still echoed in his ears. Handler-in-training. The fact that it had even been suggested made something deep in his chest ache with wonder. That kind of future had never seemed possible before. Not for him.

 

Eventually, Harry closed the book and leaned back, staring at the ceiling of the trunk. The hum of the common room was a distant murmur now, and for the first time all day, the adrenaline faded, leaving only a quiet, glowing sense of awe.

 

Whatever else happened this year—whatever else the Tournament held for him—today had been magic in the purest sense of the word.

 

 

888

 

Ron was fuming.

 

Everywhere he turned, it was Malfoy this, Malfoy that—Castor Malfoy, the unexpected golden boy of the Triwizard Tournament. As if it wasn’t bad enough that the brat had been the boy-who-lived, now the whole school was calling him the Dragon King. Ron scoffed, the bitter taste of resentment sharp on his tongue.

 

He had managed to avoid the Gryffindor common room for most of the evening, wandering the halls and lingering in empty classrooms just to escape the noise. He wanted no part in the celebration. How could they all be so quick to forget everything? Harry—real Harry—would never have acted like this. He wouldn’t have paraded around in designer robes or ridden dragons like some pompous show-off.

 

But when curfew rolled around, he had no choice. With a scowl etched deep across his face, Ron finally returned to the tower.

 

The party was still going strong.

 

Laughter echoed through the walls, someone had conjured floating gold-and-black dragons that weaved through the air, and a chorus of “All Hail the Dragon King!” rang out in waves. Ron clenched his fists and stormed past the crowd, barely acknowledging the few people who tried to pull him into the festivities.

 

He climbed the stairs two at a time, gritting his teeth until he reached the dormitory. It was blissfully empty, but not quiet—he could still hear the music and cheers thumping through the floor.

 

Ron kicked his trunk shut with more force than necessary and flung himself onto his bed, fists tight at his sides as he stared at the ceiling. Every shout from below made his blood boil hotter.

 

It wasn’t fair.

 

He had always stood by Harry. He had been his best mate from the start, through everything. And now, it felt like the world had turned upside down. The school had let themselves be enchanted by some rich boy with a pretty face and a famous name.

 

As the distant sound of Dean’s harmonica floated up from the ongoing celebration, Ron’s teeth ground together. That stupid tune, that stupid party—for that stupid Malfoy. Castor Malfoy, like some kind of bloody storybook hero. King of Dragons, they were calling him now. It made Ron want to hex something into splinters.

 

He began pacing the empty dormitory, feet stomping hard against the floorboards. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, over and over. “Un-bloody-lievable.”

 

His eyes landed on Malfoy’s bed—immaculate, regal even. And there it was: that over-polished, oversized trunk at the foot of it. Ron scowled as though the thing had personally insulted him.

 

Of course, Malfoy had some enchanted, bottomless trunk—probably stuffed with gold-threaded robes, leather-bound journals, and gods knew what else. He was always crawling into it, hiding away like the world didn’t deserve him. Probably had a full flat in there. Heat, a library, silk sheets.

 

“Pretentious git,” Ron hissed.

 

He glanced down at his own scuffed, beat-up trunk with a frayed corner and a handle that squeaked every time it was touched. He could barely keep his books from spilling out of it, and Malfoy? Malfoy probably had a wardrobe. No, multiple wardrobes. Designer ones.

 

Ron’s fists clenched at his sides as his thoughts spiraled. Everyone loved Malfoy now—professors, students, even the bloody dragons. All he had to do was show up in some fancy outfit, smile like he was royalty, and suddenly everyone forgot who he really was: a spoiled, arrogant snake.

 

The harmonica trilled from below again and Ron practically growled. He glared back at the trunk, face flushed with hot, irrational fury.

 

He hated that trunk.

 

He hated what it represented.

 

Ron did not even think. He just pointed his wand at the trunk and shouted, “Bombarda!”

Chapter 27: Chapter 27

Chapter 27

 

Professor McGonagall was just unfastening her tartan dressing gown, preparing to call it a night, when a sharp, frantic banging rattled her door.

 

With wand in hand, she flung it open to find Lee Jordan—Gryffindor’s sixth-year prefect—panting in the hallway.

 

“Mr. Jordan?” she asked, instantly alert. “What on earth—?”

 

“There’s been an explosion!” Lee gasped.

 

Her brows shot up. “What have your roommates done now?” she asked sharply, already stepping out into the corridor.

 

But Lee was quick to clarify, stumbling to keep pace with her brisk stride. “Not them, Professor! It wasn’t the sixth-years—it was in the fourth-year boys’ dorm!”

 

That made her pause. Just for a beat. Then she picked up speed, her lips pressed into a grim line.

 

By the time they reached the Gryffindor common room, it was chaos.

 

Students crowded the staircase and spilled into the room in clusters, all craning their necks, whispering, speculating. The stairwell to the boys’ dorms was blocked by bodies and frantic curiosity.

 

“Move!” McGonagall barked, pushing through. “Clear the way—now!”

 

The students scattered to make a narrow path, and she stormed up the stairs, Lee close behind.

 

What she saw as she reached the fourth-year boys’ dorm nearly stopped her in her tracks.

 

The room was a mess—but more than that, one side of it looked as though it had been hit by a small bomb.

 

Ron Weasley was hovering several feet off the ground, magically restrained and pressed firmly against the stone wall by a furious-looking house elf.

 

And across the room, Castor Malfoy’s bed was destroyed.

 

The left front post had been blown into jagged splinters. The right side had given out entirely, collapsing the frame and its thick draping curtains in a heap. Part of the stone wall behind the bed was cracked, dust still falling from the ceiling where the blast had hit. The floor was littered with shards of wood, displaced bedding, and scorched debris.

 

It looked more like the aftermath of a duel than a dormitory accident.

 

“Professor!” Neville Longbottom’s voice cracked with panic as he pushed through the crowd at the doorway. “No one’s seen Castor! I—I think he might’ve been in his trunk when it happened!”

 

Minerva’s heart nearly stopped.

 

With a flick of her wand and a sharp “Wingardium Leviosa,” she began carefully lifting the shattered beams and tangled bed curtains from the wreckage. Dust swirled in the air as splinters and broken stone floated upward, revealing, impossibly, an undamaged trunk nestled beneath the collapsed bedframe—pristine, untouched by the explosion.

 

It was Castor’s.

 

Neville didn’t wait for permission. Trusting McGonagall’s magic to keep the wreckage suspended above him, he darted forward and unlatched the front of the ornate trunk.

 

The lid snapped open—and out popped Harry’s head, his hair tousled, his eyes wide with disbelief.

 

“What the fuck was that?!” he barked, blinking furiously.

 

The room erupted into stunned silence—no one more so than Professor McGonagall herself, who felt equal parts horrified and relieved to see him alive.

 

Harry climbed out of the trunk in a flurry of limbs and frustration, “It felt like someone grabbed the whole damn trunk and just started shaking it!” he shouted, hands flying up in exasperation. “Books flew off the shelves, the lamp nearly hit me in the head, and I was thrown out of my chair!”

His slippers thudded against the stone floor as he took in the full scene—the shattered bedframe, the broken wall, Ron Weasley still pinned against the stone by Mipsy’s fierce magic—and then, just like that, the tension in him snapped.

 

A breathless, mad kind of laugh bubbled up from his chest.

 

Within moments, Harry was doubled over, cackling uncontrollably in the midst of the chaos like someone who had narrowly escaped madness. His laughter echoed around the shocked room, jarring and unhinged, until it bordered on hysteria.

 

McGonagall looked deeply unsettled as the boy laughed among the debris of what could’ve been a murder scene, “Mr. Malfoy, please—”

 

“I’m fine!” Harry wheezed, holding up a hand between gasps of laughter. “I’m—bloody hell—I’m fine. Just… what the fuck is happening this year?!”

 

Behind him, Mipsy still had Ron Weasley suspended midair, stuck to the wall like a misbehaving painting.

 

A tense murmur spread through the room, everyone staring at Harry with a mixture of awe, confusion, and disbelief. He didn’t seem hurt. He didn’t even seem angry.

 

He just looked… done.

 

Rubbing his tired face Harry broke into the silence and commanded, “Mipsy, tell us exactly what happened.”

Mipsy didn’t even glance away from Ron, her little hands glowing with raw protective magic. Her voice was low, brimming with anger. “Master Castor, he tried to hurt you.”

 

Ron snarled from where he was magically pinned to the wall. “I didn’t know he was in there!”

 

The magical field around him tightened with a crackle, and Ron gave a startled yelp as he was pressed even harder against the stone. His feet dangled several inches off the floor now, and his face was turning red with fury and shame.

 

“This bloody elf attacked me!” Ron barked. “She’s the one you should be questioning!”

 

“Mipsy only protects!” the elf snapped, her voice shrill and proud, her magic flaring dangerously in the dim dormitory light. She puffed up like a furious cat. “Mean Weasel tried to harm good Master Castor! Mipsy will not allow that!”

 

Professor McGonagall’s lips thinned to a razor-sharp line as she stepped further into the room. Her voice cut through the tension like a whip. “What precisely did Mr. Weasley attempt to do, Miss Mipsy?”

 

Harry turned to the elf as well, his jaw tight and his tone clipped. “Mipsy. What spell did he use?”

 

Mipsy’s ears flattened against her head as she pointed a trembling but firm finger at Ron, “He tried to use Bombarda on Master Castor’s trunk,” she said, the word heavy with accusation.

 

A collective gasp echoed through the room.

 

“But Mipsy saw him!” she went on. “Mipsy moved the Weasel’s arm. The spell missed the trunk—it hit the bedpost and the wall instead.”

 

Harry’s blood ran cold. Bombarda. That was no joke. That spell was designed to blast things apart. If Mipsy hadn’t been there—hadn’t acted so quickly…

 

McGonagall’s eyes blazed with fury now. Her wand was drawn without thought. “You attempted to explode your dormmate’s trunk, Mr. Weasley? Are you mad?! That could’ve killed him!”

 

Ron, now white as a sheet, stammered, “I—I didn’t mean to—! I didn’t think—!”

 

“That much is abundantly clear,” McGonagall snapped.

 

Harry stood frozen, numb. He didn’t even feel the shards of wood underfoot anymore.

 

It had all happened so fast.

 

And Ron… Ron had cast Bombarda at his trunk.

 

He wasn’t sure what hurt more—the betrayal, or the fact that Ron didn’t even seem to regret it.

 

Professor McGonagall inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring as she wrestled her temper back under control. Then she turned to Mipsy, her tone clipped but measured.

 

“Release him. Gently.”

 

Mipsy gave a tiny, indignant huff, but obeyed. With a twitch of her fingers, the magical hold relaxed. Ron slid down the wall in an awkward sprawl, landing gracelessly on the floor. He stayed there, hunched and sulking, red-faced and silent.

 

McGonagall’s voice snapped like a whip, “Both of you—with me. Now.”

 

She spun on her heel, robes billowing behind her as she strode from the dormitory, radiating disapproval and fury in equal measure.

 

Ron scrambled to his feet, refusing to look at anyone. His ears were red, his expression pinched with humiliation, and he followed after her with the dragging steps of someone walking toward judgment.

 

Harry lingered only a moment longer. He looked at Mipsy, whose eyes were still glowing faintly with protective magic.

 

“Thanks,” he said quietly. The elf gave a proud nod and disappeared with a pop.

 

Harry turned and followed the others. As they exited the Fat Lady’s portrait hole Harry caught McGonagall casting a silvery Patronus—a sleek, stern-looking tabby cat—off into the corridor. He caught the words “Severus” and “contact Lucius and Narcissa” before the Patronus leapt away down the hall in a flash of light.

 

As they began to walk Harry quickly noticed they weren’t heading toward McGonagall’s office as he’d expected. Instead, she led them through the castle’s dim corridors, her robes swishing briskly as she walked with purpose. When they reached the statue that marked the entrance to the Headmaster’s office, she didn’t hesitate.

 

“Lemon drop,” McGonagall snapped.

 

The statue sprang aside at once, revealing the spiraling staircase behind it. The three of them ascended in silence, the tension thick in the air.

 

When they reached the oak door, McGonagall knocked sharply, once.

 

“Enter,” came Dumbledore’s calm, lilting voice from within.

 

She pushed the door open and ushered the boys inside.

 

Albus Dumbledore was seated at his grand desk, a quill poised above a long sheet of parchment. His half-moon spectacles glinted in the candlelight, and he looked up as they entered, folding his hands.

 

“Good evening,” he said, as if they were merely attending a late-night chat. “What brings you all to my office at this hour?” His bright gaze flicked between Ron’s pale, tight face, Harry’s stiff posture, and McGonagall’s stormy expression, “I gather this isn’t a social call.”

 

“It is not,” McGonagall said tersely, “There has been an incident in Gryffindor Tower. I’ve already sent a Patronus to Professor Snape—he will be contacting Mr. Malfoy’s parents. I’ll be using your Floo to reach Molly and Arthur Weasley.”

 

Dumbledore nodded solemnly and gestured toward the hearth, “Of course.”

 

Without waiting for further invitation, McGonagall strode to the fireplace, grabbed a small silver dish from the mantel, and tossed a generous pinch of Floo powder into the flames. They flared emerald green with a low roar.

 

Kneeling, she called clearly, “The Burrow!”

 

The flickering fire shifted, forming the image of a warmly lit kitchen. A moment later, a familiar figure bent into view—Molly Weasley, a worn robe pulled hastily over her nightgown.

 

“Oh, Minerva! It’s rather late, dear. What’s happened? Have Fred and George—?”

 

“Actually,” McGonagall interrupted firmly, “I’m contacting you on behalf of your youngest son.”

 

Molly’s face changed instantly. “Ron? Is he all right?”

 

“He is physically unharmed,” McGonagall replied tightly, “But I believe it’s best if you and Arthur come through. We have much to discuss.”

 

There was a long pause before Molly nodded, “We’ll be right there.”

 

McGonagall rose, brushing ash from her robes as she stepped back. Harry glanced at Dumbledore, who had stood from his chair and was watching the fire with quiet gravity.

 

The green flames blazed once more, and Molly and Arthur Weasley stepped out into the Headmaster’s office in a flurry of anxious movement. Molly looked around wildly until her eyes found Ron—standing stiffly with his hands jammed in his pockets, staring at the floor. Her brows knit in immediate worry.

 

“Ronald Bilius Weasley, what on earth is going on?”

 

Arthur gave his son a stern glance but remained quiet for now, clearly trying to assess the situation before jumping to conclusions.

 

Before McGonagall could respond, the office door opened again with a decisive click.

 

Severus Snape swept into the room, followed closely by Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

 

Lucius looked mildly annoyed to have been summoned, though his cool mask slipped slightly when his gaze flicked to Harry and noticed the tension in his posture. Narcissa, on the other hand, strode in like a storm cloud, her expression etched with concern and sharp with simmering fury.

 

“We came as soon as we received Minerva’s message,” she said crisply, addressing Dumbledore. “Is Castor hurt?”

 

“No,” McGonagall said quickly. “Thanks to the protections on his trunk and the intervention of his elf, he is physically unharmed. However—”

 

“Intervention?” Narcissa echoed, stepping closer to Harry, who now stood awkwardly between the Weasleys and his own family. “Castor, what happened?”

 

Harry ran a hand through his hair, jaw tense, “Someone tried to blast open my trunk with Bombarda. I was inside.”

 

The room went silent.

 

Molly let out a shocked gasp. Arthur’s eyes narrowed. Snape’s head turned sharply toward Ron. Lucius’s entire expression changed—no longer tired or vaguely annoyed, but something colder. Calculating. Angry.

 

“Who,” Lucius asked silkily, “thought that was a good idea?”

 

Harry looked at Ron.

 

All eyes followed.

 

Ron flinched under the collective weight of their stares, and for a brief moment, he looked like he might deny it. But instead, he mumbled, “I didn’t know he was in the trunk.”

 

“That’s your defense?” Narcissa asked icily. “That you thought you were only destroying his things?”

 

“Enough,” McGonagall said, voice taut with emotion. “We are not here to shout over one another.”

 

She turned back to Dumbledore, who had remained quietly standing behind his desk, the firelight reflecting in his solemn eyes.

 

“I believe, Headmaster,” she said, “this is a matter that requires immediate disciplinary action.”

 

Dumbledore sighed deeply and nodded once. “Yes. It seems we have much to discuss.”

 

He gestured for everyone to take seats. Narcissa moved to Harry immediately, adjusting the collar of his robe like a mother bird checking her chick for injuries, before sitting beside him. Lucius took the chair next to her, back straight and hands folded, his gaze never leaving Ron.

 

The Weasleys sat stiffly on the other side of the circle, with Ron between them, face pale and jaw tight.

 

As Snape crossed the room in his usual swirl of black robes and took a place against the wall near the fireplace, Dumbledore looked between the two families and said calmly:

 

“Let us begin at the beginning.”

 

 

Harry was the first to speak, his voice steady but quiet, as he glanced briefly at his parents before addressing the room.

 

“I honestly don’t know much,” he began. “When we got back to the castle, I went straight to Gryffindor Tower like I said I would.” He looked to Lucius and Narcissa again, making sure they understood that he hadn’t deviated from their agreed-upon plan. “The common room was packed—everyone was celebrating the task. I made a round, said hello to a few people, let them clap me on the back, that sort of thing, but… I was knackered. The noise was a bit much.”

 

His tone grew more matter-of-fact, almost clinical, as though laying out the facts might help him make sense of it all.

 

“So I said goodnight, went to take a shower. When I was done, the party downstairs was still going. Loud enough I knew I wouldn’t be able to get any sleep.” He paused, his brows pinching faintly. “Didn’t want to ruin the fun for everyone else, so I climbed into my trunk. Figured I’d read a little until things quieted down. That’s all.”

 

He took a breath, and when he continued, his voice dipped into something rougher.

 

“Next thing I know, there’s this deafening bang—the whole trunk jolted. It felt like… like I’d been shoved into a snow globe that someone started shaking like mad. Books fell off the shelves. I got thrown out of my chair. The whole room felt like it was rattling apart.”

 

He rubbed his palms together, still clearly shaken by the memory.

 

“I tried to get out, but the door wouldn’t budge. I didn’t know why at first—I just kept pushing at it, but something was pinning it shut. I was stuck in there for a while, until Neville opened the door and helped me out.”

 

He looked to Professor McGonagall now, then over to Dumbledore and the others.

 

“That’s when I saw the mess—the destroyed bed, the cracked wall. And Mipsy holding Ron against the stone like a portrait. I had no idea what happened until I questioned Mipsy and she said he cast Bombarda at my trunk.” His eyes landed coldly on Ron, not with anger so much as disbelief. “If it weren’t for Mipsy, he might have actually hit it.”

 

Narcissa went visibly pale, her breath catching as Harry recounted what had happened. A cold realization settled in her chest.

 

When she had first commissioned the trunk, she’d taken no chances—insisting that the woodworkers carve an intricate network of protective runes into the inside of the lid before it was lined with velvet. The enchantments had been designed to guard against elemental damage: fire, water, even warding off attempts at theft or unauthorized entry. It was supposed to be a haven, a sanctuary her son could retreat into when the world became too much.

 

But even in all her meticulous planning—even in her most paranoid moments—she had never once imagined that someone would try to blow it up.

 

A blasting curse? That was beyond anything she'd accounted for. Yes, the trunk had layers of protection, but she had no delusions of invincibility. The sheer force of Bombarda could have been enough to shatter even the strongest of magical reinforcements. She wasn’t certain the runes would have held.

 

The thought turned her stomach.

 

Narcissa felt a wave of gratitude so fierce it nearly unmoored her. If the elf hadn’t intervened she might have lost her son tonight. Not to war, not to dark magic, but to the reckless cruelty of a classmate.

 

She reached instinctively for Lucius’s hand beneath the table, gripping it tight as she drew in a slow breath to steady herself.

 

Arthur Weasley’s voice was low and tight with restrained fury as he stepped forward, eyes locked on his son, “Ronald. Please. Say something in your defense.”

 

Beside him, Molly wrung her hands, her face pale and stricken. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, torn between heartbreak and horror at what she was hearing.

 

Ron looked from his mother’s trembling form to his father’s unflinching stare. His ears burned red as his shoulders hunched inward defensively. “I—I didn’t know he was in there,” he stammered. “I thought he’d be downstairs at the party like everyone else!”

 

His voice cracked, desperation creeping in. “I just— I got angry, alright? I wasn’t thinking! I didn’t mean to hurt anyone—I just... lashed out.”

 

He swallowed hard, eyes darting toward Harry before quickly looking away. “I’m not a murderer,” he muttered. “It was just a moment. A stupid, stupid moment.”

 

Molly let out a choked noise and reached for Arthur’s arm to steady herself.

 

But Arthur’s jaw clenched, his expression carved from stone, “You cast a blasting curse on another student’s belongings. Inside a dormitory. Without knowing who might be nearby, or inside, or what harm it could cause.” His voice trembled now—not from rage, but from the weight of betrayal. “Do you have any idea what could have happened if Mipsy hadn’t intervened?”

 

Ron didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

 

Because the truth was written on every face in the room. He hadn’t thought. He’d let his jealousy get the better of him—and the consequences of that impulsive act now echoed like a thunderclap through every corner of the room.

 

And no amount of backpedaling could erase that fact.

 

The room hung in a thick, bitter silence. Ron’s face was ashen, Arthur looked ready to explode, and Molly was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. The Malfoys sat stiffly, Narcissa’s hand curled tightly around Lucius’s arm, her lips a cold, pale line. Harry, still sitting near his parents, hadn’t said a word since Ron’s stammered defense. His expression was unreadable.

 

It was Albus Dumbledore who finally broke the silence. “Well,” he said gently, folding his hands atop the desk and leaning forward with a grandfatherly sort of sigh. “This is a rather... unfortunate situation.”

 

Minerva looked like she might combust. “Unfortunate?” she hissed, “Albus, a student cast Bombarda on another’s belongings—with the intent to destroy—”

 

“Yes, yes,” Dumbledore interrupted mildly, “and of course that is very serious. I am not denying that.” He looked over his spectacles at Ron, whose eyes were locked on the floor. “However, we must not allow our emotions to cloud our judgment.”

 

“Cloud our—” Lucius took a step forward, his tone icy. “My son was nearly killed, Albus.”

 

“But he wasn’t,” Dumbledore said smoothly, holding up a hand. “Thanks to quick magical interference from his house-elf, no harm was done.”

 

“No physical harm,” Narcissa said coldly. “Shall we discuss the emotional and psychological damage next?”

 

“Indeed, Narcissa, and I do not dismiss that,” Dumbledore said, still infuriatingly calm. “But we must also consider young Mr. Weasley’s age, his character, and the fact that this was—however reckless—a lapse in judgment, not a calculated attack.”

 

“He used a blasting curse,” Severus snapped from where he stood near the floo, his arms crossed. “What do you call it when a child hurls a grenade into a crowded room and says ‘Oops’ afterward?”

 

Dumbledore gave a heavy sigh, and his tone turned almost indulgent, “Severus, please. This is a school. We are meant to guide and educate, not simply punish and discard. I propose an alternative.”

 

Arthur’s brows knit together, “Alternative?”

 

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t shift, though the weight of his next words hung heavy. “Mr. Weasley will not be expelled.” He raised his voice slightly to cut through the sharp gasps that followed, “However, there will be significant consequences. He will be permanently disqualified from holding any future school positions—no prefecture, no Quidditch team. He will also lose his Hogsmeade privileges for the remainder of the year and be prohibited from attending or participating in any future Triwizard Tournament events.”

 

“That’s your idea of punishment for an attempted murder?” Narcissa snapped, her voice cutting and furious.

 

Dumbledore’s tone remained infuriatingly even. “I prefer to call it a measured response—one focused on accountability and growth rather than simply condemnation. Mr. Weasley will be required to submit formal, magically bound apologies to Mr. Malfoy and his family. Additionally, he will serve daily supervised service under Mr. Filch and Madam Pomfrey during his free time for the rest of the term, helping repair and care for both the castle and its inhabitants.”

Ron looked up at this, eyes wide in horror.

 

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled faintly, though the warmth in them didn’t quite reach their depths. “Rest assured, Mr. Malfoy, this will not be brushed aside. But nor shall we let it derail a young man’s life entirely. We all know how... difficult adolescence can be.”

 

Harry stepped forward at last, his voice calm but firm, “You can spare me the speeches, Professor. Just keep him the hell away from me.”

 

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on him a beat too long, “Of course, dear boy.”

 

Minerva still looked furious, but Lucius gave a sharp nod, perhaps recognizing the futility of arguing further—especially when Dumbledore had already framed the story in the most politically tidy way.

 

“I’m not sleeping anywhere near him,” Harry said, voice low but unwavering, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

 

Narcissa immediately reached out, placing a gentle hand on his back in silent support, while Lucius’s eyes narrowed at Ron with quiet disdain.

 

“I understand,” Professor McGonagall said, her voice clipped but not unkind, lips pressed into a thin line, “And under the circumstances, I don’t blame you. We’ll arrange for a temporary relocation tonight—perhaps an unused guest suite or one of the faculty chambers, until something more suitable is found.”

 

Harry gave a sharp nod, but his jaw was still tight with tension, “Fine. For now. But I’ll find my own accommodations. I’m not spending another second sleeping in the same space as someone I can’t trust. Not after this.”

 

A thick silence settled over the room. No one dared argue with him. The weight of the night, the near disaster, still hung heavy in the air.

 

Molly Weasley let out a quiet sob, covering her mouth with one hand. Arthur’s expression was grim, his eyes closed briefly as though trying to hold back both shame and fury. Ron, pale and visibly shaking, stayed frozen, unable—or unwilling—to lift his eyes from the carpet.

 

Lucius stepped closer to his son, his voice low and cold, “I will personally ensure proper wards are placed wherever you decide to stay. This was nearly a tragedy. And we won’t risk another.”

 

Narcissa’s hand remained steady on Harry’s shoulder, “We’ll speak with the Headmaster about securing something private. Something safe.”

 

“Safe and silent,” Harry murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

 

Dumbledore finally spoke again, his tone smooth and measured, as if trying to reclaim some control, “Of course. Mr. Malfoy’s safety is our top priority. I’ll speak to the castle’s enchantments myself to make arrangements. Until then, Professor McGonagall will escort you to a temporary room.”

 

“I’ll come too,” Lucius said immediately.

 

“As will I,” Narcissa added, not bothering to ask permission.

 

Dumbledore gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Naturally.”

 

Minerva turned toward the door, her robes sweeping with her as she moved. “Come along then, Mr. Malfoy. We’ll get you settled for tonight.”

 

Harry followed her, Lucius and Narcissa at his side. Just before stepping out, he paused, turning slightly to glance back at Ron.

 

His voice was quiet, but it cut clean through the room.

 

“You could’ve killed me.”

 

Ron flinched.

 

Then Harry walked out, leaving the Headmaster’s office colder and heavier than it had been a moment before.

Notes:

Sorry this one took so long. I rewrote it 3 times and this is the best that came out lol

Chapter 28: Chapter 28

Notes:

This one was a struggle.

Chapter 28

 

The Malfoy family followed Professor McGonagall through the dimly lit halls of the castle, their footsteps echoing quietly on the stone floor. She led them to one of the unused guest chambers near Gryffindor Tower. It wasn’t large—just a modest room tucked behind a quiet corridor—but it was private, quiet, and secure.

 

The moment Harry stepped inside, he was hit by a wave of scarlet and gold. From the rich red curtains to the gilded trim on the furniture, everything screamed Gryffindor. He grimaced slightly but said nothing. It would do—for now.

 

It wasn’t ideal, but he appreciated that he had been given space, and more importantly, choice. That was what truly surprised him. Professors didn’t usually let students dictate their own accommodations, especially after an incident like tonight. Yet here he was, standing in a private room with his parents at his side, deciding for himself where he would stay.

 

Maybe it was just the staff’s way of smoothing things over quickly, to avoid more scandal. Or maybe they were trying to appease his parents—Lucius’s influence was still formidable, after all.

 

Harry glanced at them now, watching as Narcissa inspected the fireplace with a critical eye while Lucius murmured something to McGonagall about securing the windows with additional wards.

 

Would he have been treated the same if they weren’t his parents?

 

He doubted it.

 

Then again, if Lucius and Narcissa weren’t his parents, none of this would have happened in the first place. Ron might not hate him. He wouldn’t have that enchanted trunk.

 

It was a pointless spiral of what-ifs.

 

The bed itself was small but comfortable-looking. He'd sleep here tonight, maybe tomorrow too. But he was already thinking ahead. He’d find somewhere else.

 

“Mipsy?” Harry called quietly, drawing the attention of the adults in the room.

 

Lucius and Narcissa looked toward him at once, and even Professor McGonagall paused mid-conversation.

 

With a soft pop, Mipsy appeared before him, her ears perked and expression alert.

 

“Yes, Master Castor?” she asked, her tone warm and eager to help.

 

Harry offered a small but genuine smile, “Could you bring my belongings here? I don’t want to go back up there.”

 

Mipsy gave an energetic nod and vanished on the spot. Just a few heartbeats later, she reappeared with a sharp crack, hauling Harry’s trunk beside her. The heavy case thudded softly to the floor, still dusted with bits of debris from where the collapsed bed frame had caged it earlier.

 

Harry stepped forward, his expression tightening slightly as he saw the lingering soot on the outer surface. But before he could say a word, Mipsy raised a tiny hand. With a delicate flick of her fingers, a shimmering wave of magic swept over the trunk, stripping away every trace of dirt. The polished surface gleamed like new beneath the golden glow of the torches.

 

“Thank you, Mipsy,” Harry said sincerely, his voice softer now, “For everything.”

 

Mipsy dipped into a deep bow, ears twitching with pride, “Always, Master Castor. Mipsy is happy to help.”

 

Narcissa watched the exchange with a small, thoughtful smile—equal parts maternal pride and astonishment. Lucius didn’t say a word, his expression unreadable as he studied both the boy and the elf. McGonagall simply nodded once, as though making note of something important, then turned to finish securing the room’s wards.

 

Harry ran his hand across the top of the now-pristine trunk, grounding himself in the familiar wood grain.

 

Once Mipsy had vanished again and Harry’s trunk was safely settled beside the bed, Professor McGonagall gave the room one final sweep with her wand, casting a soft ward over the door.

 

“That will keep interruptions out for the night,” she said crisply, though her eyes lingered on Harry for a moment. “If you need anything, simply send word. I’ll speak with the Headmaster in the morning about arranging something more long-term, depending on your decision.”

 

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said quietly.

 

She gave a sharp, approving nod before turning to Lucius and Narcissa, “Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, I’ll leave him in your care for now. Good night.”

 

As she departed with a swish of tartan robes, the door clicked shut behind her, leaving the Malfoy family alone in the cozy, Gryffindor-colored guest quarters.

 

For a moment, no one spoke.

 

Then Narcissa crossed the room in a few graceful strides and pulled Harry into a tight hug. “You should never have been put in that position,” she whispered fiercely into his hair. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

 

Harry returned the embrace, letting himself be held for just a second longer than usual, “I’m okay. Mipsy was there. She acted faster than anyone else could’ve.”

 

“She did,” Lucius said, stepping closer, his tone quiet and even, “But that doesn’t excuse what happened. This school was meant to protect you—not give you reason to fear for your life in your own dormitory.”

 

“I didn’t think Ron would go that far,” Harry admitted, pulling away just enough to look at them both. “He’s been angry for weeks, but—he used a blasting curse. I could’ve been—”

 

“You should have been,” Narcissa interrupted, her voice shaking now, eyes glassy. “That trunk wasn’t made to withstand that kind of magic. Merlin, Castor, if Mipsy hadn’t been there…”

 

“She was,” Harry said gently, cutting her off. “She was. I’m still here.”

 

Lucius nodded once, the motion tight and controlled, “You made the right call asking to move out. And I’m proud of you for standing your ground in front of Dumbledore.”

 

Harry blinked at that. Praise from Lucius Malfoy still had a way of catching him off guard.

 

Narcissa, however, wasn’t done, “You won’t be going back to that tower. I don’t care what the headmaster offers. We’ll find something better for you. Something safe. Until you decide what you will do, you’ll sleep with a warded door and a house-elf nearby. Non-negotiable.”

 

Harry gave a tired half-smile, “Deal.”

 

Lucius finally allowed himself a small exhale, “Then rest, son. You’ve earned it.”

 

Narcissa conjured a soft blanket from her bag and draped it over the bed, even though the room had already been prepared. It was more a gesture of comfort than necessity.

 

As they stepped toward the door to leave him to rest, Harry stopped them, “Thank you. For trusting me. And for not treating me like I broke something tonight.”

 

“You didn’t,” Lucius said, “You’ve only proven, again, who you truly are.”

 

And with that, they left him to settle in for the night.

 

888

 

By the time Harry made his way down to breakfast the next morning, the castle was practically buzzing with rumors. Whispers flew from every corner of the Great Hall—first about the tournament and the unforgettable dragon flight, and now about the chaos that had unfolded in the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory just hours later.

 

It was clear the news had spread like wildfire. Students craned their necks to get a better look as Harry walked in, some openly staring, others nudging their friends with wide eyes and excited whispers. The clamor dipped into silence for a few heartbeats before picking back up in hurried chatter.

 

And for once, Harry wasn’t the center of ridicule or suspicion. The air of awe that followed him was almost tangible—he caught snippets of conversation:

“Did you hear he was inside the trunk when it happened?”

“He’s the Dragon Whisperer, nothing can kill him.”

“I heard Weasley tried to blow him up! Can you believe it?”

 

Though he despised being the center of attention, at least the stares he received were filled with admiration—and the outrage wasn’t directed at him, but at Ron.

 

The redhead, seated awkwardly at the far end of the Gryffindor table, looked like a man exiled. Students nearby had scooted away from him, casting cold glares or outright ignoring him. A few shot Harry apologetic glances or mouthed things he didn’t bother reading.

 

Harry kept his face neutral as he slid into an empty seat beside Neville and Hermione, his back straight, expression calm, though his skin prickled from the attention.

 

“At least they’re not siding with him,” Hermione murmured under her breath, leaning close. “The school may be full of gossips, but even they know where the line is.”

 

Neville nodded, grabbing a slice of toast, “Everyone’s talking about you and the Horntail. I think the Ron thing just added fuel to the legend.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes but accepted the toast anyway, “Brilliant. Exactly what I need. More eyes.”

 

Hermione smiled sympathetically, “Well… at least the eyes are being nice.”

 

Just then, Hedwig swooped gracefully down onto the table in front of Harry, a crisp copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in her talons. She gave a proud little hoot as he took it from her, and he rubbed her feathers in thanks before she flew off again, drawing even more curious glances.

 

The front page the Prophet was dominated by a massive moving photo—one that stopped Harry cold.

 

It was him, perched tall and fearless atop the rock, the Hungarian Horntail looming before him, neck bowed low in what could only be interpreted as submission.

 

“The Dragon King: Castor Malfoy Stuns Magical World in First Triwizard Task!”

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent for the Daily Prophet

 

It was a moment that will go down in history—and possibly rewrite everything we thought we knew about dragons.

 

During the highly anticipated first task of the Triwizard Tournament, while other Champions battled tooth and nail to avoid being roasted alive, Hogwarts’ very own Castor Malfoy (a name you’ll want to remember) seemed to charm his way to victory—literally.

 

Witnesses confirm that the Hungarian Horntail—widely considered the most dangerous of the dragons—bowed to young Malfoy after a tense, mesmerizing stand-off that had the crowd breathless. But that’s not all. He later mounted the beast and took to the skies, offering the audience an aerial show none will soon forget. (photos page 4-6)

 

Who is this boy, really? A Parselmouth, a rising star, and the only Champion to complete the task giving him a grand lead in the tournament.

 

Some might say he’s just lucky. Others insist there’s something more ancient, more dangerous, about his quiet power. Whatever the truth, Castor Malfoy has not only survived the first task—he’s taken center stage in the magical world’s imagination.

 

And, if my sources are correct, he’s already caught the eye of the international dragon taming community. Could a teenage prodigy be about to change the world of magical creature conservation forever? Stay tuned, dear readers. One thing is certain…

 

This is no ordinary Malfoy.

 

Harry groaned as he lowered the paper, cheeks flushed.

 

Neville whistled, “She really went all in, didn’t she?”

 

Hermione snatched the paper and scanned the article quickly, nose wrinkling, “Ugh. Honestly, she can’t help herself. There’s truth in here, sure, but she twists everything into some mythic drama.”

 

“She called you the Dragon King,” Seamus said in awe, reading over Hermione’s shoulder. “That’s going to stick, you know.”

 

Harry dropped his head into his hands with a groan, fingers tugging through his already-messy hair, “Brilliant. As if I don’t have enough titles.”

 

Lavender Brown, seated a few spots down, leaned in with a grin that was far too amused for Harry’s liking, “Face it, Castor. You’ve officially reached icon status. Dragons, danger, duels—it’s like you were born to cause headlines.”

 

Before Harry could come up with a response that didn’t include groaning again, a familiar voice cut through the air like silk wrapped in thorns.

 

“But not more iconic than his handsome older brother, right?” Draco drawled as he slid into the empty seat beside Harry, his expression deceptively casual, but his eyes sharp with scrutiny.

 

Harry raised his head just enough to glare sideways at him, “You just had to make it about you.”

 

“Of course I did,” Draco said breezily, “I have let you keep the spot light for far too long.”

 

Hermione snorted from across the table, “You’re both insufferable.”

 

Draco glowered at her but didn’t take the bait. Instead, his attention returned to Harry, and his voice dropped to something lower, more serious—just quiet enough to keep the others from overhearing.

 

“Jokes aside,” he murmured, “what happened last night? I got bits and pieces, but while the Gryffindor were buzzing with chaos, no one actually knows what set it off. Just that Weasley’s in deep trouble and you didn’t sleep in your dorm.”

 

Harry hesitated. He glanced around, then shrugged, “He cast Bombarda at my trunk.”

 

Draco’s easy expression dropped in an instant, “He what?”

 

“Missed, thankfully. Mipsy tackled him just in time. Hit my bed instead. The wall cracked, and the bed collapsed on top of the trunk. I was inside,” Harry’s tone was calm, but the weight of the words landed hard between them.

 

Draco went rigid, his hands curling into fists on the table, “That bloody idiot—you could’ve been killed. What the hell was he thinking?”

 

“Apparently,” Harry said bitterly, “he wasn’t.”

 

A few more students turned their heads at the sharpness of Draco’s tone, but he didn’t care.

 

“Is he being expelled?” Draco demanded.

 

“No,” Harry muttered, not hiding his irritation. “Dumbledore gave him a slap on the wrist. No prefect badge, no Quidditch, no Hogsmeade, and he's banned from the tournament events. Plus detentions with Filch and Pomfrey.”

 

Draco’s mouth twisted. “That’s it? Merlin’s beard! The old man has lost it!”

 

Harry gave a dry chuckle, “Trust me, I know.”

 

There was a long pause, heavy with unspoken tension, before Draco leaned in again, voice softer.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Harry blinked, not expecting the question to come from him of all people.

 

“I’m… fine. Really,” He didn’t sound convincing.

 

Draco gave him a look that clearly said liar, but he didn’t press the point. Instead, he placed a hand briefly on Harry’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

 

“Well,” Draco said lightly as he stood, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve, “If you need someone to help you plot an elaborate revenge that’s both poetic and untraceable, you know where to find me.”

 

“I’m not plotting revenge,” Harry muttered.

 

“Not yet,” Draco corrected with a wink before heading off toward the Slytherin table, leaving Harry blinking after him and trying very hard not to smile.

 

888

 

After their last class of the day, the trio made their usual detour to the library to gather what they needed for their Charms essay. As they crossed through the aisles, Neville balanced a stack of books in his arms before casually glancing over at Harry.

 

“So… where did you end up sleeping last night?” he asked, his tone light but laced with curiosity.

 

Harry tucked a heavy book under his arm and shrugged. “Professor McGonagall gave me a temporary guest room just outside the tower. I told Dumbledore I wasn’t going to stay anywhere near Ron, and surprisingly… he didn’t fight me on it. Said I could find something more permanent later.”

 

Neville nodded slowly, clearly satisfied with that answer—but before he could comment, Hermione’s eyes lit up with sudden inspiration.

 

“We could ask the house-elves!” she said, nearly dropping her quill in excitement. “Fred told me where the kitchens are—he snuck down there last night to grab food for the celebration. I was actually going to visit them myself to have a conversation about… well, elf rights—” (she ignored Harry’s slightly amused look) “—but if you come with me, I’m sure they’d be more than happy to show you all the unused or spare rooms in the castle. There might be something perfect for you. Quiet. Private.”

 

Harry tilted his head thoughtfully, “You really think they’d know?”

 

Hermione scoffed softly, “They know everything about this place. If there’s a hidden chamber or long-forgotten suite, they’ll be the ones who’ve cleaned it every week for the past century.”

 

Neville chuckled, “You do realize you just described Castor’s ideal living arrangement.”

 

Harry grinned, “Alright then. After dinner?”

 

Hermione gave a firm nod, “After dinner.”

 

888

 

Harry and Hermione made their way through the quiet corridors of the lower levels of the castle, their footsteps echoing faintly off the stone. The halls down here were cooler, dimmer, and rarely occupied this late in the afternoon. They passed a small group of Hufflepuffs heading back toward their common room, who gave them curious glances but didn’t stop them.

 

Neville had excused himself to tend to his plants in the greenhouses, so it was just the two of them on this particular mission.

 

“I think this is it,” Hermione said, pausing in front of a large still life painting depicting a bowl of fruit. She glanced around to make sure they were alone, then reached out. “Fred told me—tickle the pear.”

 

Her finger brushed the green fruit, and Harry blinked as the pear squirmed, let out a soft giggle, and turned into a gleaming brass door handle. Hermione grasped it and pulled it open. The kitchens were enormous, warm, and bustling with gentle energy. Four long tables stretched through the room, positioned directly beneath the ones in the Great Hall above. The ceiling was high, arched with thick wooden beams, and from the hooks above hung baskets of herbs, polished copper pots, and bunches of dried flowers. The air smelled delicious—like fresh bread, roasted garlic, and something sweet cooling on a tray.

 

Dozens of house-elves moved through the space in seamless harmony, their small forms darting about with practiced efficiency. Some were stirring bubbling pots, others chopping vegetables or checking pastries in the ovens. The clatter of utensils, the low hum of activity, and the occasional pop of magic filled the air.

 

“Wow,” Harry breathed, eyes wide as he took in the expanse of the Hogwarts kitchens. The scent of fresh bread and roasted vegetables mingled with hints of cinnamon and chocolate in the air, and the golden light of enchanted lanterns flickered warmly across gleaming copper pans and worn wooden countertops.

 

One small elf near the fire noticed them first. She had soft pink ears and a kind smile, “Sirs and miss in the kitchens? What can Tilda be doing for you?”

 

Harry stepped forward, “Actually, I was wondering if there was an empty room I could stay in.”

 

Tilda blinked up at him, “Not wanting to sleep in the tower, Master Castor?”

 

He nodded, “Something happened. I just… I need to be somewhere else. Somewhere safe and private. Professor’s Dumbledore and McGonagall are aware I am moving myself.”

 

Tilda’s ears twitched sympathetically, “Tilda understands. There is a place. A good room. A room that listens.”

 

Before she could say more, a pop cracked the air.

 

“Harry Potter!” Dobby appeared just feet away, beaming in delight. His arms were flung wide like he was about to hug him.

 

But he never got the chance.

 

With another pop, Mipsy appeared from nowhere — brandishing a frying pan, “BAD DOBBY!”

 

Before anyone could react, she swung, catching Dobby squarely on the side of the head.

 

Hermione froze, utterly stunned by the sudden burst of elf-on-elf violence.

 

“WHAT—MIPSY?!” Harry lunged, grabbing the pan before she could strike again, “What are you doing?!”

 

Mipsy didn’t even flinch. Her eyes burned with purpose, “He is a bad elf. You leave good Master Castor alone!”

 

Dobby flinched, clutching his head.

 

Harry blinked, glancing between the two elves in bewilderment, “Okay… but why? What did he do?”

 

“Dobby be always hurting himself,” Mipsy said stiffly, folding her arms across her chest.

 

Harry frowned, “I know he used to,” he said gently, kneeling to meet her eye level. “Back when Lucius owned him, he was forced to hurt himself anytime he stepped out of line. That’s why I helped him get free—so he didn’t have to go through that anymore.”

 

But Mipsy shook her head rapidly, the tips of her ears flapping with the motion. “Master Castor is confused,” she insisted. “Bound elves only be hurting themselves when they disobey. When master commands and elf does opposite or when elf does something to harm master.”

 

Harry nodded again, trying to follow, “Exactly. Dobby disobeyed Lucius, and he got punished. That’s not his fault.”

 

But Mipsy jabbed a tiny finger toward Dobby, her voice rising, “Dobby chose to disobey. He chose to hurt himself. Not once, not twice—many times! Not to help himself. But to hurt the Malfoy family. He tried to destroy them, Master Castor!”

 

Dobby looked away, shame flickering across his face, ears drooping.

 

Harry’s breath caught.

 

“I…” He trailed off, piecing it together, “You’re saying… Dobby didn’t just act out because he was mistreated. He went looking to make trouble for the Malfoys.”

 

Mipsy’s ears flattened, her voice taut with disdain, “He never wanted freedom. He wanted the family ruined. Wanted Master punished. Not freedom—vengeance. And he still does.”

 

Harry turned toward Dobby, who stood trembling, his wide green eyes filled with guilt. There was no denial. No excuses. Just a silent, frightened quiver of his lower lip.

 

“That’s why Master Malfoy watches him so close,” Mipsy snapped, magic crackling faintly at her fingertips. “He knows Dobby’s still doing bad things. Dangerous things. An elf doesn’t iron his hands for nothing. If he be punishing himself, it’s because he keeps disobeying his Master in bad ways.”

 

Finally, Dobby snapped, his voice high and trembling with wounded pride, “I did right! Nasty Master Malfoy was serving You-Know-Who! Dobby had to sabotage—had to protect you! Dobby freed you! Dobby saved you!”

 

Harry’s stomach twisted. At first, he thought Dobby was referring to the end of second year — but that did not sound right and something about Dobby’s expression made his skin crawl.

 

Then it hit him.

 

His pulse stuttered. He stepped forward, voice tight, “Wait... what are you talking about?”

 

Dobby’s ears drooped. He clapped his hands over his mouth like he could somehow take the words back. But it was too late.

 

Harry stared. The pieces clicked into place all at once — like dominoes falling in a straight, horrible line.

 

“You helped Sirius,” he breathed, “You’re his ‘inside man.’”

 

Hermione’s head whipped toward him, “What?”

 

But Harry wasn’t listening. His gaze was locked on Dobby, “Tell me the truth,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “Was it you?”

 

Dobby didn’t even try to deny it. His voice cracked with desperate conviction, “Dobby did good! Master Malfoy be serving You-Know-Who! Dobby had to help! I saved you!”

 

Harry reeled backward like he’d been punched. “Oh, fuck,” he choked, “I— I don’t even know what to do right now.”

 

His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The kitchen felt too hot. Too bright.

 

Dobby trembled, his fingers twisting into the hem of his tunic, “Dobby thought he was saving you…”

 

Hermione stepped forward, face full of concern and confusion, “Harry? What does he mean? What’s going on?”

 

But Harry didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. His mind was spinning too fast.

 

All he could manage was a whisper, “This changes everything.”

 

Silence fell thick and heavy.

 

Then, gently, Tilda stepped forward and touched Harry’s sleeve, “If Master Castor would still like a safe place, Tilda knows one.”

 

Harry blinked at her, startled, “Yeah… Yeah, I think I would. Thank you, Tilda.”

 

Tilda smiled shyly, “There is a room in this castle that appears only when it is needed. It changes to suit the heart. The it is called the Room of Requirement. But we elves like to call it the come and go room.”

 

Hermione made a small sound of surprise, “I’ve read hints about that place…”

 

Tilda nodded, “If you come with Tilda, she will show you the path.”

 

Still shaken, Harry gave Mipsy a small nod — a silent thank you — and let the kind elf lead him and Hermione out of the kitchens.

 

They walked in silence for a while. Eventually, they reached the blank stretch of corridor on the seventh floor.

 

Tilda pointed toward the empty stretch of wall, “You have to walk past it three times,” she instructed gently. “While focusing on what you need most. The Room will listen—and give it to you.”

 

Harry nodded, his expression unreadable as he stepped forward. He began to pace, each slow stride heavy with thought.

 

Somewhere private, he told himself.

Somewhere only those I trust can come.

A space that’s mine—where I don’t have to look over my shoulder. Somewhere safe. Quiet. Complete. A place I can live in, not just hide.

 

A temporary home.

 

As he passed the stretch of wall for the third time, a door appeared—heavy, dark wood with a burnished brass handle. It wasn’t fancy, but it looked solid, secure… inviting.

 

Harry glanced at Hermione and Tilda, then reached for the handle.

 

Inside was exactly what he’d imagined—and more.

 

The room was cozy but spacious enough to breathe. A soft bed with a blue and white plaid duvet and matching throw pillows sat against one wall, while bookshelves lined another, already filled with some of his favorites. A writing desk with neatly stacked parchment and a quill set gleamed in the warm candlelight. In the corner was a fireplace already crackling, casting flickering shadows across the walls. There was even a little kitchenette and a bathroom tucked behind a partition, like a miniature flat.

 

There was no red and gold, no prying eyes. No Ron. Just peace.

 

Harry stepped inside and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

 

“It’s perfect,” he said softly.

 

Hermione looked around with wide eyes, “This is incredible… I didn’t know it could do all this.”

 

Tilda smiled, “It gives you what your heart needs.”

 

Harry turned slowly, taking it all in.

 

Freedom. Control.

 

Home.

Notes:

Was that as hard to read as it was to write?

Chapter 29: Chapter 29

Chapter 29

 

Tilda gave the room one last satisfied glance before turning back to Harry with a kind smile. “Now, if you asked the room to be private,” she said, “then you needn’t worry. No one unwelcome will be able to enter—not unless you invite them. It’s bound to your intent.”

 

Harry nodded, absorbing her words.

 

“If you need something,” Tilda added, her tone growing matter-of-fact, “just think about it. Clearly. The room responds to need and clarity. It can shift its size, change its shape, even produce furniture or tools. You just have to focus. Envision it like you would a spell, and the room will do the rest.”

 

He offered her a quiet thanks, and with a respectful bob of her head, Tilda quietly took her leave, the heavy door vanishing into the wall behind her.

 

Harry turned to take it all in again, now alone with Hermione. The room was warm, private, and comforting—but still sparse. The only places to sit were the small desk tucked against one wall and the simple bed that rested near the hearth. Not wanting to sit on either, Harry closed his eyes and imagined something better: a sitting area, cozy but not cluttered, inviting but calm. He pictured soft firelight flickering against worn leather and warm woods.

 

Slowly, the room began to expand. The walls stretched ever so slightly outward, and in front of the fire, a deep brown leather sofa emerged with a quiet hum of magic. A matching armchair followed, along with a simple wooden coffee table, worn but sturdy, completing the space.

 

Hermione smiled faintly as she sat down on the new sofa beside him. The warmth of the fire and the gentle crackling of the logs created a sense of stillness between them. Neither spoke for a few moments.

 

Then, finally, Hermione broke the silence, her voice soft, “Do you want to talk about what happened with Dobby?”

 

Harry winced. The question was gentle, but it still struck something raw inside him.

 

He leaned back, staring into the fire. “I don’t even know where to start,” he muttered. “I always thought Dobby was just... harmless. Maybe a little unhinged—but sweet, you know?” He let out a breath. “But now… I don’t know. All those things he did second year—dropping Aunt Petunia’s pudding, blocking the barrier to the train, that bludger that broke my arm…” His voice trailed off.

 

Hermione winced at the memory, “He did say he was trying to protect you.”

 

“I know. But that’s the thing,” Harry said, voice tightening. “He always said he was protecting me. But now I’m wondering—was it really about me at all? Or was it just about getting revenge on the Malfoys?” He rubbed his face with both hands. “How did he even help Sirius? How could they have pulled it off without anyone noticing? It doesn’t make sense.”

 

“You didn’t ask him?” Hermione prompted gently.

 

Harry shook his head. “No. After he said it—after Sirius confirmed it—I just... I didn’t want to hear more. I couldn’t,” his voice was quiet now, hoarse with exhaustion, “I needed to get out of there.”

 

Hermione didn’t press further. She simply sat with him, the firelight dancing across her thoughtful expression. The silence was companionable, heavy with unspoken thoughts but free from pressure.

 

Harry took a deep breath, staring into the flames as they flickered gold and orange. “Swear not to tell anyone yet?” he asked, voice low—too low, as if afraid the walls might somehow hear.

 

Hermione turned to look at him, her brows pulling together in concern. “Of course,” she said without hesitation, “You have my word.”

 

Harry nodded slowly, still uncertain if he was ready. But the weight of the secret—the burden of knowing—was pressing too heavily on his chest. If he didn’t say it aloud soon, he felt he might drown in it.

 

“I spoke to Sirius the night before we went to Hogsmeade,” Harry said quietly. His voice cracked around the edges, fraying with the weight of what he was about to admit. “He Floo-called Gryffindor Tower. I thought he was going to tell me bad things about my parents and well I guess that’s how it started.”

 

Hermione sat up straighter, sensing the shift in his tone. Harry didn’t look at her. He kept his gaze fixed on the fire, eyes glossy in the flickering light.

 

“He said my mum—Narcissa—was infected by something he called ‘Black Madness.’ That she was trying to manipulate me… that I couldn’t trust her or Lucius. Said I was in danger.” He swallowed hard, as if the words tasted foul even now. “And then he said it. Just like that. As if it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to admit.”

 

Harry’s hands clenched into fists on his knees.

 

“He told me… he told me he was the one who took me,” He finally looked at Hermione, his voice brittle, “He confessed. Said he ‘rescued’ me. That everything he did was to protect me from the Malfoys.”

 

Hermione blinked slowly, processing, “So… he really—?”

 

“Yes,” Harry said, cutting her off with a sharp nod, “He kidnapped me. When I was a month old. And he lied about it for years.”

 

Hermione’s breath caught. “Harry…”

 

“He doesn’t think he did anything wrong,” Harry said bitterly, “Neither does Dobby. They both think they saved me. That I was this poor, defenseless boy held hostage by monsters.”

 

“And… you don’t feel that way,” Hermione said gently, not asking—just confirming.

 

“No,” Harry said, the word shaking out of him. “They took me from people who loved me. They took me from me. I didn’t even know who I really was until this year. They didn’t give me a choice. They decided what was best and just… acted. Like I was an object to pass around.”

 

The fire popped and crackled as silence stretched between them.

 

Hermione finally spoke, her voice soft, “That’s why you’ve been so distant lately. Why you’ve been… carrying something around.”

 

Harry nodded slowly, “I didn’t know how to talk about it. Part of me didn’t want to believe it was real. I wanted to think I’d misunderstood, that maybe he hadn’t really said it. But then Dobby—”

 

He broke off, shaking his head, his throat tight with emotion.

 

Hermione didn’t say anything right away. Instead, she gently laid her hand over his clenched one. Her palm was warm, steady. A quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone.

 

“You’re not an object, Harry,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “You’re a person. You deserved the truth from the beginning.”

 

He nodded, throat tight.

 

“And you still do,” she added. “So… what are you going to do now?”

 

Harry looked back at the fire. The flames reflected in his eyes, like something was burning deep inside him—pain, anger, and something else: resolve.

 

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But I’m not going to be lied to anymore. Not by Sirius. Not by Dobby. Not by Dumbledore. No one.”

 

Hermione gave his hand a squeeze.

 

“You don’t have to figure it out all at once,” she said gently. “One step at a time.”

 

For a long moment, they sat together in silence again. Then, softly, Harry whispered, “Thanks, Hermione.”

 

“Anytime,” she replied.

 

The fire crackled on. Outside the Room of Requirement, the castle carried on. But inside this quiet haven, two friends sat with the truth and the weight of it—together.

 

888

 

Hermione left not long after, glancing reluctantly at the time as curfew crept ever closer. She gave Harry one last, lingering look—concern flickering in her eyes—but didn’t press him any further. With a quiet goodbye and a promise to check in the next day, she slipped out of the Room of Requirement and let the enchanted door vanish behind her.

 

Harry stood in the silence for a long moment, listening to the fading echo of her footsteps. Then, with a sigh, he turned back toward the fire.

 

The room had shifted slightly again—responding to his unspoken need for calm. Bookshelves now lined the walls, their spines neat and inviting. A soft rug stretched across the floor beneath his feet, and the flickering flames in the hearth cast a warm, amber glow across the space.

 

He wandered the shelves idly, running a hand across the bindings. Some of the books looked brand new, others ancient. They seemed to cover a wide range of topics: magical theory, defensive spells, magical creatures, obscure laws of magical inheritance… Even one on advanced enchantments that looked suspiciously like it had been locked away in the Restricted Section once upon a time.

 

“This place really is magic,” Harry murmured to himself.

 

A soft pop signaled Mipsy’s arrival.

 

“As requested, Master Castor,” she said primly, snapping her fingers and causing his trunk to appear in the corner of the room, perfectly clean and already settled onto a small wooden platform the room had apparently conjured just for it.

 

“Thanks, Mipsy,” Harry said gratefully.

 

The elf dipped into a low, proud bow before vanishing again, leaving Harry to his thoughts.

 

He opened the trunk slowly, as though half-expecting it to explode—though logically, he knew it wouldn’t. Still, the memory of the collapsing bed and cracked stone walls was fresh.

 

Harry spent the next hour or so organizing the space. He arranged his clothes, tucked a few of his drawings into the drawer of a small writing desk the room had conjured, and began stacking his schoolbooks on a low shelf beside the new seating area. He paused occasionally to flip through the tomes the room had provided, surprised at how specific and useful many of them already were—as if the room not only knew what he needed, but what he was about to need.

 

Eventually, he sank into the sofa, a blanket draped over his legs and a particularly worn book of advanced charms open in his lap. But he wasn’t really reading. His mind kept circling back to the conversation with Dobby, to Sirius’s confession, to everything he had built his identity around that was now shifting under his feet.

 

This room was safe. It was warm. It was his. And yet, sleep didn’t come easily.

 

Still, he was glad to be here, glad to be anywhere but that dormitory… away from Ron, from pitying stares and whispered gossip.

 

Harry had the space to think—and he intended to use it.

 

Tomorrow, he’d start figuring out what came next.

 

But tonight, he just needed to breathe.

888

 

Professor McGonagall spotted him emerging from one of the lesser-used staircases near the fourth-floor corridor, walking toward the Great Hall for breakfast. Her eyes narrowed slightly at the direction he was coming from—nowhere near Gryffindor Tower.

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” she called, stepping into his path with the sharp clip of her heels, “May I assume, given your current trajectory, that you've secured alternative accommodations?”

 

Harry offered a polite nod, though his expression remained unreadable, “Yes, Professor. I have.”

 

She tilted her head, giving him a pointed look over the rim of her square spectacles, “Excellent. And would you care to enlighten me as to where these accommodations are?”

 

Harry shifted his weight and offered a diplomatic, if cautious, smile, “With all due respect, Professor… I think it’s better if as few people as possible know.”

 

McGonagall blinked, clearly taken aback, “You think your professors shouldn’t know where you’re staying?”

 

“Not all of them,” Harry replied, his tone firm but not rude, “No offense, but… after everything that’s happened, I’m not exactly feeling confident that every adult here has my best interests in mind.”

 

That struck a nerve. McGonagall's lips thinned to a razor line, and her brows arched in visible disapproval. “You are still a student of this school, Mr. Malfoy. It is imperative that staff be able to locate you in case of an emergency.”

 

Harry didn't flinch. “Then send Hermione,” he said simply.

 

McGonagall paused, clearly not expecting that answer, “Miss Granger?”

 

“She knows where I’m staying. If something happens, she can bring you.”

 

There was a beat of silence as McGonagall considered this. Though clearly dissatisfied, she seemed to recognize the immovability in his stance. It was the same look he’d worn in the Headmaster’s office the night before—tense, cornered, and unwilling to compromise further.

 

“I don’t like it,” she said at last, “But… very well. For now. You will, however, inform me immediately if your accommodations change. Am I understood?”

 

“Yes, Professor.”

 

McGonagall gave him one last scrutinizing look, then nodded stiffly and turned away, her robes billowing as she headed toward the Great Hall.

 

Harry exhaled quietly, then stepped into the noisy warmth of the Hall himself. Conversation dimmed slightly as more heads turned his way, eyes tracking him as he walked—not with suspicion, but with an odd mix of awe and curiosity.

 

Draco caught his eye from the Slytherin table and raised a brow in question. Harry offered a subtle shrug and half-smile before continuing toward the Gryffindor table, sliding into a seat next to Hermione and across from Neville.

 

“You good?” Hermione asked, nudging a plate of toast toward him.

 

“I will be,” Harry muttered, grabbing a slice. “Eventually.”

 

She didn’t press. But her glance lingered, and her hand rested briefly on his wrist.

 

From across the room, Draco watched the interaction—eyes narrowed, thoughtful.

 

888

 

Harry wasn’t even remotely surprised when Draco grabbed him by the wrist and unceremoniously steered him toward the Slytherin side of the Transfiguration classroom. Not that Harry minded—on the Gryffindor side, the only open seats were next to Ron, and judging by the scowl he shot Harry’s way, that would’ve been a disaster waiting to happen.

 

Besides, Ron had thoroughly earned his social exile. After setting Harry’s bed on fire in a bout of angry magic, attempting to blow up Harry’s trunk, and now being the subject of Lavender Brown’s latest potions class horror stories—well, no one was exactly lining up to partner with him.

 

Draco guided Harry into an empty seat beside Theo Nott, then took the one behind them with Blaise. Theo raised a brow, his quill still in hand, parchment half-filled with his precise, spidery handwriting.

 

“Making a habit of slumming it with snakes, Castor?” he murmured, lips twitching into a faint, amused smile.

 

“Better than sitting next to someone who almost murdered me,” Harry muttered under his breath.

 

Theo gave a low whistle, “Fair point.”

 

He leaned back slightly, eyeing Harry with a flicker of curiosity, “You’re handling all this surprisingly well. I think I’d be halfway to Bulgaria by now if it were me.”

 

“That was option two,” Harry replied dryly, “Option one was finding a new room.”

 

Before Theo could reply, Professor McGonagall entered the room in a sweep of emerald robes, and the room quickly settled. Class passed in a blur of wandwork and whispered instructions, though Harry could feel Theo’s sidelong glances occasionally flicking his way. Not invasive—just quietly observant, like Theo was filing him away in a carefully organized cabinet of thoughts.

 

When the bell rang, Draco barely gave Harry time to pack up before nudging him again.

 

“You’re sitting with us at lunch,” Draco said in a tone that allowed for no argument.

 

Harry gave in, “Fine.”

 

The Great Hall buzzed with chatter, clinking cutlery, and the scraping of benches. Harry sat near the end of the Slytherin table, not isolated, but certainly not surrounded. Across from him, Theo Nott sat silently, eating his stew with the quiet grace of someone used to being overlooked and perfectly fine with it.

 

The lull between topics stretched just long enough to feel awkward. Then, down the table, Blaise let out an audible groan as he looked over that days Daily Prophet just to see it was covered in Castor again.

 

"If I hear one more thing about Castor and dragons, I swear I’ll start rooting for the Horntail.”

 

Castor rolled his eyes but didn’t reply.

 

Theo didn't even look up. Instead, he asked in a low voice, “So… you're really going to work with them?”

 

Castor blinked. It was one of the few times Theo had addressed him directly in front of others.

 

“Not full time. Just training. Holidays. Eventually, maybe more,” he replied, picking at his bread.

 

Theo gave a thoughtful nod, “Huh.”

 

Another quiet beat passed.

 

Then Castor said, “Why?”

 

Theo finally looked up, meeting his eyes, “Just thinking about value. What something’s worth—especially to the right buyer.”

 

Castor tilted his head, curious despite himself.

 

Theo gave a faint smile, “My family deals in potion ingredients. Rare ones. Things most people wouldn’t even want to touch. My grandpa calls it ‘dirty gold’—farming, harvesting, and sometimes hunting down magical components. Dangerous, smelly, very lucrative.”

 

Castor raised a brow. “Sounds intense.”

 

Theo shrugged. “It is. But if I want my name on the contracts, on the vaults, I have to contribute something. Something valuable enough to earn my seat.”

 

“Like what?” Castor asked, leaning in just slightly.

 

“Something rare,” Theo said, eyes flicking with restrained ambition. “My grandfather harvested a dead Acromantula when he was seventeen. Venom, carapace, webbing—worth a fortune. It got him a place at the table early. See you have to earn your way in.”

 

Castor let out a low whistle. “Seventeen?”

 

“Yup,” Theo smirked faintly. “And I’ve got three years left to beat that record.”

 

Harry leaned in slightly, voice low and conspiratorial, “What are you doing Saturday?”

 

Theo blinked, momentarily thrown, “Saturday?”

 

Harry’s grin deepened, “Yeah. You busy?”

 

Theo shrugged, clearly intrigued, “Nothing that can’t be rescheduled. Why?”

 

Harry’s smile turned sly, a challenge sparking in his gaze, “Because if you’re free… I say we break that record.”

 

There was a beat of silence before Theo’s lips curved into a slow, delighted smirk, “You’re serious.”

 

“Deadly,” Harry replied, eyes gleaming.

 

Theo watched him, that smirk still lingering, and Harry couldn’t help but smile. The shadows of Dobby and Sirius still lingered, but maybe… just maybe, a little rebellion and a new connection could be exactly what he needed.

Chapter 30: Chapter 30

Chapter 30

 

Harry was quietly relieved when the rest of the week passed without any further chaos. After everything that had unfolded—Sirius’s confession, Dobby’s involvement, and the fallout with Ron—he needed the space to breathe. He spent most of his time in the Room of Requirement, grateful for the peace it offered and the way it shifted itself to his needs without judgment or questions.

 

Not that Hermione allowed him to spiral into isolation. Now that she knew part of what he was dealing with, she kept him grounded—not with constant questions, but with presence and purpose. She and Harry brought Neville up to the seventh floor and introduced him to the Room’s magic. The boy had been wide-eyed and impressed, and after that, it became their unofficial study haven. The three of them could often be found curled up in one corner, surrounded by stacks of books, parchment, and cups of hot tea that appeared on request.

 

Professor McGonagall remained displeased about Harry living somewhere vague and unsupervised, but she hadn’t forbidden it. She had, however, issued a very firm, “I expect you to be in every class, on time, and at every meal. No exceptions.” When he and his companions met those conditions without fail, she relented. With only a mildly disapproving frown now and then, she left him be—for the moment.

 

By Saturday morning, Harry was buzzing with barely contained excitement. It was the first time in a while he’d felt this excited about something. He’d made plans—secret plans—and hadn’t told anyone but Mipsy. Not even Hermione knew, and he was looking forward to seeing Theo’s reaction.

 

That morning, he made an intentional detour and strolled into the Great Hall, heading not for the Gryffindor table, but to Slytherin’s. A small hush followed him, but he ignored it. Draco raised an eyebrow in surprise, then gave him a slow, pleased smile as Harry slipped onto the bench beside him.

 

“Well, well,” Draco drawled, “braving the snake pit willingly? We must be doing something right.”

 

Harry gave him a half-smirk, but his real goal was sitting just across from them. He leaned slightly toward Theo and murmured low enough that no one else could hear.

 

“Meet me near the second-floor bathrooms in an hour. Bring your kit—you’ll need it.”

 

Theo blinked at him, confused, “My—what?”

 

“You know, the stuff you use to collect ingredients from the forest and greenhouses,” Harry said casually, sipping from his juice as if this was perfectly normal.

 

For a moment, Theo just stared at him, brow furrowed, “The second floor?” he muttered to himself but then his expression softened with intrigue.

 

“Alright,” he said slowly, “I’ll bite. See you then.”

 

Harry nodded and turned his attention back to breakfast, feeling a rush of anticipation spark in his chest. The plan was in motion. For some reason he hoped Theo would be impressed.

 

888

 

When Harry arrived, he spotted Theo crouched near the stone wall just outside the designated meeting point, clutching something that looked oddly familiar. At first glance, it reminded Harry of Uncle Vernon’s old toolbox—solid, rectangular, metallic—but the comparison ended there. This one was sleeker, crafted from burnished silver, with intricate etchings along the sides and a reinforced handle that gleamed. Harry assumed that it was enchanted to hold far more than it seemed.

 

Considering this was meant to be his future career, Harry figured it made sense Theo would have the best tools.

 

Theo looked up at the sound of Harry’s approach, eyes widening when he saw him holding… nothing but his broom.

 

“Exactly how far from the school are we going?” he asked.

 

Harry just grinned, “We’re not leaving Hogwarts. This just makes it easier to get in and out.”

 

“In and out of what?” Theo asked slowly.

 

“The Chamber of Secrets.”

 

There was a beat of silence where Theo just stared at him, completely thrown off. Whatever wild theories he might have had this clearly hadn’t been one of them.

 

“You want us to find the Chamber of Secrets… and kill the monster inside,” Theo said flatly, “so I can build up my résumé early?”

 

Harry snorted, “No, I already found it. And killed the monster in second year, thanks.”

 

Theo blinked.

 

“I’m hoping there’s something down there you can use,” Harry continued, slightly less sure now. “I mean… I don’t really know how long dead bodies last.”

 

“Depends on the creature,” Theo answered automatically though his voice was weak.

 

“A basilisk?” Harry replied nervously. He would hate to have gotten Theo’s hopes up if there would be nothing useful left.

 

Theo’s expression shifted almost instantly—disbelief, confusion, shock, something that may have been reverence—and finally settled into a smile so wide it made Harry blink.

 

“You’re saying you killed a basilisk. A basilisk. And you’re just… giving the body to me?” Theo asked, voice rising.

 

Harry laughed, “You Slytherins really need to spend more time with Hufflepuffs or something. Not everyone wants something in return. It’s just been sitting there. Figured someone might as well get use out of it.”

 

Theo looked positively dumbfounded, “Castor, basilisk venom alone is insanely rare. Just one preserved fang could sell for thousands. The skin is like magically-enhanced armor. Why haven’t you harvested any of it?”

 

Harry shrugged, “Didn’t know how. I was twelve. And then later it just… wasn’t something I thought about. At least not until you mentioned needing a creature. I figured if a dead Acromantula counted, maybe a dead basilisk would too.”

 

Theo was already looking down at his silver case with something close to reverence, “We can get a lot out of a basilisk—skin, fangs, bones, venom if the glands haven’t rotted. I’ve read about preservation charms that could’ve slowed decay if the chamber was sealed right—” He caught himself, blinking, “Sorry. Rambling. You have no idea how massive this is.”

 

Harry smiled, “I can guess. C’mon.”

 

Without another word, he turned and began leading Theo down the corridor toward the second-floor girls' bathroom.

 

Theo followed—until Harry casually pushed open the door and walked inside like he owned the place.

 

“Castor?” Theo hissed, stopping dead in the hall. “What are you doing?! That’s the girls’ loo!”

 

Harry threw a look over his shoulder. “Don’t blame me. It was Salazar Slytherin who decided to hide his grand secret chamber in a girls’ bathroom.”

 

“That doesn't sound like something he’d do,” Theo muttered under his breath, before glancing around warily and ducking in after Harry.

 

“Don’t worry. No one uses this restroom.”

 

Theo was about to ask why but jumped at a pitchy squeal.

 

“Harry?” came the unmistakable screech of Moaning Myrtle, her voice echoing off the cracked tiles, “I saw your picture! I knew you looked different—but wow! You’re still allowed to share my toilet when you die!”

 

Theo jumped so hard he nearly dropped his case, “What the—”

 

Harry sighed, “That’s Myrtle. Ghost. Bathroom guardian. Former victim of said basilisk. She’s… enthusiastic.”

 

“I’ve heard of her,” Theo said slowly, staring at the translucent girl who had just emerged from a toilet bowl.

 

“Oh!” Myrtle giggled, spinning toward Theo. “And who’s this? A friend? A boyfriend?” she added with a hopeful flutter of ghostly lashes.

 

Theo choked, but Harry just rolled his eyes, “Myrtle, this is Theo. He’s helping me… tidy up the mess I made in second year.”

 

Myrtle brightened, “Oh, goody! You’re going back down again. Tell the monster I said hello—oh wait!” she giggled madly. “He’s dead.”

 

Theo looked like he was second-guessing everything about his life.

 

“Come on,” Harry said, walking over to the sink. “Let’s get this over with.”

 

With that, he hissed something in Parseltongue, and the taps slid aside with a grind of stone, revealing the familiar chute. Theo stepped forward, staring down into the dark.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

 

Harry let out a short laugh, shaking his head at the memory, “The first time I came down here, we pushed Lockhart in first to see if it was safe.”

 

Theo blinked, taken aback, “You pushed a professor down a mysterious pipe?”

 

Harry smirked, unapologetic, “He was useless, and technically, it was his idea to come. We just… helped things along.”

 

Theo stared at him, trying to reconcile the seemingly sweet Gryffindor golden boy with the casually chaotic teen sitting next to him. “Merlin, you’ve got a bit of a dark streak, don’t you?”

 

Harry just grinned, “Only when the situation calls for it.”

 

“So?” Theo pressed, “Was it safe?”

 

Harry nodded, “Sort of. It felt like what I imagine a waterslide might be like. Fast, twisty, a bit nauseating—only a lot less hygienic.”

 

Theo tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed, “A water-what?”

 

Harry waved it off with a shrug, “Muggle thing. Doesn’t matter. Basically, it was a long, slimy chute that dumped us into this gross underground chamber. From there, there was a tunnel we had to go through. And Lockhart caused a cave-in by trying to obliviate me with a broken wand. We got separated but I found the entrance at the end of the tunnel.”

 

Theo arched an eyebrow, “And you just… kept going?”

 

“Well,” Harry said dryly, “when there’s a murderous giant snake on the loose, you don’t exactly stop for tea.”

 

Theo shook his head in disbelief, “You Gryffindors are absolutely mad.”

 

“You’re not wrong,” Harry muttered, a bit more seriously. “But it worked.”

 

He climbed onto the broom first, gripping it with practiced ease, then held out a hand to Theo. The other boy hesitated just a second—long enough for Castor to catch the flicker of nerves in his expression—before climbing on behind him.

 

“Don’t drop the kit,” Castor warned, nodding at the silver case clutched tight in Theo’s arms.

 

“I’d sooner drop you,” Theo muttered under his breath, as he braced one hand on Castor’s hip while the other secured the harvest kit between them.

 

Harry dipped smoothly into the massive pipe, keeping their descent slow and steady. The last thing he needed was for Theo to lose his grip.

 

The tunnel coiled like a serpent. The air grew colder as they spiraled down, damp and thick with the scent of wet stone and something deeper—ancient, feral, and long undisturbed. Castor squinted into the dark trying to see the next curve. His knees occasionally brushed the cold metal surface, sending a shiver up his spine.

 

Behind him, Theo was silent save for the occasional shift of weight. He kept one arm tightly looped around Castor’s waist for balance, the other securing the harvesting kit snugly to his chest.

 

Eventually, the pipe began to level out, the fall easing into a horizontal stretch. With a final turn, they emerged from the steep descent into a wide, grimy tunnel. Bones littered the floor—mostly rats, brittle with age and crushed under time. Harry wrinkled his nose and kept them aloft, gliding just above the skeletal carpet.

 

“I forgot how gross this place is,” he muttered.

 

Theo hummed in vague agreement behind him, “Charming. Can’t imagine why the Ministry doesn’t give tours.”

 

Harry snorted, “Probably because I am the only one around that can open it.”

 

He brought the broom to a gentle hover as they neared the far end of the tunnel—where stone and debris still blocked the original path. The cave-in looked just as he remembered it: a ragged scar of broken rock and scorched earth where Ron’s wand had exploded in Lockhart’s hand. A narrow crawlspace had been picked open years ago, just barely big enough for scrawny twelve-year-olds.

 

Harry could probably still squeeze through. But Theo, broader in the shoulders and already carrying the weight of the kit, definitely wouldn’t.

 

Harry landed them lightly on the stone floor. The broom bobbed slightly before settling.

 

“Well,” he said, hopping off and brushing rat hair off his trousers, “time to do some remodeling.”

 

Theo surveyed the hole with a dubious expression, “You say that like it won’t collapse on us.”

 

“Not if we’re careful,” Harry replied, already pulling out his wand.

 

Together, they crouched by the collapsed stonework, chipping away at the debris with deliberate care. Dust plumed around them with every shift, clinging to their robes and stinging their eyes. Castor blinked against the grit but didn’t complain—and was quietly pleased to see that Theo didn’t either. No muttered curses, no dramatic sighs. Just steady work and determination.

 

It wasn’t glamorous. It was hot, grimy, and slow. But Theo didn’t shy away, even as his palms grew raw from dragging broken chunks of stone aside.

 

Harry grunted as he tried to lever a particularly large piece of rubble loose, rolling it experimentally with both hands.

 

Before he could pull out his wand to levitate it, Theo stepped up beside him and—with little ceremony—bent down and hauled the stone aside like it was just a heavy school trunk.

 

Harry blinked, genuinely surprised, “I was just testing to see if it’ll move without collapsing the whole tunnel. I would have levitated it.”

 

Theo straightened with a small shrug, brushing his hands on his trousers, “Faster to carry.”

 

Harry gave him a look but couldn’t suppress the chuckle, “Show-off.”

 

“Absolutely,” Theo replied, not missing a beat.

 

Still, he had to admit: that boulder had made a difference. Harry moved to the gap and squinted into the dark beyond. It looked stable.

 

“I’ll go first,” he offered, already ducking inside. “Clear out the other side.”

 

He wriggled through, boots kicking at loose pebbles, and emerged into the echoing hush of the next passage. Working from the inside, he began pulling rocks away from the walls, careful to avoid knocking any loose onto himself.

 

When the hole was finally wide enough to crawl through, Theo passed his silver kit through with great care.

 

Harry took it gently, holding the handle in both hands. It was lighter than it looked—solid, well-crafted, and humming faintly with enchantments. Theo had guarded it closely the entire trip. That he was entrusting it to Harry now felt… meaningful.

 

Harry didn’t say anything, but his grip was firm and steady.

 

Theo followed a moment later, dusting his clothes off meticulously once he was through. As soon as he was upright again, he reached for the kit without a word. Harry handed it back, and Theo gave a short nod, brushing his thumb once along the latches like he was checking for damage.

 

“You really love that thing, huh?” Harry asked, more curious than teasing.

 

Theo glanced at him, his expression unreadable at first. Then, after a beat, he said quietly, “It was my mum’s. She used it for her rite of passage too.”

 

Harry raised his eyebrows, surprised. Theo continued, voice measured but with something soft beneath it.

 

“Normally, the Notts don’t let people who marry into the family take part in the business. At least not like that. But after my father… left, my grandfather changed his mind. Decided that, since I’m the last Nott heir, she deserved the chance to make her mark.”

 

He paused, rubbing his thumb over one of the latches of the kit.

 

“She only did it two years ago. Found a wounded unicorn, she had some potions in here. He recovered. She took him to the zoo and he’s still there. Steady supply of unicorn hair was enough to qualify.”

 

Harry blinked, taken aback, “Wow. That’s… kind of incredible.”

 

Theo gave a faint shrug, “Yeah.”

 

They stood in silence for a beat, the only sounds the quiet drip of moisture and the distant hush of stone.

 

Then Harry cleared his throat, offering a half-smile, “Well, let’s go find your snake.”

 

Theo raised a brow, “Our snake. I’m not the one who killed it.”

 

Harry snorted and led the way deeper into the chamber, the darkness swallowing their footsteps as they pressed forward.

 

They came to a large round snake adorned door. Harry stepped forward and spoke in Parseltongue once again.

 

Theo listened intently to the smooth sounds coming out of Castor’s mouth. The sound slipped through the air like water over stone—strange, yes, and undeniably otherworldly—but it sent a shiver down his spine in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

 

It was the sound of something old. Older than Hogwarts, older than the Founders, older even than the language of spells. And Castor spoke it so naturally, like he was only now remembering a part of himself he'd forgotten.

 

Theo’s eyes fixed on his profile—on the shape of his mouth as the sibilant syllables spilled out, soft and sure. Castor's voice didn’t falter, not once. As he spoke, the serpent carvings on the door began to move, their stone bodies slithering to life in a way that made the tunnel feel suddenly alive.

 

The great door shuddered, then groaned open with a deep, grinding clunk that echoed through the corridor and into Theo’s chest. Dust curled from the seams as the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets yawned wide, revealing the shadowed depths beyond.

 

The air that spilled out was cold, stale, and damp with time. But before Theo could adjust to the dark, the Chamber welcomed them.

 

One by one, the massive serpent-carved pillars along the walls began to light up—not with flame, but with a soft, emerald glow that pulsed to life as they entered. Each one shimmered from base to crown, casting eerie reflections across the slick stone floor. The entire corridor ahead of them was suddenly illuminated in that strange green light, ghostly and regal.

 

Theo stepped forward, breath caught in his throat. He could feel the age of the place pressing down around him, but it wasn’t oppressive. It was reverent. Sacred.

 

The pillars loomed like guardians, their carved eyes glittering in the new light. Water pooled in shallow rivulets across the floor, catching the glow and throwing it across the walls in serpentine patterns.

 

The place felt alive.

 

This was no forgotten ruin. It was a temple. A shrine. A throne room built for a monster.

 

“Salazar didn’t do subtle,” he muttered under his breath, not even sure if he was joking.

 

Castor shot him a glance over his shoulder, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

 

Then Theo saw it.

 

His eyes had been tracing the pillars, the length of the walkway, the towering statue at the far end—and then, like a shadow resolving into shape, the basilisk came into view.

 

It was coiled beneath the statue like a dragon sleeping at its master’s feet. Thick as an oak and it’s length went on seemingly forever, the creature’s body stretched in endless loops across the stone floor. Its scales, lit by the glow of the pillars, gleamed like old armor—tarnished in places but intact. There was no rot. No decay. The basilisk was perfect, as though it had died just moments before they arrived.

 

Its head rested at an angle, fanged jaws partially open.

 

Theo couldn’t breathe for a moment. He stared, frozen in place.

 

It was… magnificent. Terrifying, yes—but not the kind of fear that made you run. The kind that made you kneel.

 

Every part of it—every fang, scale, claw, bone—was worth more than gold. But beyond the material value, it was history. Legacy. Power.

 

And it was his to claim.

 

“You killed that when you were twelve?” he managed, voice hoarse.

 

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “With a sword.”

 

Theo couldn’t help it—he laughed under his breath, “I’m never winning an argument with you.”

 

Harry laughed.

 

Theo finally stepped closer, his eyes still locked on the basilisk sprawled beneath the statue. He exhaled slowly, the sound shaky in the vast, echoing chamber.

 

“Merlin. This is… this is too much,” he said, almost in disbelief. “Castor, this would be far more than I need. A fang or two—maybe a length of hide—that alone would impress Grandfather. This thing is massive. You could fund your entire future with it.”

 

Harry stepped up beside him, shaking his head, “Have you forgotten that I already have a job and a ridiculously rich family. Plus it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re the one doing the work—you should get the reward.”

 

Theo’s gaze flicked to him, incredulous, “But it was your kill. You have full conquering rights to the remains. That’s an ancient magical precedent.”

 

Harry groaned, “Why do Slytherins always talk like they’re drafting a contract? I’m trying to give you something.”

 

Theo’s brow furrowed, clearly torn between gratitude and discomfort. Harry could practically see the inner gears grinding—debt, obligation, family honor. The Notts probably didn’t believe in anything being free.

 

So, he thought about it a second, then said, “Okay. Fine. Let’s make it a trade.”

 

Theo blinked, “A trade?”

 

“Teach me,” Harry said. “As we go. Show me how to harvest—safely, properly. I’ll work alongside you. Whatever you harvest, you keep. Whatever I manage to do right, I’ll keep. You get a huge haul for your rite of passage, and I get useful skills that might actually help on a dragon reserve.”

 

Theo stared at him for a moment, expression unreadable again. Then he looked back at the basilisk, considering the offer.

 

“…You’re serious.”

 

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Harry said, arms crossed. “This thing isn’t going anywhere. And frankly, I’d rather not just stand around while you do all the work. Besides, it’s not like I’ve got classes to rush off to.”

 

Theo huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, “You’re insane.”

 

Harry grinned, “Yes, recently I have been learning that.”

 

A beat passed. Then Theo gave a short nod before crossing to the dead creature. Setting the case by the tail Theo started unclipping the latches on the silver harvesting kit. The lid opened smoothly, revealing rows of enchanted compartments, some had potions, others gardening implements, but the one Theo pulled open had polished surgical tools sorted by type, size, and magical resistance.

 

“All right,” he said, voice more businesslike now, though a glimmer of warmth had crept into it. “Let’s see what you’re made of, Castor.”

 

Theo handed him a pair of slim, silvery gloves—lightweight but reinforced with fine dragonhide along the palms and fingertips. They shimmered faintly under the green glow of the Chamber's pillars, runes stitched into the cuffs glowing soft blue.

 

“Enchanted to resist venom and most magical abrasions,” Theo said, watching as Harry slipped them on. “We’ll start at the tail. It’s a good place for a beginner—smaller scales, less saturation, and fewer enchantment residues.”

 

He moved toward the end of the basilisk, his boots whispering over the damp stone. “The trick is not to rush it. The scales are brittle if you crack them wrong, but the outer layer’s tougher than most metals. Makes them ideal for potion shielding, wand cores, even cursed object containment.”

 

He knelt beside the massive tail, gently brushing away a smear of dust from the overlapping emerald plates. “We’re not stripping the whole thing. Just the ends for now. The belly and upper torso—those are where the real value is. Larger patches. If treated and cured properly, the hide can be turned into basilisk leather. Fashion, armor, you name it. Extremely rare. Extremely expensive.”

 

Harry crouched beside him, flexing his gloved fingers experimentally, “Got it.”

 

Theo cast him a quick side glance. “You ever done any magical harvesting before?”

 

“Only garden gnomes,” Harry said, dryly. “Do those count?”

 

Theo gave a soft snort and reached into his kit, lifting out a long, thin instrument that looked somewhere between a chisel and a wand. Its handle was engraved with tiny serpents and wrapped in soft, worn leather.

 

“This is a scale-lifter,” he explained. “Runed silver, reinforced tip. Notched to separate the membrane from the scale without piercing the inner layers. Watch carefully.”

 

He selected a small scale near the base of the tail, applied a thin smear of softening salve from a separate vial, and waited a few seconds. Then, with precise care, he slipped the edge of the tool beneath the outer plate and worked it gently back and forth.

 

The scale lifted cleanly with a faint shhk sound, glinting green and gold in the light.

 

Theo held it up for Harry to see. “You want the scale to come away whole. Cracked ones lose potency and fetch less gold. There’s an art to it.”

 

Harry nodded, a little more seriously now, “Alright. My turn?”

 

Theo offered him the tool, then shifted slightly to give him room. “Pick one near the edge. Use the salve. Small amounts. Let it sink in first. And don't dig too deep—you’ll damage the muscle underneath.”

 

Harry selected a nearby scale, smaller and slightly angled. His hands were steady, and he mimicked Theo’s movements as best he could, brushing on the salve with a fingertip before easing the lifter into place.

 

Theo watched closely but said nothing, letting Harry work in silence.

 

The tool slipped once—just slightly—but Harry corrected his grip and tried again, this time slower. After a moment, the scale peeled back, just barely, and Harry eased it free.

 

He held it up, eyes wide with quiet satisfaction. “I did it.”

 

“Not bad,” Theo said, genuinely impressed. “That one’s intact. Slight scuff on the corner, but nothing a mild binding charm can’t fix. Could be worth… fifteen galleons, give or take.”

 

Harry blinked, “For one scale?”

 

Theo smiled faintly, “Welcome to the family business.”

 

They continued working in tandem, scale by scale, the only sounds the quiet scrape of tools and the occasional drip of water echoing through the chamber.

 

After a while, Theo glanced over at him, “You’re a fast learner.”

 

Harry grinned, “Or you’re a good teacher.”

 

Theo turned back to his work, but not before Harry saw the pink tinge rising just slightly in his ears.

 

They worked for hours, hunched over the gleaming tail, methodically loosening and removing the smaller scales. The rhythm of it—salve, wait, lift, store—became almost meditative. The eerie stillness of the Chamber wrapped around them like a shroud, but the quiet companionship made it feel less like a tomb and more like a workshop built for two.

 

Eventually, Harry sat back on his heels and wiped a sleeve across his forehead, “It’s probably getting close to lunch,” he said, glancing up at the distant ceiling as if he could somehow see the sun through the stone. “McGonagall’s letting me live on my own, but only if I stick to her conditions. Classes. Meals. Staying visible.”

 

He looked over at Theo, “Do you want to keep going down here? I could bring something back for you—sneak you something out of the Great Hall.”

 

Theo didn’t respond right away. He was crouched over a new row of scales, adjusting the angle of his lifter with the concentration of someone solving a puzzle. After a beat, he murmured, “That’s very… Gryffindor of you.”

 

Harry shrugged with a grin, “That makes sense.”

 

Theo glanced up then, expression unreadable but amused, “If I stay, it’s not because I want to squeeze more galleons out of this thing,” he said.

 

Harry nodded, understanding, “I know.”

 

Theo stood, stretching the stiffness from his back with a soft groan, “But yeah. If you’re offering, I wouldn’t mind something edible.”

 

Harry pushed to his feet and dusted off his hands, “Anything you’re craving? Chicken? Pudding? A whole loaf of bread?”

 

Theo smirked faintly. “Surprise me. But if you bring back pumpkin pasties, I’m disowning you as a harvesting apprentice.”

 

Harry mock-saluted, “Noted.”

 

He took a last look around the Chamber—at the carefully sectioned pile of scales, the gleam of Theo’s tools, the strange peace that had settled over the ancient stone—and then turned toward the exit.

 

“I won’t be long.”

 

Theo nodded, already kneeling again, back to work, “I’ll be here.”

 

Once Castor’s footsteps faded down the corridor and the echo of the door sliding shut had stilled, the Chamber felt heavier again. Not ominous—just… empty.

 

Theo let out a breath and knelt back beside the basilisk, but his focus wasn’t quite as sharp as before. He worked methodically, salve in one hand, lifter in the other, but his thoughts were nowhere near the scales.

 

They were with Castor.

 

He hadn’t expected to like him. Not really. He’d been curious, sure—who wouldn’t be? But this… this was different.

 

Theo had liked people before. He’d had fleeting crushes—mostly academic, mostly aesthetic. Clean lines, sharp minds, easy distance. But Castor was messy. Brave in a reckless way. Stubborn. Wild. Too Gryffindor by far.

 

And somehow, that made him fascinating.

 

Theo paused, lifted another scale cleanly, and turned it over in his hands, watching the way the light caught along the curve. He wondered—absurdly—if Castor would notice the way he worked. If he’d remember which scales Theo had harvested versus which ones were his. If he’d care.

 

He’d offered to share the basilisk without blinking. Just handed it over like it meant nothing. No strings. No angle. Theo couldn’t remember the last time someone had given him something without expecting repayment. Not in Slytherin and his family always believed in earning your keep.

 

Another scale, another clean lift. His hands moved on autopilot now.

 

He didn’t know what Castor liked. That bothered him more than it should.

 

Did he like sweets? Quidditch? Books? Did he have a favorite subject? Would he laugh at Theo’s dry, half-mumbled jokes or just tilt his head with that tired, fond little smirk—like he already knew the punchline?

 

And what if he was straight?

 

Theo scowled down at the scale in his hand. Pointless question. Of course he was. And even if he would not be into awkward, brooding boys with sharp cheekbones and too much sarcasm.

 

Still… Castor hadn’t pulled away when Theo had touched his shoulder. Hadn’t flinched when they’d flown together, their bodies pressed close. He’d trusted Theo enough to open the Chamber with him. To bring him here.

 

That had to mean something. Didn’t it?

 

And, Theo realized, trust wasn’t one-sided. He’d given just as much in return. More, maybe. If Castor chose not to come back, Theo would be trapped—no way to open the Chamber door on his own. No broom to fly out. He’d be stranded.

 

And yet he hadn’t even hesitated to let him leave.

 

He sighed and set the next scale gently into the growing pile.

 

It didn’t matter. Not really. Castor was his friend. A strange, brilliant, closed-off friend who’d walked into a monster’s tomb like it was just another Saturday. That alone was enough.

 

At least… for now.

 

The sound of shifting stone echoed through the Chamber again, and Theo stiffened instinctively. A moment later, the familiar rhythm of footsteps carried down the corridor—lighter than they should be, still a little uneven, still too quick, like Castor was always chasing something no one else could see.

 

Theo didn’t look up right away. He carefully set his tool aside, pretended to be very focused on a particular scale he’d already harvested, and told himself he didn’t care if Castor had brought pasties.

 

“Still alive?” Castor’s voice called out, cheerful and echoing.

 

Theo rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the flicker of relief that passed through him, “Barely. The basilisk tried to eat me out of sheer boredom.”

 

Castor emerged into the chamber a moment later, carrying his broom in one hand and a magically sealed cloth parcel under the other arm. “I made you a couple of sandwiches. One is chicken and one is beef. I thought it might be something easy to eat while down here.”

 

They fell into a comfortable silence as Castor unwrapped the food. The scent of warm bread and meat filled the air, and Theo’s stomach growled louder than he meant it to. Castor didn’t say anything, just handed him a still-steaming bun.

 

Theo took it, muttering a quiet, “Thanks,” and trying to keep his eyes anywhere but on Castor’s face.

 

They sat beside the basilisk together, legs stretched out toward the coiled corpse like it was some grotesque picnic backdrop. For a few moments, they just ate, the quiet broken only by the occasional crunch or sigh.

 

Castor broke the silence, “And for the record—I remembered. No pasties.”

 

Theo’s lips quirked despite himself, “Small miracles.”

 

They ate in silence for a while longer, but something in the air had shifted—less guarded now, less tense. The kind of silence that felt safe to fall into.

 

When they were finished, Castor leaned back on his elbows and stared up at the arched ceiling, “We should try to harvest some venom after this. The sacs might still be intact.”

 

Theo nodded, reaching for his gloves. “If they are, we’ll have to be careful. Even dead, basilisk venom can kill you.”

 

Castor turned his head toward him, grinning, “So dramatic.”

 

Theo didn’t look back, “So doomed, if you spill any.”

 

Castor smirked and began speaking in a tone that was maddeningly casual, “Did I tell you this thing bit me?”

 

Theo froze.

 

He looked up so fast he nearly dropped the lifter in his hand. “What?”

 

Castor pointed a distance away. There was a black stain on the floor and in the middle of it was the missing fang. He glanced back over his shoulder with a half-smile, as if he’d said something as mundane as I skipped breakfast.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “That got stuck in my arm as I stabbed it through the top of its mouth.”

 

Theo stared at him, slack-jawed, “And you’re telling me now?”

 

Castor shrugged, “Didn’t really think about it but you were talking about the venom and it came to mind. It was… kind of a blur. Lot of pain. Lot of blood. Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, saved me.”

 

Theo sat back hard on his heels, tools forgotten, his face suddenly pale, “You were bit by a basilisk,” he repeated, slowly. “And survived.”

 

“Yeah,” Castor shifted, elbows resting on his knees. “Fang went right through me. Poisoned me in seconds. I felt it burning. Then Fawkes cried on the wound. Healed it just in time. Lucky, really.”

 

Theo didn’t respond right away. He was staring at Castor, but not the way someone stares at a classmate. It was the kind of look people give ancient runes when they suddenly start glowing.

 

“You died,” he said, voice quieter now, like the word tasted too heavy. “Or nearly did. You were twelve, Castor.”

 

Castor gave a weak chuckle, “Twelve-year-olds do stupid things.”

 

“Most twelve-year-olds don’t duel ancient monsters and nearly die in forgotten crypts.”

 

There was a silence after that. Long, pulsing, uncertain.

 

Then Theo stood up abruptly, brushing off his knees with quick, agitated movements. He paced a few steps away, then back again, as if trying to physically outrun the weight of the story.

 

“That’s not normal,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That’s not something you just drop into conversation. It’s insane. You’re insane.”

 

Castor looked at him, more curious than offended, “Why does it bother you so much?”

 

Theo stopped pacing. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

 

“Because—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Because you talk about it like it didn’t matter. Like you weren’t seconds from never breathing again. Like people don’t care that you lived.”

 

Castor blinked, caught off guard, “You care?”

 

Theo opened his mouth, then closed it again. His ears were pink now. He folded his arms and looked away, scowling at the basilisk’s corpse like it had personally insulted him.

 

“…I’m just saying. Don’t be so casual about things like that. You’re not made of stone, Castor.”

 

Castor tilted his head slightly, a faint, surprised warmth creeping into his chest, “I’ll try to remember that.”

 

Theo didn’t reply, but he didn’t move away either. He just stood there for a moment, tension still in his shoulders, then finally sat down again—closer this time.

 

“Let’s get the venom,” he muttered. “Before I start screaming at you for being the most reckless idiot I’ve ever met.”

 

Castor grinned, choosing not to mention the you care part again. But he filed it away all the same.

Chapter 31: Chapter 31

Chapter 31

 

Harry and Theo spent most of the weekend deep within the Chamber of Secrets, working side by side in a quiet, focused rhythm that settled over them like a second skin. Time seemed to move differently beneath the school, the hours marked not by clocks but by the soft scrape of tools against scale, the hum of softly spoken spells, and the occasional quiet comment shared over their work.

 

Harry only left for meals—Professor McGonagall’s rules were firm, and he intended to keep his new-found independence intact. Each afternoon, just before supper, they packed up their tools and left the Chamber behind, re-entering the castle to eat in the Great Hall like nothing unusual had happened at all. It gave the illusion of normalcy, though Harry couldn’t help but notice how much more real things felt when he was underground, working beside Theo with something ancient and powerful beneath their hands.

 

By unspoken agreement, they didn’t rush. Theo, ever precise, insisted that careful harvesting was more valuable than quick results. Basilisk parts were dangerous—still potent with venom and dark magic—and a single careless slip could ruin a piece, or worse, injure them both. Harry was more than willing to learn properly, and Theo, despite his usual reserve, turned out to be a patient teacher.

 

They agreed to continue their work on the weekends. It was safer that way. Less chance of being discovered, and it gave Theo time to research and prepare the proper containment spells between sessions. Each day, before they left, he cast preservation and stasis charms over the harvested parts ensuring everything remained untouched by time or decay.

 

Progress was slow, but steady.

 

Their movements had grown more in sync. Theo no longer double-checked Harry’s work unless asked. Harry, in turn, had learned to read Theo’s quiet focus, to hand him tools without being asked, to catch the little signs when Theo was about to speak. They didn’t always talk. Sometimes, the silence between them was enough. Comfortable. Easy.

 

888

 

The blast-ended skrewts were being particularly uncooperative today—one of them was chasing Seamus in a wide, steaming circle—and Hagrid looked more flustered than usual. Harry was helping Draco keep their skrewt from launching itself over a pumpkin when he noticed her.

 

Rita Skeeter.

 

Perched just outside the fence with her enchanted quill already scribbling beside her, eyes gleaming as she watched Hagrid shout encouragement and dodge tail-blasts.

 

Harry’s stomach turned.

 

She wasn’t here for him. Not yet.

 

But Harry could see it in the way her eyes lingered on Hagrid—calculating, hungry, already framing the narrative in her head. She wasn’t watching the students, or the lesson, or even the chaos of the skrewts. She was watching him.

 

Hagrid was to be her next target.

 

Castor’s stomach twisted. Hagrid didn’t deserve that. He wasn’t dangerous—just enthusiastic, and maybe a little reckless. But he was kind. Honest. Too open to defend himself against someone like Rita.

 

He won’t survive the press, Castor thought grimly. Not the way I have.

 

Because Castor knew how to take the hits. Knew how to keep his head down, to let the words roll off like rain, even when they cut deep. He’d been twisted into a headline too many times already. He was used to it.

 

Hagrid wasn’t.

 

And that was the problem.

 

He weighed his options for all of three seconds, then stepped away from the chaos and walked straight toward her.

 

She glanced up, surprised—then positively gleeful.

 

“Well, well,” she purred. “Seeking me out for once, Mr. Malfoy?”

 

He didn’t return the smile, “You’re wasting ink.”

 

“Am I?” Her gaze flicked to where Hagrid stood. “I see danger. Lax oversight. Creatures with… unpredictable temperaments.”

 

“It is Care of Magical Creatures,” Castor replied coolly. “It would be stranger if there weren’t creatures involved. If you're after a scandal, at least go for the juicier ones.”

 

“Oh?” Her eyes gleamed. The quill twitched, already itching to write. “Do share.”

 

He tilted his head just slightly. “Wouldn’t you prefer something more personal? Say… a lapse in security? A destroyed bed? A small explosion?”

 

Rita blinked. Then leaned in, sensing a front page.

 

“Go on.”

 

Harry folded his arms, tone flat, “After the First Task, I went back to my dormitory and climbed into my trunk. It’s magically expanded. Quiet, private. I was reading. Nothing dramatic.”

 

She practically vibrated with anticipation, “And?”

 

“Ron Weasley didn’t realize I was inside,” he said, voice careful. “He tried to blow the trunk up. Used Bombarda.”

 

Rita’s eyebrows lifted. The quill jerked, scribbling furiously.

 

“My house elf intervened. The spell missed me, luckily—but my bed was obliterated, and the pieces collapsed on top of my trunk. I was trapped inside for a while.”

 

He let the words settle, dry and matter-of-fact. Her eyes gleamed like he’d offered her a golden snitch wrapped in scandal.

 

“I see,” she murmured. The quill flew faster. “And how did the staff respond?”

 

Harry shrugged, “Gave him detentions. It was also decided I’d be safer with a private space. Some students… don’t manage stress well.”

 

“And you? How did you respond?”

 

“I left,” he said simply. “Before anyone else got hurt. I should really get back to class. And as for you—maybe it’s time to move along. A grown woman loitering while children run about… doesn’t exactly give the best impression, does it?”

 

888

 

EXPLOSIONS AND ELVES

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

 

Hogwarts has always been known for eccentric professors, enchanted staircases, and the occasional magical mishap—but even by its chaotic standards, recent events surrounding Castor Malfoy raise eyebrows and blood pressure alike.

 

Sources confirm that following the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament, Castor—quiet twin to Draco Malfoy and surprise fourth champion—sought refuge in his magically expanded trunk for a bit of post-dragons reading. A private sanctuary? Or the secret hideaway of a boy pushed too far?

 

That peace was shattered when fellow student, Ron Weasley, attempted to blow it up with a Bombarda curse. The resulting blast destroyed a bed, damaged part of the dormitory, and could have seriously injured the boy known worldwide as the Chosen One.

 

The motive? Unclear. Jealousy? Resentment? A breakdown of friendship in the face of fame and shifting loyalties? What we do know is that the boy was neither expelled nor suspended, no formal was announcement made, and Castor Malfoy was quietly relocated—his current living arrangements hidden even from his classmates.

 

Even more concerning is the apparent indifference from school leadership.

 

Is this the care we offer to the victim of one of the greatest crimes in modern wizarding history? A boy who was lied to his entire life, torn from his birth family, and now must face assassination attempts from both within his school? We have already discussed the poor boy’s depression. Events like these could very well be the cause.

 

One thing is certain: danger at Hogwarts doesn’t end when the dragons fly away.

 

When Harry finished reading the article, he lowered the Daily Prophet with a sigh and glanced around the Great Hall. Ron's face was crimson—whether from guilt, rage, or both, Harry couldn’t tell. Without a word, Ron shoved back from the table and stormed out, drawing a few curious stares in his wake.

 

At the staff table, eyes scanning the front page with grim expressions. They spoke in low voices, clearly disturbed, though not surprised. The fallout was already beginning.

 

Chaos again. Harry could feel it settling around him like a fog, familiar and unwanted. Except this time, he hadn’t lit the match. He hadn’t exaggerated, twisted, or sensationalized. He had simply handed Rita Skeeter a controlled burn—better that than letting her set the whole place ablaze.

 

With how she’d been skulking around the castle lately, it was only a matter of time before she picked up whispers about the explosion in the dormitory. At least this way, she was mostly truthful.

 

Plus it had protected Hagrid.

 

Harry would have been more upset to see the gentle mans name drug through the mud just because he made an easy victim.

 

He folded the paper carefully, his jaw tight. Sometimes, damage control meant choosing which fire to feed.

 

888

 

To my luminous Castor,

My Dragon King,

 

I have seen the photographs. Oh, mon cœur, I have studied the photographs.

 

You, astride the beast like a prince of ancient legend, the wind catching your silver-blond hair like a banner in battle. The dragon bowed. The dragon bowed, and the world followed suit. Who else but you, Castor Malfoy, could command such reverence from flame and fang alike?

 

I was—how do you English say it?—undone.

 

Enclosed you will find my latest creation, born of inspiration so fierce I scarcely slept until it was finished. I have named it "Sovereign of Flame and Sky." It is not merely clothing—it is reverence stitched in silk, worship etched in thread. It is what the wind would wear, if it wished to whisper your name.

 

The silhouette flows like wingbeats, light and sharp in turn, designed to echo the elegance of flight without ever weighing you down. The primary palette remains, of course, our signature noir et blanc—black like dragonscale shadow, white like bone and cloud—but threaded subtly throughout are veins of green-blue iridescence, like the glint of dragon eyes in moonlight.

 

The sleeves taper like talons, the hem arcs like a rising thermal, and the high collar fans just so—both practical for wind protection and reminiscent of a regal crest. The fastenings are matte obsidian, seamless, silent. Embroidered along the inner lining in pale silver thread, visible only when the robe flares in motion, is a draconic spiral sigil of my own design—drawn from your image as seen in that unforgettable flight.

 

I confess: I have added this piece to the "Castor Ascendant" seasonal line. I hope you forgive me the liberty. But the world demands more of you, and so must I.

 

Your mother has already requested pieces for you to wear to your new job on the reserve but should you require a design for anything, even something entirely impractical and deliciously dramatic, you need only say the word.

 

I remain, as ever, breathless in your wake.

 

In awe and artistry,

Valentin Noirveil

 

888

 

Time moved in a slow, measured rhythm—days blurring gently into one another, and for the first time in weeks, there was a fragile sense of calm. It wasn’t peace, not really, but it was close enough to pretend.

 

Harry slipped into a routine that felt almost ordinary on the surface. He continued making regular trips to the Chamber of Secrets with Theo, their work with the basilisk progressing steadily. It was dangerous, demanding work, but it gave Harry a sense of purpose, and with Theo’s quiet competence beside him, it had even started to feel strangely comfortable. Familiar, in its own way.

 

To the rest of the school, his disappearances were barely a ripple. His friends assumed he was hidden away in the Room of Requirement, as he often was these days, and so long as he turned up for meals and classes, no one thought to question the hours that vanished in between. It was a delicate balance, but he kept it.

 

Despite everything, Harry still made time to study with Hermione and Neville. Their quiet companionship grounded him, gave him something to hold onto when the world felt like it was slipping sideways again. Hermione never pushed when he seemed tired or distant, and Neville, for all his quietness, had become a steady presence—gentle and reassuring in ways Harry hadn’t expected but deeply appreciated.

 

It was a strange existence, split between shadows and sunlight, secrets and schoolbooks—but for now, it worked. And Harry clung to that sliver of normalcy like a lifeline.

 

888

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Professor McGonagall called crisply as class ended, prompting both Malfoy twins—still cleaning up their desk—to snap to attention and look up in unison like startled owls.

 

“Yes, Professor?” they chorused.

 

There was a brief pause as McGonagall pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly regretting every life choice that led to this moment. “Castor Malfoy,” she clarified, with the weariness of someone who had been forced to untangle twin-related chaos one too many times.

 

“Oh. That’s me,” Harry said sadly, already mentally bracing himself. What now?

 

He lingered at his desk as Draco gave him a smirk, packed up his books, and dramatically exited like someone who had just been declared Not The Problem.

 

Once they were alone, Harry tried to sound mildly curious instead of doomed. “Yes, Professor?”

 

McGonagall folded her hands, her expression unreadable in that very specific I’m about to ruin your afternoon but politely sort of way.

 

“Mr. Malfoy, I assume you’ve heard that, due to the Triwizard Tournament, the Yule Ball will be held at Hogwarts this year?”

 

Harry blinked, “Er… yeah. I was kind of planning on not going. I’d probably just embarrass Draco. Or step on someone's gown. Or both.”

 

Her lips twitched ever so slightly—Harry would have missed it if he hadn’t been staring at her in mounting suspicion.

 

“Yes, well,” she said with a trace of grim amusement, “unfortunately, as a Triwizard Champion, you do not have the luxury of sulking in a corner. You are required to attend. And not just attend—lead.”

 

Harry stared at her, “You mean… like… walk in?”

 

“I mean,” she said, voice precise as a scalpel, “you will be required to make a formal entrance and participate in the opening dance. As tradition dictates.”

 

Harry looked at her as if she’d just asked him to ride a blind hippogriff into a volcano, “You want me to dance?”

 

“That is generally how balls work, Mr. Malfoy.”

 

He looked genuinely betrayed, “With other people??”

 

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy. With a partner. Which means you will also need to find yourself a date.”

 

Harry made a noise that could only be described as a “socially panicked croak.”

 

“A date,” he echoed blankly. “To dance. In public. While people are watching.”

 

“Very good, Mr. Malfoy. You’ve grasped the concept.”

 

“But I don’t have anyone! Can’t I just… pretend I twisted my ankle? Or was cursed? Or actually be cursed?”

 

“I assure you,” McGonagall said with that trademark steel behind her calm, “a magical injury can be arranged after you fulfill your Champion duties.”

 

Harry let his head thunk lightly onto the desk, “This is a hate crime.”

 

888

 

At lunch, Harry voiced his outrage to the only people who could be trusted to put up with it.

 

“It’s completely unfair,” he said, dropping onto the bench at the Gryffindor table with the air of someone personally wronged by the universe. “They didn’t say anything about dancing when I got thrown into this stupid tournament.”

 

“You flew a dragon,” Hermione said, not looking up from her book. “You’ll survive a dance.”

 

 “The dragon didn’t expect me to dance!”

 

Neville winced in sympathy, “It does seem a bit... a lot. Do you really have to dance first? Like, in front of everyone?”

 

“Yes!” Harry jabbed his fork at a chicken salad. “In front of the entire school. And foreign schools. And probably the press. Again.”

 

“McGonagall said I need a date too,” Harry continued, voice rising slightly. “Like I’m just swimming in options. Honestly, I’d rather go with a blast-ended skrewt. At least it wouldn’t ask questions.”

 

“You could just ask someone,” Hermione said, finally glancing up. “It’s not that terrifying.”

 

“Says the girl. Are you going to ask someone or are you going to wait to be asked?” Harry muttered.

 

Hermione turned a shade pinker than was strictly necessary and snapped her book shut, “I’m just saying—you’re famous, you know. Half the school would say yes.”

 

“That’s worse. You know what I heard this morning? ‘He probably bites during slow dancing.’ I don’t even know what that means!”

 

Neville looked confused, “Do you?”

 

“I don’t! And I don’t want to! Why does everything about this year feel like a trap?”

 

Harry slumped forward with a groan, “I’m going to fall flat on my face and bring down the entire reputation of the school. And probably my family. And maybe the decorative archway.”

 

“There’s a decorative archway?” Neville asked, now looking nervous on Harry’s behalf.

 

Hermione sighed, “Honestly, it’s not that deep. Just pick someone and try not to hyperventilate.”

 

“Brilliant,” Harry said flatly. “I’ll go ask someone and try not to die of embarrassment or spontaneous combustion. Those are my goals now.”

 

Neville patted his arm, “That’s the spirit.”

 

888

 

Later that evening, an entirely different conversation about Yule Ball dates was unfolding in the cool, dim glow of the Slytherin common room.

 

It started innocently enough—Goyle, of all people, rather awkwardly asked Millicent if she’d go with him “as friends, obviously.” She blinked once, shrugged, and agreed with a decisive nod, as if he’d asked her to help carry a cauldron, not attend a formal ball. That cracked the seal, and soon others were weighing in.

 

A ripple of speculation and mild panic followed as the group began sorting out who was going with whom. Most of them still hadn’t decided.

 

Draco, reclining dramatically in one of the high-backed chairs like a pureblood prince at rest, announced with pride that he’d be escorting Astoria Greengrass—“as is proper,” he added.

 

Blaise admitted he was going with Daphne, strictly as friends, since Daphne’s betrothed was currently in Italy—and, incidentally, Blaise’s cousin. That earned a few raised eyebrows but no follow-up questions.

 

Theo said nothing. He lounged in the shadows near the fireplace, legs stretched out, a book open in his lap but long forgotten.

 

There had only ever been one person he’d even considered asking.

 

Castor.

 

Of course it was Castor.

 

Theo could barely stop thinking about him, let alone imagine going with anyone else. The last time they’d been down in the Chamber, Castor had been utterly absorbed in his work, kneeling on the stone floor as he carefully applied the preservation potion to a long strip of basilisk skin, coaxing it into the supple sheen of snakeskin leather. His hair had been tied back, sleeves rolled up, skin glowing faintly green from the torchlight.

 

He’d looked like something out of a forgotten story—half prince, half alchemist, all quiet intensity.

 

Theo had nearly asked him right then and there. The words had perched on his tongue like a spell ready to cast.

 

But he hadn’t.

 

Because asking would mean naming the thing he’d been pretending wasn’t growing between them. It would mean risk. It would mean hope.

 

And Theo had been raised to treat hope like something flammable.

 

Still, as laughter rose from the others and plans were casually made, Theo stared down at the book he wasn’t reading, and wondered if Castor might say yes.

 

And if that would ruin everything… or finally make it real.

Notes:

For some reason this one took a long time. I rewrote the Skeeter scene like 5 times. I don't know why. Still not my favorite but I think I worked on it to long so this is as good as this one gets.

Chapter 32: Chapter 32

Chapter 32

 

The Chamber of Secrets was quiet, save for the echoing drip of water and the occasional rustle of Harry’s gloves.

 

He was crouched near the remains of the basilisk’s ribs, carefully extracting a series of bone spurs with a small set of enchanted tools. Each movement was precise, controlled, gentle. His silver-blond hair was tied up in a messy knot at the back of his head, a few strands loose and clinging to his forehead with sweat and his tongue kept poking out slightly as he focused.

 

Theo leaned against a carved pillar, watching him.

 

He watched Castor delicately cradle the bone fragments in his gloved hands, as if they were made of blown glass. Each movement was precise, intentional, full of that quiet intensity Theo had come to recognize as uniquely his.

 

It wasn’t just the way Castor worked, though that was mesmerizing enough. It was the way the torchlight danced off his pale hair and grey-tinged skin, the way his eyes narrowed in concentration, the way his mouth twitched ever so slightly when something aligned just right. There was a kind of quiet beauty to him in these moments—unselfconscious and unbothered by observation.

 

And it hit Theo, again and all at once, how deeply doomed he was.

 

He’d tried to ignore it. To brush it aside as fascination or boredom or some temporary crush born of long nights and secret chambers and adrenaline-fueled harvesting sessions. But there was nothing temporary about the way his stomach knotted every time Castor smiled. Nothing casual about how his thoughts bent toward him without permission.

 

He was in deep. And he was running out of reasons not to say something.

 

If he didn’t ask now—if he let the moment pass and watched Castor go to the Yule Ball with someone else, anyone else—he’d never forgive himself. Not for the jealousy. Not for the cowardice.

 

He didn’t expect Castor to say yes.

 

But he had to try.

 

Because in the flickering shadows of that ruined chamber, watching a boy cradle a piece of ancient death with the tenderness of an artist, Theo could not hold the words back anymore.

 

This was the moment to ask.

 

“I’m going to the Yule Ball,” he said quietly. “And I want you to come with me.”

 

Harry was startled by the sudden announcement that he jumped but then straightened up slowly, turning to look at him over his shoulder. His eyes were wide, searching Theo’s face as if he hadn’t quite understood.

 

“As friends?” he asked, voice almost careful.

 

Theo met his gaze, steady and unflinching, “Not unless you absolutely insist.”

 

A beat. Then another.

 

Castor blinked once, like he was resetting.

 

Uncle Vernon had always said things like that weren’t allowed. That boys went with girls, and anything else was unnatural, wrong, or somehow shameful. But then again, Uncle Vernon wasn’t exactly the most open-minded—or decent—person Harry had ever known. His views had always been narrow and cruel, spoken with the same dismissive sneer he used when talking about anything remotely magical or different. Harry had been unlearning those views ever since he got to Hogwarts, even if some of them still lingered in the corners of his mind like stubborn cobwebs.

 

He’d never really thought about going with a boy. Not seriously. Not until now.

 

He liked Theo. That much was obvious. He liked the way Theo could be sharp and clever without being mean, how he listened more than he spoke, how he was always calm and self-contained—except when he wasn’t, and then Harry caught flashes of something warmer beneath the surface. He liked the way Theo watched him when he thought Harry wouldn’t notice, and the way he sometimes offered a rare smile like it was a secret just for him.

 

Before, he’d vaguely considered asking Luna to the ball as friends—she was kind and strange in a way Harry understood. Safe. Simple. And it would’ve been easy to explain. But the idea hadn’t sparked anything in him.

 

Theo did.

 

There was something about Theo’s quiet confidence, the way he looked at Harry—not like The Boy Who Lived or The Missing Malfoy, but like him—that made Harry want to say yes. That made him hope it might mean something.

 

It was a little terrifying.

 

But not nearly as terrifying as the thought of saying no and wondering, for the rest of his life, what it would’ve been like to say yes.

 

Then a slow, stunned smile broke across his face, something rare and unguarded and just for Theo.

 

“I don’t insist.”

 

Theo’s breath left him all at once. It almost felt like falling. “Good,” he said, trying to sound normal and not like he’d just won a duel with gravity. “Because I’ve already commissioned new robes and they’re very flattering and I’d hate to waste them.”

 

Castor laughed—an honest, surprised sound—and shoved him lightly with one gloved hand, smearing a faint streak of basilisk goo on Theo’s sleeve.

 

Theo didn’t even flinch.

 

He was too busy smiling back.

 

888

 

When Harry slipped into the Great Hall for dinner, his eyes immediately found Neville and Hermione already seated at their usual spot. He barely made it halfway to the bench before he leaned in between them, practically buzzing with energy.

 

“I have a date,” he whispered, eyes wide with barely-contained excitement. “I have a date!”

 

Hermione's face lit up instantly, “Me too!”

 

Harry blinked, “Wait—you do?”

 

Hermione nodded quickly, suddenly looking like she wasn’t sure whether to smile or combust. Harry narrowed his eyes, tilting his head with mock suspicion.

 

“Oh? And who exactly is this mystery date?”

 

Hermione’s face turned pink. She quickly busied herself with her pumpkin juice, “Tell us yours first.”

 

Harry shook his head, grinning, “Nope. I asked first. Don’t try to out-Hermione me, Hermione.”

 

She sighed, still staring at her goblet like it might offer a distraction, then muttered under her breath, “Viktor Krum.”

 

There was a beat of stunned silence.

 

Neville dropped his fork with a loud clink against his plate. It bounced once before landing in a pile of peas.

 

Even Harry just blinked at her, mouth partway open, “Wait—Viktor Krum Viktor Krum? Like… Seeker for the Bulgarian National Team, Tournament Champion, that Viktor Krum?”

 

Hermione’s blush deepened as she nodded, “Yes, that one.”

 

“How—? When—? I—” Harry stammered, then caught her look and threw up his hands in surrender. “I just mean… he’s seventeen, from another school, and I had no idea you two had ever spoken! Have you been secretly passing notes during library hours or something?”

 

“We’ve spoken,” Hermione said primly, lifting her chin, “He spends a lot of time in the library. Quietly. Respectfully. And he asked nicely,” Hermione smiled, “It was... actually very sweet.”

 

Neville was still recovering, “Krum,” he echoed. “Blimey.”

 

Harry leaned forward, grinning now that the shock had worn off, “Well. Look at you. Dating a celebrity.”

 

Hermione arched an eyebrow, “And you? Who did you ask?”

 

The grin on Harry’s face froze slightly, and he suddenly found an intense interest in the pattern of roast potatoes on his plate. “I didn’t ask anyone,” he said quickly. “I’m going with Theo.”

 

Hermione blinked, “Theo? Like Theodore Nott?”

 

Neville's eyes grew impossibly wider, “From Slytherin?”

 

Harry raised both hands. “Yes, yes, I know, but it wasn’t weird. He asked. I said yes.”

 

Hermione’s face softened into something more knowing, “Actually… I think that makes sense.”

 

Neville just looked from one to the other. “Is it just me, or did dinner get really dramatic really fast?”

 

“It’s the Yule Ball,” Hermione said breezily, reaching for her carrots. “Of course it’s dramatic.”

 

Harry chuckled, the laughter still lingering in his eyes. “What about you, Neville? Anyone you’ve got your eye on?”

 

Neville shook his head, a little sheepish but not unhappy. “Nah. Honestly? I’d be happy going with just about anyone, as long as they’re kind. I’m not really looking for anything romantic or complicated right now. Just… someone I can talk to. Someone who doesn’t make it feel like a test I didn’t study for.”

 

Hermione smiled softly, clearly approving of that answer, and Harry nodded thoughtfully.

 

“Well,” Harry said after a moment, glancing toward the Ravenclaw table, “if you’re open to it, I actually know someone who might be a good match. I was thinking about asking her myself—just as friends—but… I think you two might get on even better.”

 

Neville followed his gaze to where a lone girl sat near the end of the Ravenclaw table, calmly peeling the shell off a boiled egg with quiet determination. Her wand was tucked behind one ear, and her radish-shaped earrings swung gently as she hummed something no one else could hear.

 

“Her name’s Luna Lovegood,” Harry said gently. “She’s in third year. Doesn’t seem to have many friends, but she’s sweet. Soft-spoken. Bit odd—brilliant kind of odd—but honest. And… really lovely, once you get past how dreamlike she is. She sort of sees the world sideways, you know?”

 

Neville nodded slowly, “Yeah. I’ve seen her around. She helped a first-year find her pygmy puff last week.”

 

“I could introduce you, if you like,” Harry offered, nudging Neville’s arm with his elbow. “Just say hello. Then you can decide if you want to ask her.”

 

Neville hesitated for a beat, then gave a shy but genuine smile, “Yeah. I’d like that.”

 

“Brilliant,” Harry said, grinning. “But I make no promises she won’t bring a hat made of spoons or talk about invisible animals halfway through.”

 

Neville laughed, a soft, honest sound, “I think I’ll manage.”

 

Hermione gave Harry a knowing look over her goblet, “You’re turning into a proper matchmaker.”

 

888

 

After dinner, as students began drifting out of the hall in clusters and cliques, Harry nudged Neville with his elbow, “Ready?”

 

Neville swallowed the last of his pumpkin juice and nodded, suddenly looking much less confident than he had at the table, “Right. Yep. Ready.”

 

Harry smiled and stood, leading him along the edge of the Ravenclaw table toward the end where Luna Lovegood sat alone, her plate mostly untouched, and her attention fixed entirely on a napkin she was folding into the shape of a swan. It was already blinking.

 

“Hi, Luna,” Harry said warmly as they approached.

 

Luna looked up, blinking slowly like she was surfacing from another world, “Hello, Harry. Your eyebrows are glowing, you know.”

 

Harry blinked, “Are they?”

 

She tilted her head. “Only a little. It might be residual from the basilisk bone dust.”

 

Neville glanced at Harry, slightly alarmed. Harry grinned, “Right. I’ll look into that. Luna, this is my friend Neville Longbottom. He’s in Gryffindor. We were just talking about interesting people, and your name came up.”

 

Neville gave an awkward little wave, “Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”

 

Luna beamed at him, “Oh, I know you. You once rescued a toad from a gnome trap behind the greenhouses. The toad was very grateful.”

 

Neville blinked, “That—uh—yeah, that was Trevor. He’s my toad. I didn’t know anyone saw that.”

 

“I was in the air,” she said serenely. “I like to walk upside-down on the wind sometimes. That’s when people are most honest.”

 

Neville gave her a look that was equal parts bewildered and charmed, “Right. That… makes sense.”

 

Harry cleared his throat, trying not to laugh. “I’ll leave you two to chat. Luna, I thought you and Neville might have a few things in common.”

 

He gave Neville a quick pat on the shoulder before slipping away.

 

Neville stood there for a second, shifting awkwardly, until Luna scooted over on the bench and patted the empty space beside her.

 

“Would you like to sit?” she asked.

 

“Sure,” Neville said, grateful for the offer. He settled beside her, careful not to disturb the blinking napkin swan.

 

They sat in a companionable silence for a moment before Luna said, “You smell like soil and greenhouse steam. I like it. It’s honest.”

 

Neville flushed, “Er—thanks. I’ve been helping Professor Sprout with the winter seedlings.”

 

“She always smells like rosemary and dragon dung,” Luna said dreamily. “Also honest.”

 

Neville smiled despite himself, “I guess that’s true.”

 

Luna tilted her head to study him, “Most people don’t talk to me unless they need something. You don’t feel like that sort of person.”

 

“I try not to be,” Neville said. “I… noticed you’re usually alone. I thought maybe you might like company.”

 

“I do,” she said easily. “But only the quiet kind. Loud company bruises my thoughts.”

 

Neville nodded slowly, “I’m not very loud.”

 

“No,” Luna said, smiling at him, “you’re not. That’s good.”

 

They sat for another minute, quietly, comfortably.

 

Then, a little unsure, Neville said, “Would it be alright if I talked to you again sometime?”

 

“I’d like that,” Luna said, her eyes shining. “But only if your toad comes too.”

 

Neville laughed, and it wasn’t nervous this time, “Deal.”

 

888

 

Theo had made a tactical decision: he would be the one to break the news to Draco.

 

Not because he was eager to—but because letting someone else do it was a recipe for chaos. And if there was going to be fallout, Theo would rather handle it with precision. Controlled environment. Optimal conditions.

 

He needed to do this publicly, but not too publicly. Just enough witnesses to keep Draco from lunging across the room and cursing him into next week, but not so many that it would trigger a dramatic, theatrical meltdown. Slytherins were many things, but subtlety was their currency.

 

He waited until their year had returned to the common room after dinner. The room was full, but not crowded. No professors. Just enough noise to make things private by proximity. Perfect.

 

The Slytherin common room wasn’t just a place to sit and study—it was the arena for in-house politics. Disagreements were handled here, on home turf, under Snape’s ever-looming expectations. You didn’t have to like your housemates. In fact, many didn’t. But you did have to project unity. And Merlin help you if you caused a scandal in front of the other houses.

 

So, Theo chose his moment carefully.

 

Theo spotted Draco by the fireplace, lounging in a high-backed chair like it was a throne. He was flipping through Magical Duels of the 18th Century with mild disdain. Blaise and Daphne were trading spells over a chessboard nearby. Pansy hovered close, pretending not to eavesdrop.

 

Theo took a breath and approached.

 

“Draco,” he said smoothly, “got a minute?”

 

“If this is about my notes on vanishing spells, Blaise already tried to steal them.”

 

Theo gave a thin smile, “No. It’s about the Yule Ball.”

 

That earned him Draco’s full attention. The book snapped shut.

 

“Oh?” Draco arched a pale brow, “You’ve decided to stop pretending you’re too busy and finally ask someone? Or are you here to borrow my hair potion again?”

 

Theo ignored the jab, “Actually, I’ve already asked someone.”

 

A pause.

 

“Castor,” he said calmly. “I asked your brother. He said yes.”

 

The pause stretched. Then snapped.

 

Pansy made a delighted little squeak and immediately leaned closer.

 

Draco’s face didn’t so much change as it did… sharpen. Like a pane of glass being slowly scored with a blade. Blaise sat up straighter, as if this had just gotten interesting. Daphne raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Pansy inhaled sharply, clearly delighted by the incoming drama.

 

“My brother,” Draco said slowly, “agreed to go to the Yule Ball… with you?”

 

“Yes,” Theo said calmly, “I asked politely. He said yes. He seemed happy about it.”

 

Draco stared at him. Then at the fire. Then back at him.

 

Draco rose slowly from his chair

 

“Here we go,” Blaise muttered pulling a pawn out of his sleeve.

 

As Draco approached he looked like he was calculating exactly how much decorum he could maintain before throwing something, “That’s bold, Nott.”

 

“I prefer to think of it as respectful transparency,” Theo said. “I’d rather you hear it from me than someone else twisting it.”

 

Draco gave him a long, assessing look. “Why?”

 

Theo blinked. “Why did I tell you, or why did I ask him?”

 

“Both.”

 

Theo clasped his hands behind his back, “Because you’re his brother, and I respect that. And because he deserves someone who sees him clearly. Not someone chasing fame. Not someone treating it like a joke or a conquest.”

 

For a beat, Draco didn’t speak. He just stared, unreadable. Then—somewhat begrudgingly—he said, “That sounded suspiciously like a decent answer.”

 

“I’ve been practicing it all afternoon,” Theo deadpanned.

 

Blaise let out a low whistle, “I think Theo just logic-dueled a Malfoy into submission.”

 

“Shut up, Blaise,” Draco muttered.

 

He turned back to Theo, folding his arms, “If he gets hurt, I’ll blame you.”

 

“If he gets hurt, I’ll blame me too,” Theo said, sincere now. “But I won’t let that happen.”

 

There was another pause, and then—surprisingly—Draco gave him a very small, reluctant nod.

 

“Fine,” he said stiffly. “But don’t expect me to dance at the wedding.”

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Theo replied, with a faint smirk. 

Notes:

So I have two jobs and I am dog sitting as a side gig and I am on new pills that make me drowsy so if anyone finds any mistakes or anything that does not seem to make sense please let me know and I will adjust. I'm sorry. I'm tired lol

Chapter 33: Chapter 33

Chapter 33

 

After introducing Neville and Luna, Harry returned to the Room of Requirement. The familiar door sealed behind him with a quiet click, and the comforting warmth of his private space wrapped around him like a favorite jumper.

 

He dropped onto the brown leather sofa near the fire, a book in hand more out of habit than intent. His eyes scanned the same paragraph four times, but the words never quite landed. His mind was somewhere else entirely.

 

Theo.

 

Harry exhaled and let the book rest against his chest. Of all the things that had happened lately—from dragons to Ron's betrayal to Dobby's confession—Theo requesting a date with him stuck the most.

 

He had truly asked. Not as a joke. Not to embarrass him. Just… simple and sincere. And that alone had knocked the breath right out of Harry.

 

He still couldn’t believe it. Out of everyone Theo could’ve asked—purebloods, socialites, prettier, more proper options—he’d picked him. Harry. Castor.

 

A mixture of excitement and nerves curled in his stomach like a coiled ribbon.

 

It wasn’t that Harry hadn’t thought about Theo that way before. Theo was… mysterious, clever, surprisingly kind when he wasn’t pretending not to care. There had always been something magnetic about him, but Harry had never imagined that attention might be returned.

 

Now the idea of going to the ball with him made Harry feel simultaneously lightheaded and grounded—like he might float off the ground, but with someone holding tightly to his hand.

 

Why me? he wondered, staring at the flames.

 

Was it because of the dragons? Because he was grateful for the basilisk? Or had Theo actually seen him—past the noise, past the rumors and names and scars—and liked what he saw?

 

That was the scariest part. Because if it was real, if someone had truly chosen him for him, then it could be lost just as easily.

 

He closed his eyes and whispered into the room, “I hope I don’t mess this up.”

 

The fire crackled gently in response, casting soft shadows across the room.

 

Then his thoughts turned to everyone else—how they might react if they found out. Neville and Hermione had taken it in stride; they'd offered quiet support without making it feel like a spectacle. But his family... that was another matter entirely. He could already picture Uncle Vernon’s purple face contorting with rage, the way he used to rant about decency and normalcy. The man would’ve rather buried Harry six feet under than allow him to “shame” the Dursley name like that.

 

But what about Lucius and Mum?

 

That question echoed louder than he expected. The Malfoys prided themselves on tradition, on bloodlines and appearances. Would Lucius see it as a disgrace? A weakness? Or something worse? And Narcissa… would she look at him differently? Disappointed? Would she still call him her son with that same warmth, or would there be a coldness behind her eyes? The uncertainty tightened in his chest.

 

Suddenly, a piece of parchment and a quill appeared on the coffee table in front of him—offered by the Room before he’d even made the decision himself. Realizing it had already sensed what he needed, Harry sank to the floor in front of the table and began to write.

 

Dear Mum,

 

I hope you’re well. I know it’s been a while since I last wrote, and I’m sorry for that. Things at Hogwarts have been… complicated, as usual. But I’m managing.

 

There’s something I wanted to tell you—not because I feel like I have to, but because I want to. I’d rather you hear it from me than from someone else.

 

I’ve been invited to the Yule Ball.

By someone.

 

It wasn’t something I expected, and honestly, I wasn’t even sure I’d say yes. Not because I didn’t want to go, but because I wasn’t sure how people would react. How you would react.

 

This person has been kind to me. Not in the way people are when they want something, or when they’re trying to prove a point. Just kind. They see me—me, not the boy who lived. I didn’t think that was possible before.

 

I know this might not be what you imagined. Maybe it’s not what anyone imagined. But it feels right. And I’m not asking for anything—just that you try to understand.

 

I'm still figuring out who I am, but I’m not ashamed of this. I hope you can be proud of me for that, even if it's not what you were expecting.

 

With love,

Castor

 

With the letter finished, he decided to send it off in the morning. For now, he needed a distraction—something useful to keep his mind from spiraling into worry over how they might respond.

 

Harry reached for the Golden Egg. He had opened it once before, the night he’d returned to the common room after flying the dragon—before everything had exploded, literally. All it had done then was emit a horrible, screeching wail that felt like it could split his skull in two.

 

Steeling himself, Harry opened the Golden Egg once more. The same piercing, inhuman screech exploded from within, and he reflexively snapped it shut, wincing as the sound echoed in his ears.

 

Almost immediately, he felt the Room shifting. The walls creaked and stretched outward, as if the space itself were breathing. Alarmed, Harry turned to see what was happening—just in time to watch the floor ahead of him begin to dip and sink like soft sand giving way.

 

Then came the water.

 

It trickled in at first, then poured steadily, swirling into the depression the Room had created. Harry instinctively stepped back, his eyes wide with wary fascination as a shallow pool quickly formed in front of him, the surface rippling with quiet promise.

 

The Room of Requirement had given him an answer—or at least a clue. And clearly, it involved water.

 

Still perplexed, Harry stood at the edge of the newly formed pool, the egg heavy in his hands and uncertainty churning in his chest. The Room had never failed him before—not when he’d needed a place to hide, to heal, or to think. So if it thought he needed water, he wasn’t going to argue.

 

With a sigh, he set the egg down carefully on a nearby stone ledge the Room had conveniently created, then began to strip down to his undershorts.

 

The pool shimmered faintly under the gentle glow of enchanted lanterns that had lit themselves around the room, casting warm reflections that danced across the surface. It looked deep enough to submerge himself fully, and clear enough to see the smooth, mosaic-like tiles at the bottom.

 

Trusting the Room’s intuition more than his own, Harry slid into the water. It was warmer than he expected—soothing, even—and wrapped around him like a comforting blanket. He let himself sink in up to his shoulders, taking a moment to breathe.

 

Then he reached for the egg.

 

Holding the egg carefully in both hands, Harry opened it again. The familiar, earsplitting screech burst out instantly, sharp enough to make him flinch. On instinct, he plunged the egg beneath the water, hoping to muffle the sound.

 

To his surprise, the change was immediate. Beneath the surface, the shriek softened into something far less painful—still distorted, but no longer unbearable. In fact, it was almost too quiet now, the words muffled and elusive, like a song heard through a wall.

 

It clicked then—this must be what the Room had been guiding him toward all along.

 

Without hesitating, Harry took a deep breath, braced himself, and slipped beneath the surface, the egg clutched tightly to his chest.

 

The change was immediate. The screeching vanished, replaced by a haunting melody that echoed all around him. The voice was ethereal—soft, strange, and oddly beautiful, the lyrics weaving through the water like strands of silk.

 

He listened carefully, piecing the meaning together. The song was a clue: during the next task, something precious to him would be taken and hidden beneath the lake. He would have one hour to find and retrieve it—or lose it forever.

 

Harry surfaced slowly, frowning in thought. It made sense now why the Room had given him the pool. But it also raised a new concern—he wasn’t exactly a strong swimmer. That could prove a serious problem.

 

Climbing out of the water, he was immediately greeted by a stack of warm, fluffy towels. The Room really did think of everything. He dried off, slipped into his pajamas, and padded back toward the large four-poster bed waiting near the fireplace. The flickering flames cast a gentle glow across the walls as he crawled beneath the soft plaid blanket and pulled it up to his chin.

 

He felt like he’d made real progress. The answers were coming—one small step at a time.

 

And with that thought, Harry let his eyes close, the lingering echo of the mermaid’s song following him gently into sleep.

 

888

 

Harry was in a surprisingly good mood as he made his way to breakfast the next morning, the scent of toast and pumpkin juice drawing him down the corridor. That was, until a familiar voice caught his attention.

 

Just around the corner, Cormac McLaggen—an older Gryffindor, only a year above him—was speaking far too loudly to Fleur Delacour. Harry paused mid-step, curiosity piqued when he realized Cormac was trying to ask her to the Yule Ball.

 

To Fleur’s credit, she turned him down with remarkable grace. Her tone was calm and polite as she said, “I am sorry, but I already ‘ave a date.”

 

That should have been the end of it. But Cormac, being the entitled prat that he was, clearly wasn’t used to rejection. In truth, Harry thought he reminded him a little too much of Draco—wealthy, arrogant, and convinced the world owed him something.

 

“Drop them,” Cormac said smoothly, stepping closer to her. “I’d be a far better choice. My family’s got strong connections in the Ministry. You’d be smart to stay on my good side.”

 

Harry stiffened.

 

Normally, he kept to himself. He didn’t go looking for fights—he had enough of them already. But that last sentence set something off in him. The threat, the entitlement, the smug assumption that Fleur should feel lucky to be asked—it made his blood boil.

 

Harry stepped around the corner before he could talk himself out of it.

 

“A lady said no,” he said sharply, his voice cutting clean through the tension, “You asked, she answered. That should’ve been the end of it.”

 

Cormac turned, blinking in surprise, “Potter?” he scoffed. “This doesn’t concern you.”

 

Harry crossed his arms, “That’s Malfoy to you, McLaggen. And it does involve me when I hear someone trying to pressure a girl into saying yes just because you don’t like hearing ‘no.’”

 

Cormac’s face flushed, “I was just offering her a better option.”

 

“No, you were trying to intimidate her with your family name. You made a threat,” Harry said coolly, eyes narrowed, “That’s not offering anything. That’s abusive.”

 

Fleur, who had been watching quietly with a curious tilt to her head, gave Harry a faint smile—but stayed silent, letting him handle it.

 

Cormac took a step forward, puffing up slightly, “You don’t know who you’re talking to.”

 

“Clearly, neither do you,” Harry replied evenly, gaze steady. “But I know how to treat people with respect. You should try it sometime.”

 

There was a long pause. Then, with a scowl and a muttered curse, Cormac turned on his heel and stalked off down the corridor, fuming.

 

Harry exhaled slowly and turned to Fleur. “Are you alright?”

 

She gave him a graceful nod, her blue eyes amused, “Oui. But thank you, Castor.” Her voice held a faint lilt of approval. “It is rare to see such manners from boys your age.”

 

Harry shrugged awkwardly, “It’s just common decency.”

 

“Common,” she repeated softly, her accent curling around the word, “But not always practiced.”

 

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious under her steady gaze, “Er… would you maybe like to join me and my friends for breakfast?”

 

Fleur tilted her head, the corners of her lips lifting in a small, genuine smile, “That is very kind. I would like that.”

 

Relieved, Harry nodded and gestured for her to walk with him. They fell into step together, and for a moment he wasn’t quite sure what to say. He hadn’t exactly expected to be escorting another Triwizard Champion to the Great Hall this morning.

 

As they entered the corridor leading toward the bustling dining area, Harry spotted a few heads turn—mostly students doing double takes. After all, it wasn’t every day someone saw Fleur Delacour walking beside him as if they were longtime friends.

 

Hermione, already seated at the Gryffindor table, raised an eyebrow when she saw them approaching. Harry gave her a sheepish shrug as they reached the table.

 

“Mind if we join you?” he asked.

 

Hermione blinked, but quickly recovered, “Of course not.”

 

Fleur nodded politely, “Merci.”

 

As they settled at the table, Harry did his best to ignore the curious stares still aimed their way. He reached for his nutrient potion, grateful for the small routine—something familiar to ground him in the swirl of attention. Despite the nerves buzzing under his skin, there was a quiet swell of pride in his chest.

 

Standing up for someone had felt right. But he hadn’t expected it to turn into… this. A new connection. Maybe even a friendship.

 

He glanced between the two girls and lifted his goblet slightly, “Fleur, this is Hermione Granger. We’ve been friends since first year.”

 

He turned to Hermione with a half-smile, “And Hermione, I’m sure you’ve seen Fleur around—especially during the First Task.”

 

Hermione gave Fleur a polite nod, though her eyes flicked to Harry with curiosity,  “Of course. Though I wasn’t aware you two were more than just… fellow champions.”

                                               

Harry shrugged as he set down his goblet, “We ran into each other on the way to breakfast. I asked if she wanted to join us.”

 

Fleur offered a graceful smile, “He was very kind.”

 

Hermione’s gaze lingered on Harry for a beat, clearly noting the subtle tension in the air. “Well,” she said finally, “you’re always welcome at our table.”

 

Fleur inclined her head, “Merci. I ‘ave met very few students ‘ere who treat others with such… balance.”

 

Harry felt his ears redden but said nothing, instead focusing on the breakfast Mipsy made him.

 

The conversation soon drifted to the upcoming Yule Ball—traditions, dress robes, and wildly varying dance abilities. Fleur shared a few charming anecdotes about Beauxbatons events, and Hermione asked thoughtful questions that slowly brought Fleur further into the fold.

 

By the time breakfast was halfway through, the glances from other students had become background noise. The three of them were caught up in easy conversation—something simple, steady, and surprisingly welcome.

 

That was when Harry spotted Neville weaving through the crowd, practically glowing with excitement and clutching something in his hands. He slowed as he approached their table, blinking when he noticed the unexpected guest seated beside Harry. Tilting his head, Neville asked a little nervously, “Still room for me?”

 

Harry grinned and gestured to the open seat, “Always, Nev. You never have to ask. Fleur, this is my other best friend—Neville Longbottom. Neville, this is Fleur Delacour. She might be joining us now and then, if she feels like putting up with us.”

 

Neville gave her an awkward but earnest smile, quickly lowering his gaze out of politeness. He dipped his head in the formal little bow his Gran had drilled into him years ago, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 

Fleur returned the gesture with a soft smile, “You as well.”

 

Trying to draw Neville back to his earlier excitement, Harry leaned in, “So, what had you all lit up a second ago?”

 

That did the trick. Neville brightened immediately and opened his hands to reveal a large, knobbly root, “The gurdyroots were ready for harvest last night!”

 

Harry let out a laugh as Neville proudly displayed the oversized plant. He turned to Fleur, grinning, “Neville’s really into Herbology.”

 

Neville beamed, undeterred. “It was perfect timing. I’m planning to give this one to Luna.”

 

That earned a few curious glances. Hermione raised a brow, “Luna?”

 

Neville nodded, “Yeah. She and her dad make some kind of drink out of them.”

 

“Ew,” Hermione muttered, wrinkling her nose.

 

Neville shrugged, still smiling, “She likes it. That’s what matters. I thought I’d give it to her when I ask her to the Ball.”

 

“Aww!” Harry said with genuine affection. “That’s actually really sweet. And so Luna.”

 

Neville chuckled, his smile stretching wider, “Right? I figured she wouldn’t be much of a chocolates-and-flowers sort of girl.”

 

“I think she’d love anything you gave her,” Harry replied warmly. “But this? It’s personal. Thoughtful. She’ll know it came from the heart.”

 

Neville’s ears turned pink, but he looked genuinely pleased, “Thanks, Castor. I really need to thank you for introducing us. She’s… she’s great. I think the Ball could be really fun. Weird, maybe, but in a good way.”

 

Harry laughed. “Well, it is Luna. I think ‘weird in a good way’ is the best-case scenario.”

 

As Neville eagerly described the best soil conditions for cultivating gurdyroots, Harry caught movement at the far end of the Hall. Ron had just walked in tailing Dean and Seamus, laughing a little too loudly about something that probably wasn’t funny as he had taken to trying to integrate with them. But the moment his eyes landed on the Gryffindor table—and the silvery-haired girl sitting near Harry—the laughter died on his lips.

 

He stopped dead in his tracks.

 

Harry knew exactly what Ron was thinking. It was scrawled across his face—shock, disbelief, and just beneath the surface, a raw flash of resentment.

 

Fleur.

 

She sat beside Harry, calm and poised, sipping her tea as if she belonged there—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

And Ron clearly didn’t think it was.

 

Their eyes met across the Great Hall for the briefest of moments. Harry held the stare, steady and unreadable, but Ron's expression twisted—anger, maybe, or jealousy. Maybe both. Then he looked away, shoulders rigid, jaw set. He didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked out of the Hall without looking back.

 

Harry exhaled slowly and returned his attention to his breakfast, pushing his food around his plate more than eating it. At least he didn’t have to return to the Gryffindor common room anymore.

 

The Room of Requirement would be safe.

Chapter 34: Chapter 34

Chapter 34

 

Narcissa and Lucius had just sat down to a quiet lunch when a house-elf appeared with a sharp pop, holding a pair of neatly sealed letters on a silver tray.

 

“Post from Hogwarts, Mistress,” the elf squeaked, bowing low as the tray hovered between them.

 

Two envelopes—one bearing Draco’s meticulous handwriting, the other unmistakably Castor’s slightly looser script.

 

“Well,” Narcissa said with mild surprise, accepting both envelopes. “They’ve coordinated their dramatics today.”

 

“Or,” Lucius drawled, lifting a brow, “there’s been another catastrophe.”

 

With practiced ease, Narcissa handed over Draco’s letter and kept Castor’s for herself. It was an unspoken arrangement at this point; Castor tended to write to her, seeking her warmth and quiet wisdom, while Draco preferred to address his dispatches—and complaints—to his father.

 

Lucius broke the Malfoy seal on Draco’s envelope with a practiced flick, already bracing himself for whatever crisis his son had deemed worthy of formal correspondence.

 

Dear Mother, Father,

 

I trust things at the Manor are well.

 

I’m writing under duress—emotional, not physical—because something outrageous has happened, and I feel it my filial duty to inform you before the gossip reaches you through less reputable channels.

 

Apparently, Theodore Nott has asked Castor to the Yule Ball.

Yes. Theodore. Without so much as a word to me beforehand.

 

As if that weren’t shocking enough, Castor accepted. Just like that. Not even a passing mention. Theo told me after the fact.

 

I would have thought, at the very least, that a decision like this would be shared with family. You know, the people who have spent the last few months trying to manage the whirlwind of press, secrets, and sudden sibling revelations. But no. Apparently, Castor is now taking mysterious boys to balls without so much as consulting the people who share his blood.

 

Don’t misunderstand—I’m not opposed to Castor attending the Ball. I’m not even (entirely) opposed to him going with Theodore. Theo is fine in small, measured doses, though I now strongly suspect he’s had a long-standing, unspoken agenda. I just think it would have been nice to be informed.

 

In conclusion: I’m not saying this is a disaster. I’m just saying that if one’s twin starts courting suitors in secret, a warning would be appreciated.

 

Yours in mild indignation,

Draco Lucius Malfoy

 

P.S. If either of you had any idea this was coming and didn’t tell me, I’ll consider it a personal betrayal.

 

Lucius stared down at Draco’s letter, momentarily at a loss for words—a rare occurrence indeed. He had, of course, known that Draco had been making efforts to draw Castor into his social circle, smoothing the path for his twin to settle more comfortably into Slytherin life. But he hadn’t realized just how integrated Castor had become—or that his sons’ friendships might be overlapping in more personal ways.

 

He glanced across the table at Narcissa, who was still reading Castor’s letter, her expression shifting into something tight and uncertain.

 

Lucius cleared his throat lightly, “Something troubling, dear?”

 

Narcissa looked up, her delicate fingers still curled around the parchment. There was a faint crease between her brows, and her usually composed voice held the edge of unease. “Castor writes to say he’s accepted a date to the Yule Ball,” she said slowly, “but he doesn’t say who. Only that he’s happy, and that he hopes we won’t be too disappointed by his choice.”

 

Lucius’s brows drew together, not in disapproval, but puzzlement. “Disappointed?” he echoed.

 

He considered the situation. If Draco’s letter was to be believed—and it was, in its own dramatically exasperated way—then the mystery date was none other than Theodore Nott.

 

Lucius leaned back in his chair, tapping the edge of Draco’s letter thoughtfully against his palm. “But… Theodore Nott is a respectable match,” he said at last. “A pureblood, well-positioned. The Nott family may not court attention like ours, but they’ve amassed considerable influence through their work with rare magical ingredients. And the boy’s interest in magical creatures aligns rather neatly with Castor’s own.”

 

He gave a small, thoughtful hum. “In truth, it’s a more suitable pairing than I could have arranged myself. If this is indeed about Nott, I don’t see the problem.”

 

Narcissa folded her letter carefully and set it aside, her lips pursed in thought, “Then why wouldn’t Castor say his name? Why the secrecy? You know how much he worries about disappointing us.”

 

Lucius was quiet for a moment, then offered coolly, “Perhaps he fears one of us will be less rational about it than we actually are.” His tone made it clear which parent he believed Castor was worried about.

 

There was a quiet pause between them as they each sipped their drinks, the tension slowly giving way to curiosity and mild amusement.

 

Lucius set the cup down and reached for the Prophet, his mood settling, “Well. We’ll see how it unfolds. If Theodore Nott thinks he can win the favor of a Malfoy through charm and clever timing… perhaps he’s more ambitious than I gave him credit for.”

 

“And if Castor’s happy?” Narcissa asked quietly.

 

Lucius met her gaze and said, without hesitation, “Then we’ll let him be.”

 

888

Harry sat curled in one of the plush armchairs in the Room of Requirement, the fire crackling gently nearby as he mulled over the Second Task. February. In the lake. The thought alone made him shiver.

 

He probably should have been more worried about himself this time. But his mind kept circling back to Fleur. The way the judges had paraded her around in that ridiculous excuse for a skirt during the First Task—practicality be damned—had left a sour taste in his mouth.

 

What would they do for a bathing suit? Would they force her into something just as skimpy? Just to make a spectacle of her?

 

He scowled at the thought.

 

As if in response to his frustration, the Room provided an answer—a small table appeared before him, bearing a single sheet of parchment and an elegant quill. The implication was clear.

 

Harry sighed, already reaching for it. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmured. “I’m writing.”

 

He dipped the quill into ink and began.

 

Monsieur Noirveil,

 

I hate to keep bothering you with requests, sir, but I find myself needing to ask another favour—well, two, if I’m being honest.

 

I’ve recently learned that the Second Task will be held in the Black Lake in the middle of February. Yes, February. As if freezing water is just another exciting challenge.

 

Naturally, we’ll all need swimwear of some kind, and I’d be honoured—grateful—to wear something of your design. I trust your work completely, and I know you’d create something both practical and dignified, which is more than I can say for whoever designed the First Task uniforms.

 

Which brings me to the real reason I’m writing.

 

One of the other champions, Fleur Delacour, is part-Veela—and unfortunately, people tend to treat her like a walking showpiece instead of a person. During the First Task, she was made to wear a laughably short skirt that had nothing to do with functionality. I fear they’ll do something similar for the Second Task… and in freezing water, no less.

 

Fleur happens to be a fan of yours—and while I know you likely have your own clients and commitments, I wondered… is there anything you could possibly provide for her? Something warm, functional, and not designed to turn her into a spectacle?

 

If necessary, I’d be more than happy to pay for the piece myself. She’s a kind person, and frankly, she deserves better than to be objectified for the sake of spectacle.

 

One last thing—though I’m afraid it may affect any plans you’ve made. I’ve accepted a date to the Yule Ball. With a boy. He said his robes are simple—plain black—so anything you’ve planned for me should still work fine. But I thought it best to be honest in case that changes your vision for the final ensemble.

 

Thank you again—for everything you’ve done, and for always treating me with such care and dignity.

 

Yours sincerely,

Castor Malfoy

 

Harry set the quill down and read over the letter once more. It was probably too long. Maybe a little dramatic. But it felt right.

 

With a quiet breath, he folded the parchment and placed it on the table.

 

Then he leaned back in the chair and let his eyes drift shut, the warmth of the fire soaking into his bones.

 

888

 

When Harry received his mother’s reply, he didn’t open it right away. Instead, he tucked it carefully into his pocket and waited until he was back in the privacy of the Room of Requirement.

 

If the letter held disappointment—if she was disappointed—he didn’t want Neville or Hermione to see his reaction. He needed to face it alone.

 

My dearest Castor,

 

Your letter arrived this morning and, as always, your words brought me both pride and a touch of ache—I miss you dearly, my love.

 

You need never apologize for writing to me, nor for sharing parts of your life you think I may not understand. I am always grateful when you do. I hope you know that there is little in this world you could say that would ever truly disappoint me.

 

You mentioned that you’ve accepted an invitation to the Yule Ball, and I must confess I had to smile when I read your words—not in mockery, but in quiet delight. That you have found someone you trust and enjoy enough to attend such a public event with is no small thing. And that you worried how your father and I might react only proves how deeply you care for the people around you.

 

I will admit, your brother seems to be unaware that you were keeping the identity of your date a secret, as he had no problem sending us a rather lengthy and impassioned rant about how neither you nor Theodore consulted him first. Rest assured, we responded promptly—gently reminding him that his permission is not required, and that it was entirely your decision whom to accept or decline. (He may be sulking, but I imagine he’ll recover once he finishes brooding.)

 

Castor, your father and I are proud of the young man you’re becoming. You’ve had so much thrust upon you so quickly, and yet you continue to meet every challenge with quiet strength and thoughtfulness. That you’ve found moments of joy and connection in the midst of it all—well, that’s all any mother could hope for.

 

Enjoy the Ball. Wear your finest with pride, dance if the mood strikes you, and above all, be yourself. That is more than enough.

 

With all my love,

Mother

 

P.S. Do write again soon—and perhaps next time, include a few more details about this mysterious Mr. Nott. You know I adore a good story.

 

Harry was unspeakably glad he hadn’t opened the letter in the Great Hall. Even in the quiet solitude of the Room of Requirement, he felt his breath catch as he reached the final lines.

 

His mother hadn’t dismissed him. She hadn’t scolded, judged, or even hesitated. Her words had been warm, understanding—even proud. And that, more than anything, undid him.

 

Despite everything—the fear, the secrecy, the weight of being too much and never enough—she had accepted him without question.

 

He hadn’t meant to cry. Truly, he hadn’t. But the tears came anyway, sliding down his cheeks before he could stop them. Silent, unbidden, and full of quiet, overwhelming relief.

 

He let them fall.

 

For once, he didn’t wipe them away.

 

888

 

“Castor, we really need to start working on that egg,” Hermione said firmly over lunch one afternoon, setting down her fork and giving him a pointed look.

 

Harry glanced up from his plate, one brow arching in amusement, “Already sorted.”

 

Hermione blinked, “You figured out the clue? Already?”

 

He nodded, looking rather pleased with himself, “Yep. It’s in the lake. Second Task is underwater. I’ve known for a bit now.”

 

Her eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, “And how exactly did you come to that conclusion?”

 

Harry smirked, “I opened the egg in the Room of Requirement. It made that horrible screeching again, but then the Room created a pool, and when I opened it underwater… the noise changed. Turned into singing. Creepy, riddle-y singing, but definitely a clue.”

 

Hermione’s mouth opened slightly, then shut again. “Well,” she admitted reluctantly, “that does sound like something the Room would do.”

 

Sipping his pumpkin juice Harry said, “I’ve already sent a letter to Monsieur Noirveil asking for something to wear. Warm, functional, not hideous. I asked him to make something for Fleur too. I don’t trust the tournament officials not to try putting her in something ridiculous again.”

 

Hermione blinked. “That’s… actually really thoughtful of you.”

 

Harry shrugged, his voice quieter now, “She deserves better than being made into a spectacle.”

 

Hermione didn’t press further.

 

“So,” Neville said, glancing between them as he stirred his stew, “do you know what you actually have to do? For the Second Task, I mean?”

 

Harry nodded slightly, setting down his fork, “Sort of. They’re going to hide something that we care about. At the bottom of the lake. We’ll have an hour to get it back.”

 

Hermione nearly dropped her spoon, “Underwater? For an hour?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry muttered grimly. “I can barely swim, let alone breathe underwater.”

 

Neville paused mid-bite, then said around a mouthful of bread, “You could use Gillyweed.”

 

Harry blinked, “Gillyweed?”

 

Neville swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. It’s a type of magical seaweed. Found mostly in the Mediterranean. Tastes like old pond water, apparently, but if you eat it, you grow gills and webbing between your fingers and toes. Lets you breathe underwater for roughly an hour and swim a lot faster.”

 

He said it so matter-of-factly, as if he hadn’t just handed Harry the solution to the entire task.

 

Hermione stared at him, “Neville! That’s brilliant! Where did you learn that?”

 

Neville flushed slightly, “Um… I was reading about underwater plants in Magical Marine Flora. Thought it sounded interesting.”

 

Harry grinned, utterly relieved, “Neville, you’re a lifesaver.”

 

He leaned back in his seat, tension draining from his shoulders, “I’ll write to Lucius and have him send some over.”

 

Neville smiled, a little bashfully, while Hermione was already reaching for a quill to jot the name down.

 

And just like that, the impossible started to feel a little more manageable.

Chapter 35: Chapter 35

Chapter 35

 

My dearest Castor,

 

I hope this letter finds you well and that your studies are not being overwhelmed by the demands of the tournament—or the social excitement surrounding the Yule Ball. I know Hogwarts can be quite lively this time of year.

 

I am writing with some news that I believe may interest you. Your father and I have been invited to assist Professor Snape with chaperoning duties during the Ball, and after some consideration, we have agreed to attend. It has been some time since I’ve seen the castle dressed for Christmas, and I must admit, I find the thought rather nostalgic.

 

Before you begin to worry—no, we will not hover. I have no intention of interfering in your evening or embarrassing you in any way. I simply thought it best to tell you in advance so you are not caught off guard by our presence.

 

After the Ball, your father and I will be bringing both you and Draco home to the Manor for a portion of the Christmas holiday. It will be a quiet visit—no grand events, no unnecessary obligations. I thought you might like some time to simply be, with family who care for you and a warm place to rest.

 

Do let me know if there’s anything you’ll need for the Ball or for your stay. I trust Monsieur Noirveil is ensuring you’ll be appropriately dressed—and likely dazzling.

 

With all my love,

Mother

 

P.S. I do hope your date is treating you well. I’ll try not to make too many observations from across the room.

 

Harry smiled to himself, warmth blooming in his chest at the thought of seeing his mother again. Ever since receiving her letter about his date with Theo, his feelings for Narcissa had only deepened. Her words had been kind, reassuring, and wholly accepting in a way that still caught him off guard. He wasn’t used to that kind of softness—especially not directed at him—and it made him feel safer than he wanted to admit.

 

But with that comfort came something else: nerves. Because behind the joy of reconnecting with her, behind the elegant script and motherly affection, there was something Harry hadn’t faced yet. Something he had to.

 

Sirius.

Dobby.

The truth.

 

He hadn’t spoken to anyone beyond Hermione about it, and even then, not everything. He hadn’t been able to. The pieces of the story didn’t fully fit together in his own mind yet—what was fact, what was feeling, what was manipulation, and what had been genuine.

 

All he knew for certain was that Sirius had taken him, Dobby had helped, and he had lived an entire life built on that lie. The truth had come not through discovery, but confession—and that alone made it harder to understand.

 

He would tell his mother. He had to. And likely Madam Bones as well. But the problem was, he didn’t even know where to begin.

 

There were too many questions, too many half-truths and missing pieces. What he had were confessions—but no clarity. If he was going to speak about it at all, he needed to understand it first.

 

Which was why, after dinner on the first evening of the winter holidays, Harry found himself standing outside the entrance to the Hogwarts kitchens, staring at the familiar pear on the portrait.

 

He hesitated for a long moment, then exhaled slowly and reached out to tickle it. The pear giggled and turned into a doorknob, and the portrait swung open.

 

As he stepped into the warm, bustling kitchen, the scent of sugar, cinnamon, and firewood greeted him like an old friend. One of the elves—Tilda—spotted him immediately and scurried over, concern etched on her face.

 

“Is Mr. Malfoy not liking the room?” she asked anxiously, wringing her hands in her apron.

 

Harry offered her a gentle smile, “No, Tilda. I love the room, truly. I wanted to thank you again—for everything you’ve done for me.”

 

Tilda brightened, her large eyes shining, “It is Tilda’s greatest joy to help kind Mr. Malfoy. What can Tilda do for him now?”

 

Harry hesitated, then drew in a breath, bracing himself, “I need to speak with Dobby.”

 

There was a soft pop and a sharp intake of breath—and suddenly, Dobby stood a few feet away, looking anxious and wringing his long fingers.

 

“Harry Potter wants to speak with Dobby?” he asked nervously, eyes wide. “Dobby is here, sir. Dobby is always here for Harry Potter.”

 

Before Harry could respond, another sharp pop filled the kitchen. Mipsy appeared at Dobby’s side, wielding a frying pan like a weapon, her face set in a fierce glare. She squared her shoulders, staring Dobby down with the kind of intensity that suggested she was quite prepared to flatten him if need be.

 

Harry blinked, “Er… maybe let’s talk over there?” he said, motioning to a quiet corner of the kitchen with a small table, far from hot pans—and Mipsy.

 

Dobby gulped and nodded quickly, scurrying after Harry while Mipsy narrowed her eyes and kept the pan raised—just in case.

 

Harry sat down across from Dobby, his expression hardening as he tried to summon every ounce of cold authority he could muster.

 

“Dobby,” he said, voice low and steady, “I’m going to ask you some questions—and you’re going to answer them. Honestly. Completely. No dodging, no half-truths. Understood?”

 

Dobby twisted his fingers, his ears drooping as he nodded solemnly, “Yes, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby will answer.”

 

Harry inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to keep his emotions in check, “Let’s start at the beginning. How did you and Sirius even come up with this plan? How did you meet?”

 

Dobby’s watery eyes blinked fast as he spoke, his voice trembling.

 

“Dobby… Dobby was being a wedding gift, sir. From Mistress Walburga to Mistress Narcissa. When Mistress Narcissa and Master Lucius be expecting baby, they be sending out fancy magical announcements to whole Black family. All the relatives. Even to Mr. Sirius Black.”

 

He paused, guilt creasing his brow, “Mr. Black be kind to Dobby. He not shout or hex. He just ask when the baby be due. Dobby says… June fifth. Then he get very quiet. He tells Dobby he wants to take the baby. To save him. Says baby is in danger and he has loving family ready to raise him.”

 

Harry’s jaw tensed, “He told you that? Just like that?”

 

Dobby nodded miserably, “Yes, sir. He says he not trust owl post or Floo—it be too risky. So he says Dobby must not contact him again. Not until after. He says he be coming July fifth. One month after baby be born. To take him. Says he need Dobby to help. Says he got blood of Mistress Malfoy, so wards would not keep him out if Dobby be helping.”

 

Harry frowned, “You said ‘the baby’... did he know there were twins?”

 

Dobby shook his head quickly, “No, sir. No one knows at first. Not even Mistress. Dobby not know either. Mr. Black planned for one baby. When twins be born, Dobby thinks maybe plan be off. But he still comes. Still takes the baby left in nursery. Just one.”

 

Harry looked down, his hands clenched in his lap, “What about the house-elves? Wouldn’t they have tried to stop him?”

 

Dobby looked away in shame. “Dobby… Dobby knock them out, sir. Puts sleep spell in elf tonic. They not wake for hours. Dobby help disable security charms. Let Mr. Black in. He take baby and go.”

 

Harry’s throat was dry. He forced himself to ask, “And James and Lily? How did he get them to agree to raise me?”

 

“Mr. Black tells them baby is not his,” Dobby explained, twisting his ears. “Says baby be from a distant relative—a cousin, maybe—and a Muggleborn. Shameful thing. Says family want baby gone but not harmed. Says baby need protection, not scandal. He beg Mr. James and Miss Lily to pretend baby be theirs.”

 

Harry blinked slowly, his stomach twisting.

 

“James and Lily believed him?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Dobby nodded, “Mr. Black say they must hide baby well. Says blood adoption be too risky. Shows up on every healing scan. Could ruin protection, draw attention. They decide to pretend Miss Lily be pregnant. Hide baby until he ‘born’ in their home. They be in hiding.”

 

Harry sat in stunned silence, the Room unusually still around him.

 

“All this time…” he murmured, “I never should have been Harry Potter.”

 

Dobby looked devastated, “Dobby is sorry, sir. Dobby thought he was helping. Dobby thought he was saving you.”

 

Harry’s voice was low, almost expressionless, “Maybe you did save me. But that doesn’t change the fact that you stole me.”

 

Dobby looked like he might collapse in on himself, his eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears, ears drooping nearly to his shoulders.

 

Seeing that, Harry took a steadying breath, softening his tone just slightly—but not enough to blur the truth.

 

“I’m going to tell the Malfoys. They deserve to know. There’s already an investigation underway, and I won’t keep this secret forever. I’ll be going home for part of the holidays, after the Yule Ball,” he added, his voice quieting. “I’ll tell them before I return to Hogwarts.”

 

Or at least, he hoped he would. The weight of it already pressed on his chest, but it had to be done.

 

“The Aurors will come looking for you once this comes out,” Harry continued. “If you’re still here at Hogwarts when that happens—if the Headmaster hands you over—you won’t have any say in the matter.”

 

He met Dobby’s eyes directly, unflinching, “So I’m warning you now. Find somewhere safe to go. Somewhere they can’t summon you.”

 

Dobby nodded with a trembling breath, his voice barely more than a whisper, “Yes, Harry Potter, sir.”

 

888

 

Harry felt hollow on the walk back to the Room of Requirement, like something had come loose inside him and was rattling around aimlessly. The air in the corridors felt colder now, sharper, though he couldn’t tell if that was because of the weather or just the weight in his chest.

 

He didn’t want to think about it. Not right now. Not about what he’d just learned. Not about the fact that his life had been built on someone else’s decision, a choice made before he was even born.

 

He needed something—anything—to focus on. Something to anchor him, to remind himself that he wasn’t just a mystery wrapped in someone else’s lies. He wasn’t just a stolen child or a hidden secret. He was more than what had happened to him when he was a month old. He had to be.

 

His thoughts drifted, slowly, cautiously, toward Theo. He wondered how Theo would react when he eventually found out the truth—about Sirius, about Dobby, about everything. Would he see him differently?

 

Harry shook his head as he reached the door to the Room. Inside, it was warm and softly lit, welcoming in the way only the Room could be.

 

He exhaled slowly, letting the door close behind him. No more spiraling. No more drowning in what-ifs.

 

He forced his thoughts back to the Ball, willing himself to focus on something—anything—lighter than the truth he’d just unpacked. He pictured the shimmering lights, the soft rustle of dress robes, the music drifting through the Great Hall. He imagined Theo's expression when he saw him all dressed up—how his eyes might linger just a little too long, how the corners of his mouth might twitch into one of those secret smiles.

 

There’d be laughter. Dancing. Maybe even a moment where the world felt simple.

 

And then, just as quickly, nerves coiled in his stomach.

 

Dancing.

 

Harry swallowed. He had no idea how to dance.

 

McGonagall had given them one painful, awkward lesson that mostly involved shuffling feet and avoiding eye contact. No one had wanted to volunteer, and when they did, it was half-hearted at best. Worse, McGonagall had been teaching the boys to lead—but Harry was almost certain Theo would take the lead. That meant anything he'd learned had probably been backwards... right?

 

He groaned softly, covering his face with his hands. Great. He was going to step on Theo’s toes and look like an idiot.

 

As if hearing his anxiety, the Room of Requirement responded with a familiar hum of shifting walls. Harry blinked and lowered his hands, watching as the space around him expanded, the floor smoothing out into a polished dance floor. His brow arched.

 

“What now?”

 

From the center of the room, a mannequin rose from the floor—tall, silent, and roughly Theo’s height. Its arms lifted automatically, posed in perfect waltzing form.

 

Harry flushed. Of course.

 

Still… learning in private wasn’t the worst idea. In fact, it was exactly what he needed.

 

Blowing out a breath, he stepped forward and cautiously placed his hands in position. The mannequin adjusted with practiced ease, and as soon as he made contact, soft music began to play from nowhere—gentle, steady, and just loud enough to follow the rhythm without overwhelming his thoughts.

 

Then the mannequin began to move, slow and graceful, guiding Harry across the floor in a careful waltz.

 

It was awkward at first—he fumbled a few steps and nearly tripped twice—but the dummy didn’t falter. It was patient, unflinching, and always on beat. Slowly, Harry began to catch the rhythm, feel the sway in his steps, let himself be led.

 

A small, self-conscious smile tugged at his lips.

 

Maybe he wouldn’t be perfect by the Ball. But maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t make a total fool of himself either.

 

888

 

On Christmas Eve, Harry received a parcel that was undeniably from Valentin Noirveil. His heart skipped, excitement fluttering in his chest, and he wasted no time slipping away to the Room of Requirement to open it in private.

 

He hadn’t heard a word from Valentin since sending his letter about Fleur. Part of him had worried that he’d overstepped—that his request had been presumptuous or, worse, insulting. After all, Valentin was a renowned designer with far more important things to do than entertain unsolicited favors from fourteen-year-olds.

 

But the moment Harry opened the lid, all of that worry vanished.

 

The box was overflowing-folded garments layered with protective tissue. One piece immediately caught his eye: a soft blue fabric in the unmistakable shade of Beauxbatons. Delicate and ethereal, it was clearly meant for Fleur.

 

Harry’s breath caught. This was no begrudging favor. If anything, it was an act of quiet generosity.

 

Tucked right on top, sealed with a wax stamp bearing a stylized VN, was a folded letter addressed to him.

 

With fingers tingling in anticipation, Harry carefully opened it and began to read.

 

Dearest Castor,

 

Your letter arrived wrapped in sincerity, and I must say—reading it filled me with such warmth that I quite forgot I was buried beneath fabric samples and a deadline I had no business entertaining.

 

Let me begin by saying this: you are extraordinary. Not for the dragon (though what a moment that was—divine, truly), not for the headlines, but for your thoughtfulness. Most young men in your position would be far too distracted by the spotlight to spare a thought for others. Yet you, dear boy, wrote to me not for yourself, but on behalf of your friend.

 

Fleur Delacour is indeed a client I hold in high regard, and I took your words to heart. I revisited the photos from the First Task—and oh, mon chéri, you were absolutely right. Her ensemble, while visually striking, was woefully impractical and frankly a touch exploitative. And while we are being honest, I found the other champions’ outfits little better—garish, uninspired, and utterly lacking in taste or function. So, I took it upon myself to prepare a modest something for each of them. Nothing showy, but elegant and durable. I won’t say they’ll thank me properly, but they should.

 

Now, as for your own wardrobe: the robes you wore during your dragon flight have become something of a sensation in certain circles. Orders have been pouring in from France, Italy, and even the more fashionable corners of Germany (which, I assure you, is no small feat). In short: you’ve more than paid for this favor, my darling. Let me handle the rest.

 

You’ll find enclosed your ensemble for the Second Task as well as your formal robes for the Yule Ball. These, Castor, I am the most proud of. They are sleek, regal, and just bold enough to make a statement without a single word spoken. And they will look magnificent beside your date.

 

Which brings me to your final note—tucked so shyly at the end of your letter, as if you feared you’d said too much.

 

Let me be perfectly clear: I am delighted that you’re attending the Ball with someone who makes you feel happy, regardless of their name or gender. You owe no apology, and certainly no justification. Love, affection, even curiosity—these are precious things, and if someone is lucky enough to share that with you, then they are lucky indeed.

 

Now, enjoy the holidays, Castor. Dance. Laugh. Let the world spin a little slower for one night, and be exactly who you are, wrapped in silk and starlight.

 

Yours always,

Valentin Noirveil

Couturier des Cœurs Brûlants

 

Most interest in Fleur’s Harry pulled out the blue piece he had spotted. Her swimwear had a high neckline and a long, flowing skirt-like panel in the back that mimicked mermaid fins—purely aesthetic, but striking. It maintained both modesty and freedom of movement. Valentin included a matching hooded capelet for before and after the Task, lined in pale velvet.

 

He then peaked at the others.  Assuming the red was for Viktor, Harry pulled it out. It was a deep maroon full-body suit with matte black panels, designed for peak hydrodynamic efficiency. The suit’s design emphasized function and power over flash, but Valentin added an understated rune motif along the spine for magical reinforcement—and a touch of pride.

 

That meant the charcoal-grey swim suit with gold accents was for Cedric, as it was far to large for himself. The cut was similar to that of Viktors. It was modest, practical, and quietly confident—like Cedric himself.

 

Finally, Harry pulled out his own. Valentin designed a striking, deep emerald green swim set for Castor, the fabric shimmering like dragon scales when it caught the light. The sleek, sleeveless design clung to his form for maximum fluidity in the water. The material was enchanted to mimic the texture of scales—light, flexible, and hydrodynamic—without any restrictive weight.

 

The only adornment was a subtle silver Malfoy crest at the collarbone, magically etched into the scales—not ostentatious, but proud. As a final touch, a thin iridescent sheen clung to the edges of the scales, reminiscent of the dragon he once flew.

 

Harry hadn’t even seen his Yule Ball ensemble yet, and already he felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude toward Valentin. The man had done more than just design outfits—he had seen Castor, understood him, and given him something that felt like armor and artistry all at once.

 

He had to do something in return. Something meaningful. But what did you give a man like Valentin Noirveil? What did he value?

 

As if on cue, the Room of Requirement stirred.

 

Harry turned as the furniture shifted gently aside and a tall, ornate mirror rose from the floor, framed in silver ivy. For a moment, his heart skipped—The Mirror of Erised? But no, it didn’t hum with that same heavy longing. This wasn’t desire. This was… clarity.

 

Cautiously, he stepped forward and gazed into the glass.

 

The reflection wasn’t of himself standing there in the Room. No—inside the mirror, he saw himself, kneeling on the cold, slick floor of the Chamber of Secrets. His hair was damp, his fingers steady as he carefully applied a preservation potion along a long, glistening strip of basilisk skin.

 

Harry inhaled sharply. The image flickered for a moment and then faded.

 

That was awful… and perfect.

 

Basilisk leather was beyond rare—nearly mythical. Even a fragment would be worth a fortune. And this wasn’t just any basilisk—it was his. He had faced it. Slain it. Preserved it.

 

Valentin would be beside himself.

 

Harry’s lips curved into a slow smile.

 

Yes. That was it. That was the gift.

Notes:

Omg, I seriously have the best comment section! 🥹 I know I told you all to go easy on me since this is my first fic, but you’ve been so sweet and supportive—it means the world! I’m having such a blast writing this, and your encouragement keeps me going.

For those who’ve been asking why I didn’t just go with a resorting for Castor, honestly, I’ve seen those stories done (and I do enjoy them!), but I started this fic because I had a few ideas I hadn’t seen before, and I wanted to explore something different.

One of those ideas was giving the Room of Requirement a bigger role. I’ve always thought it was an underused part of Hogwarts lore, and I’m really excited to dig into its potential as more than just a convenient hiding place.

Chapter 36: Chapter 36

Chapter 36

 

Harry decided as it was Christmas Eve, after dinner, would be the right time to present the outfits—and something else. The closer it got to the Second Task, the more guilty he began to feel. The dragon had earned him a solid lead, but in doing so, he'd made retrieving the golden egg impossible for the others. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time, but now he couldn’t shake the worry: What if someone got hurt because of him?

 

He hadn’t meant to sabotage them. Not really. But intent wouldn’t matter if one of them drowned.

 

So he made a decision.

 

He’d share what he knew.

 

It only seemed fair. He had no real desire to win—not if it came at the expense of someone else’s safety. And besides, with the lead he had from the First Task, he could afford to even the playing field a little.

 

When he entered the Great Hall that evening, the smell of roasted meat and warm spices thick in the air, he made a quiet detour before heading to the Gryffindor table. He passed by Hufflepuff, leaned down near Cedric Diggory’s shoulder, and murmured just loud enough to be heard over the hum of dinner conversation:

 

“Meet me after supper. Unused classroom off the Charms corridor.”

 

Cedric looked up, surprised. Harry gave him a meaningful glance and kept walking, not waiting for an answer.

 

He spotted Fleur sitting with Hermione and Neville—a grouping that had become increasingly common lately, and not one he minded. Sliding into the seat beside them, he turned to Hermione first.

 

“Hermione,” he said, keeping his voice low, “I need a favor.”

 

She blinked, setting down her fork, “Of course. What do you need?”

 

“Viktor,” Harry said. “I need you to get him to the unused classroom near Charms after dinner. You too, Fleur.”

 

Fleur, who had just taken a sip of pumpkin juice, raised an elegant brow, “Is this about the egg?”

 

Harry didn’t answer, but his expression said enough.

 

Fleur studied him for a moment, then gave a single nod, “I will be there.”

 

She didn’t press him for details. If Castor was calling the champions together, it had to be tournament-related. And considering he was the only one who’d retrieved the clue—and had no real reason to speak to all of them otherwise—Fleur could guess what this was about.

 

She exchanged a quick glance with Hermione, who was already convinced. Castor had never been one to hoard power. If anything, it made perfect sense.

 

Neville, watching quietly, gave Harry a tiny smile, “Doing the right thing even when you don’t have to—that’s very you.”

 

888

 

Cedric was already waiting when Castor arrived at the unused classroom with Fleur in tow. He was leaning casually against one of the old desks, arms crossed, posture relaxed—but his eyes were alert with curiosity.

 

He didn't seem especially surprised to see Fleur. She had been spending more time with the Gryffindors lately.

 

“We’re just waiting on Viktor,” Castor said by way of greeting. “Hermione’s bringing him.”

 

Cedric nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. It didn’t take much to guess what this was about. The presence of two other champions, the secrecy, the careful timing—it all pointed to something tournament-related. And with Castor involved, there was a good chance it had to do with the clue none of them had gotten.

 

Fleur stood beside him silently, arms folded, her expression composed but curious.

 

A moment later, the door creaked open again and Viktor stepped in, Hermione just behind him. Castor offered her a grateful smile.

 

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

 

Hermione returned the smile, then glanced around the room. Her gaze settled on the three champions and lingered for a beat before she gave a small nod. She understood what this was—and that it wasn’t her place to stay.

 

“Good luck,” she said softly, mostly to Castor, before slipping out and closing the door behind her.

 

The room felt a little heavier in her absence. Castor turned back to the other champions, hands in his pockets, suddenly very aware of the silence.

 

Harry let out a nervous chuckle, shifting his weight and rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, so… this is a little awkward,” he began, voice tentative. “But I’ve got a confession to make.”

 

Cedric folded his arms, raising an eyebrow in mock suspicion.

 

“I knew about the dragons,” Harry admitted. “Before the First Task.”

 

Cedric gave an exaggerated scoff, “Shocking. Absolutely no way any of us could’ve guessed that—especially after the Hungarian Horntail acted like it wanted to invite you to tea.”

 

Harry winced, “Okay, fair. I didn’t exactly hide it well.”

 

He paused, glancing at Fleur and Viktor, who were both watching him with measured interest.

 

“I’m a Parseltongue,” he confessed to the foreign competitors.

 

Fleur blinked, clearly surprised. Viktor’s brow furrowed in thought.

 

Harry nodded slowly, “Yeah. So when I realized they were here for the Task, I—well, I talked to them.”

 

“You talked to the dragons?” Viktor repeated, incredulous.

 

“They were scared,” Harry said, his tone softening. “Furious, too. They’d been taken from their nests, shoved in cages, surrounded by humans, and were scared for their eggs. They didn’t know what was happening. I tried to explain. That it wasn’t our fault. That none of us wanted to hurt them.”

 

He looked down for a moment, then back up, “I begged them not to kill us. Not because I wanted to win—I didn’t care about that. I just didn’t want anyone to die. I thought if they understood, maybe they’d hold back.”

 

There was another pause. Then he added, a little miserably, “I never expected them to lie on top of their eggs and refuse to move. That wasn’t something I asked for. I didn’t mean to sabotage you.”

 

Fleur’s gaze softened. Cedric’s frown eased. Viktor was still staring at him like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

 

“I thought I was protecting us,” Harry said softly, his gaze flicking between the other champions. “I didn’t think it through. Not all the way. I’m sorry. And I want to try to make it up to you. All of you.”

 

He hesitated only a moment before pressing on.

 

“I solved the clue,” he admitted, voice steady now. “And I’d like to share what I know.”

 

Before anyone could respond, Harry turned and crossed the room to a dusty old cupboard tucked in the corner. He opened it carefully, revealing three wrapped parcels—wrapped with paper provided by the Room.

 

“I’ve been thinking about the Second Task a lot,” he said as he carried them over, the packages balanced in his arms. “Not just about what it is, but what it means—what it asks of us. And I started to worry. Not about your skills—you’re all incredible—but…”

 

He glanced at Fleur, then gave a sheepish grin, “Mostly, I was worried about what they’d make you wear.”

 

That got a blink from Viktor, a confused frown from Cedric, and a bemused scoff from Fleur.

 

“Pardon?” she asked.

 

“I know, I know,” Harry said quickly, cheeks warming. “Sounds ridiculous, but after what I saw them put you in to fight a dragon I was worried what they would provide you with.”

 

He held out the wrapped parcels, one for each of them, “I only asked Valentin for two outfits—one for myself and one for Fleur—but when he saw what you'd all been given last time, he… well, he took it as a personal offense.”

 

Cedric raised an eyebrow as he took the package, “Valentin? As in the Valentin Noirveil?”

 

Harry nodded, “Once he saw the photos from the First Task, he was angered by the impracticality and shoddy craftsmanship of the outfits and made you all these.”

 

Viktor opened his box first and pulled back the tissue paper with silent curiosity. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the expertly tailored, maroon red wetsuit-like ensemble. Sleek, elegant, functional—fitted with enchantments for water resistance, ease of movement, and even warming charms.

 

Cedric whistled low as he looked at his own—deep charcoal grey with golden detailing, sharp lines, and practical spell-resistant fabric, reinforced at the joints with minimal but tasteful style flourishes.

 

Fleur had already unfolded hers, eyes lighting up at the flowing mermaid like ensemble, “Mon dieu…”

 

“He called that one ‘Sirène Élégante,’” Harry offered shyly.

 

Fleur blinked, “That man is either a genius or an unstable alchemist.”

 

“Both,” Harry agreed. “Definitely both.”

 

Cedric looked up at him, still holding the outfit like it might turn to gold, “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

 

Harry shrugged, “Valentin is the one that did all the work. I merely wrote a letter.”

 

Viktor gave a faint nod, eyes still on the fabric, “Thank you.”

 

Harry smiled, his shoulders finally releasing some of the tension he’d been carrying all day. “You’re welcome. I just figured—if we’re going to risk drowning in front of half the school, we should at least look like we planned it.”

 

Cedric snorted. “You’re mad, Malfoy.”

 

“Undeniably,” Harry said cheerfully. Then, his expression sobered. “Now, onto the actual reason I asked you all here.”

 

The others fell quiet. Cedric straightened. Fleur folded her arms, brows raised in expectation. Viktor’s attention sharpened instantly.

 

“I assume you’ve all figured out the next task will involve swimming,” Harry began, pushing off the desk he’d been leaning against. “The egg—when you open it normally, it screams. Loud, awful, makes-your-ears-bleed sort of screaming. But when I stuck it underwater, it sang.”

 

That caught their attention.

 

“It’s a riddle,” he continued. “The lyrics talk about us being given an hour to retrieve something that will be taken. Something we’ll miss dearly.”

 

He let the words hang for a moment, watching their expressions shift—Fleur’s lips pursed thoughtfully, Cedric frowning, Viktor unreadable.

 

“I don’t know what they mean by it,” Harry added. “But the way the riddle phrased it—it sounded personal. Emotional. Whatever it is, they’re going to take it, put it at the bottom of the lake, and we’ll have a time limit to get it back.”

 

“An hour,” Fleur repeated softly, voice tinged with concern. “That’s not much time. Especially underwater.”

 

Cedric rubbed the back of his neck, “And we’re supposed to find… what, exactly? A lost sock? A childhood photo?”

 

“I don’t think it’ll be that random,” Harry said. “Whatever it is, it’ll matter to us. Deeply. I doubt they’d go to all this trouble for something trivial.”

 

Viktor finally spoke, his voice low and thoughtful. “The lake is massive. Cold. Dangerous. Full of things that don’t like visitors.”

 

“Exactly,” Harry said. “That’s why I wanted to warn you. So we all have time to prepare.”

 

Cedric raised an eyebrow, “So we’re not keeping secrets anymore?”

 

Harry shrugged. “Not about this. Look—I’ve got a head start from the dragon task. I don’t need another advantage. But if one of us fails this because they didn’t know what to expect…” He trailed off and gave a small shake of his head. “I’d rather lose the tournament than see one of you seriously hurt.”

 

There was a beat of silence. Then Fleur, still studying him, gave a small nod, “You are very strange, Castor Malfoy.”

 

“I’ve been told,” Harry said with a faint smile.

 

Cedric let out a breath. “Well… I’m not too proud to accept help if it means not freezing to death.”

 

Viktor gave a curt nod of agreement.

 

“Good,” Harry said, glancing around at them, “Then good luck. And thank you for hearing me out.”

 

888

 

Christmas morning arrived with the scent of cinnamon rolls in the air and a faint dusting of snow against the windows. Though Draco had informed him that the Malfoy family would be celebrating their Christmas the following morning at the Manor, Harry was still surprised to find a small but respectable pile of gifts waiting for him at breakfast.

 

He hadn’t expected much. But there they were, neatly wrapped and clearly labeled, nestled beside his plate at the Gryffindor table.

 

Hermione and Neville were already there, both grinning as they exchanged presents in person. Harry joined them with a smile and handed over two parcels he’d brought down with him.

 

He felt a little guilty, if he was being honest. He hadn’t remembered to actually buy gifts this year. Instead, in a panic the night before, he’d simply thought about what he needed—and the Room of Requirement had responded. Items had appeared on a table near his cot, wrapped and tagged, as if anticipating the people in his life better than he could.

 

He'd almost felt like it was cheating. But when he’d unwrapped them, he realized they were perfect—better than anything he might have chosen on his own. It felt wrong to waste them.

 

For Hermione, there was a thick, well-worn book titled A Comprehensive History of House-Elves in Britain: From Bondage to Bureaucracy. Ever since she’d learned the full truth about Dobby—that he had once punished himself nearly to death for helping Sirius kidnap Castor—Hermione had quietly paused her S.P.E.W. efforts. Not abandoned them, but instead chosen to do more research before pushing reform. The book was ideal.

 

For Neville, he’d found an old but well-kept copy of Rare Plants of Magical Europe and Their Defensive Properties. The margins were annotated in careful, spidery handwriting, and Harry had no doubt Neville would spend hours poring over it with delight.

 

In return, Harry received books as well. Hermione gave him one on advanced underwater magic—spells, techniques, and even some basic creature communication charms—clearly aimed at preparing him for the Second Task. Neville, ever thoughtful, had given him a practical guide to general defensive spells, complete with illustrations and dueling posture advice.

 

Fleur had also stopped by earlier, before Harry arrived, leaving behind a small box of delicate macarons for each of them. She'd entrusted Hermione with Harry’s, a neatly wrapped parcel tied with a pale blue ribbon and a tiny sprig of enchanted holly that sparkled faintly in the light.

 

Hedwig had been waiting patiently for him that morning, perched near the staff table with a sizeable package clutched securely in her talons. The parcel was from his parents.

 

Tucked inside was a short, handwritten note in his mother’s elegant script: “Just so you have something to open this morning—more will be waiting for you at home. Love, Mum and Dad.”

 

The box was filled to the brim with an assortment of sweets and treats—clearly chosen with sharing in mind. Harry smiled and passed some around to Hermione, Neville, and a few nearby Gryffindors. A gentle warmth settled in his chest as he took it all in—simple, thoughtful, and full of love. For once, Christmas morning felt uncomplicated.

 

Before she left, Harry crouched beside Hedwig and gave her a few grateful strips of bacon from his plate. “I’ll be going back to the Manor tonight,” he murmured to her. “You can meet me there if you’d like.”

 

Hedwig gave a soft hoot, nipped affectionately at his fingers, and took off with a rustle of snowy feathers, disappearing into the enchanted ceiling sky.

 

888

 

When it came time to get ready for the Yule Ball, Harry made his way to the Room of Requirement, expecting his usual private quarters. But as the door swung open, he blinked in surprise.

 

The space had transformed entirely.

 

Gone was the cozy, makeshift bedroom. In its place stood an opulent, oversized dressing room that looked like it belonged in a fashion magazine or one of the more extravagant corners of a Parisian theatre. Rich velvet curtains framed tall, gilded mirrors that reflected the room in dizzying angles. A sprawling vanity stretched along one wall, gleaming with bottles and vials of unfamiliar potions—most labeled in looping, elegant script. “Shine-Enhancing Elixir,” “Perfecting Potion,” “Essence of Moonlight Complexion.”

 

Harry squinted at one, holding it up like it might bite him, “What even is... dewy radiance?”

 

He winced, rubbing the back of his neck. Beauty potions weren’t exactly his area of expertise.

 

Still, in the center of the room, atop a ridiculously plush bench embroidered with silver dragons, sat Valentin’s box. Harry sighed in relief. That, at least, he could start with.

 

“Alright,” he muttered to himself, stepping forward. “Clothes first. Panic later.”

 

He peeled away the final layer of tissue and took a breath.

 

Valentin had outdone himself—again.

 

The jacket was a deep, inky black that shimmered like polished obsidian when it caught the light, the high collar structured but not stiff, framing Harry’s neck and shoulders with effortless elegance. Silver-thread embroidery traced faintly along the cuffs and collar—subtle phoenix feathers, just barely visible unless you were looking for them.

 

Underneath was a soft, off-white tunic with a slightly asymmetrical collar fastened by a single dark mother-of-pearl button. The fabric was so fine and light it felt like wearing a whisper, but somehow managed to insulate him with comforting warmth. The black trousers were sleek, flexible, and reinforced at the knees and inner seams with a faintly textured, spell-resistant material—tailored within an inch of their life, but still easy to move in. He pulled on the matte black boots—charmed for silent steps and perfect grip—buckled with slim silver clasps.

 

Finally dressed, he turned toward the largest mirror.

 

For a moment, he barely recognized himself.

 

The boy staring back looked taller, sharper—like he’d stepped out of a portrait or an old story. His silver-blond hair, still faintly tousled, made his grey-tinged skin seem more ethereal than ghostly. The black and white palette only made the contrast starker—his features more striking.

 

He looked… elegant. Like a Malfoy. Like someone with power. Someone mysterious and a little dangerous.

 

He turned slowly, letting the jacket swing with him, and arched a brow. “Huh.”

 

He didn’t look like someone who lived in the walls of a castle anymore.

 

He looked like someone who belonged to the fire and shadow and the strange myth of dragons. Regal, but battle-ready. A story in motion.

 

He didn’t mind what he saw.

 

Turning away from the mirror and back to the intimidating array of potions and elixirs crowding the vanity, Harry was still at a complete loss for what to actually do with any of it. He sighed, running a hand through his hair—only for a soft thud to make him jump.

 

A book had appeared on the vanity, as if dropped by an invisible hand.

 

He blinked down at the title: A Wizard’s Guide to Looking Your Best: Beauty Tips for the Modern Magical Gentleman.

 

Harry groaned softly, “Of course.”

 

Still, he glanced back at his reflection—Valentin had gone through the trouble. And if this whole look was going to work, he figured he might as well try.

 

He picked up the book with a reluctant sigh, “Alright. Let’s see what madness you have in store for me.”

 

With a resigned breath, Harry flipped open the book. The pages shimmered faintly, a soft glow pulsing beneath the printed words as if the guide itself was quietly judging him.

 

Page one greeted him with bold, sparkling text:

“Congratulations, you’ve taken the first step toward not looking like a gremlin dragged backward through a hedge! Let’s begin.”

 

Harry blinked. “Rude.”

 

Still, curiosity piqued, he turned the page.

 

Step One: Hair—Tame the Untameable.

There was a small diagram of a wand technique paired with a dab of “Gloss & Control Serum” from the vanity tray. “Just a smidge,” the book warned. “Not half the bottle, you chaotic creature.”

 

He eyed the bottle suspiciously. It was silvery and faintly fizzing. But, for the sake of not arriving at the Yule Ball looking like he’d wrestled a blast-ended skrewt, he followed the instructions. A little serum, a practiced wand flick, and—

 

His hair fell into a soft, tousled wave, sleek and deliberate but still unmistakably him. He touched it, startled, “Okay… weirdly effective.”

 

Step Two: Complexion—You Look Tired.

Harry squinted, “How dare you.”

 

The book suggested a pale blue vial labeled “Awakening Mist.” One spray to the face and a second wand flourish later, the tired shadows under his eyes softened, his skin evened out a bit, and he looked… well, alive. That was new.

 

The book helpfully added:

“You now look 43% less haunted. You’re welcome.”

 

“I hate how useful you are,” Harry muttered, turning to the next page.

 

It went on from there—subtle cologne (“Not a foghorn of scent, just a whisper”), lip balm charm (“No one wants to kiss cracked lips”), and a nail-cleaning charm he would’ve never thought to use. By the time he was finished, he didn’t feel like a stranger in his own skin. Just… polished. Like someone who hadn’t stumbled into a magical fashion show by accident.

 

With one final glance in the mirror, he nodded at his reflection.

 

“Alright, Castor,” he murmured to himself, “Let’s go pretend this is all normal.”

 

He groaned under his breath, but smirked a little.

 

Then, shoulders squared and boots silent, he stepped out of the Room of Requirement, ready—or at least shiny enough—to face the Yule Ball.

Chapter 37: Chapter 37

Chapter 37

 

As Harry descended from the seventh floor, he quickly became aware of the stares. They started as curious glances and quickly turned into full-on gawking. He’d expected this—honestly, it would’ve been stranger not to draw attention dressed the way he was—but that didn’t make it any less intense.

 

Still, he kept his chin lifted, posture steady, and moved as though he didn’t notice a thing. Let them stare. He walked with quiet confidence, every step deliberate, as if he’d been born to wear obsidian and silver and shadow.

 

After all, he was a Malfoy.

 

Sort of.

 

As Harry reached the top of the final staircase, his eyes immediately found Draco and Astoria standing side by side, their arms casually linked together as they stood next to Theo. The three of them were watching the stairs, and the moment Harry appeared, Theo’s gaze locked onto him with an intensity that made Harry’s stomach tighten.

 

He swallowed hard, heart pounding in his chest.

 

For a moment, everything else faded—the murmurs of the crowd, the glittering chandeliers above, even the soft strains of music drifting through the hall. All that mattered was the way Theo’s eyes held him, steady and unblinking.

 

Harry straightened his shoulders and squared his jaw. Whatever this night held, he was ready.

 

With slow, purposeful steps, he began his descent, each movement drawing him closer to Draco, Astoria, and the quiet, watchful presence of Theo.

 

Harry noticed that even Draco, who rarely showed genuine surprise, looked impressed—if only for a brief moment. His usual sneer was replaced by a raised brow and a quick, almost reluctant nod of approval. Of course, Draco was never one to stay quiet for long, especially when there was an opportunity to draw attention to himself.

 

“So,” Draco began, stepping forward with a theatrical smirk, “who the hell gave you a makeover? Did you bribe a house-elf or accidentally stumble into one of those fancy salons?”

 

Harry met Draco’s gaze without flinching, his own smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Actually,” he said, “I did it myself. No bribes, no elves—just me and a bit of help from Valentin’s designs.”

 

Draco’s eyes flicked down to the sleek black jacket, the shimmering silver embroidery, and the precise tailoring before flicking back up. “Not bad, then,” he admitted grudgingly, “for someone who usually looks like he just rolled out of bed.”

 

Harry chuckled softly, “Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

 

He turned to Theo, and his usual calm presence seemed to ground Harry in the moment. He wore simple black robes—unadorned and sleek, tailored just enough to hint at his lean frame without drawing unnecessary attention. The fabric caught the light subtly, smooth and matte, moving fluidly with his every step.

 

Though plain compared to the extravagance around him, Theo’s quiet confidence made the simplicity feel deliberate, almost elegant. A faint silver clasp at his collar and the neat, precise cut of his robes spoke of understated style rather than showiness. His dark hair was neatly combed back, and his sharp grey eyes held a steady, observant gaze, fixed quietly on Harry as if measuring something unspoken.

 

In his simplicity, Theo’s presence was impossible to ignore.

 

Harry felt heat rise to his cheeks before he could stop it. “You, uh… you look really good tonight, Theo,” he said, a little breathless, his voice lower than intended.

 

Theo’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement and something warmer beneath. He stepped just a little closer, his voice silky and low. “Ah, but I’m the one who needs to be vigilant tonight,” he murmured, “since it’s only a matter of time before someone tries to steal you away from me.”

 

Harry’s heart gave an unhelpful lurch, and for a terrifying second, he thought his knees might actually give out beneath him. His stomach flipped, a dozen butterflies staging a mutiny, and he quickly averted his gaze—though not before Theo caught the unmistakable flush creeping across his face.

 

Before Harry could respond to Theo’s teasing, Professor McGonagall swept toward them, her robes fluttering with the kind of urgency that only came from trying to herd hundreds of dressed-up teenagers into something resembling order. She looked slightly frazzled—her usual composed demeanor stretched thin by the chaos of the evening.

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” she began briskly, glancing between the pair of them, “your brother and his friends may wait in the hall. You, however, need to find your date and join the other champions—”

 

“Um, Professor,” Harry interrupted gently, raising a hand, “Theo is my date.”

 

For just a heartbeat, McGonagall blinked, surprise flickering across her face. But she recovered almost instantly, her expression smoothing into polite neutrality.

 

“Ah. My apologies, Mr. Nott,” she said crisply with a respectful nod, “In that case, if you gentlemen would please follow me—there’s a small holding area for the champions and their partners before the procession begins.”

 

Theo offered her a courteous smile, and Harry felt a strange but satisfying rush of pride as he stepped forward beside him. The two of them fell into step behind McGonagall, leaving the common area and heading toward the grand staircase.

 

As they walked, Harry glanced sideways at Theo, who looked perfectly composed as always, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something warm, proud… and maybe a little bit nervous.

 

“Still sure you want to be seen with me?” Harry asked lightly.

 

Theo didn’t even hesitate, “I’m hoping everyone will see.”

 

That sent Harry’s heart stuttering again, but he managed to keep his feet moving, head high as they approached the double doors.

 

They were the last to arrive.

 

Fleur stood near the entrance already, poised and elegant in a gown of pale silvery-blue that shimmered like moonlight on water. The cut was simple but flawless, enhancing her natural grace rather than competing with it. She had brought Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain, who looked as though he hadn’t quite come to terms with his own good fortune. He couldn’t stop staring at her—his expression a mix of awe and disbelief, as if worried she might vanish if he blinked.

 

Cedric stood nearby, tall and composed, dressed in deep Hufflepuff golds and rich earth tones that complemented his usual warmth. His date was Cho Chang, Ravenclaw’s Seeker, who looked stunning in flowing robes of midnight blue. She leaned in slightly as Cedric whispered something to her, and they both laughed softly, entirely at ease.

 

And then there was Hermione.

 

Harry’s breath caught for a moment. She looked… radiant. Her normally bushy hair had been tamed into glossy curls swept into an elegant twist, with a few soft tendrils framing her face. Her dress was a deep periwinkle with subtle silver beading across the bodice, tasteful and graceful and—somehow—older. Grown-up. She had her arm looped through Viktor Krum’s, who stood at her side with his usual stoic confidence, though even he seemed slightly stunned when Theo and Harry entered the room.

 

Hermione’s jaw dropped the moment she saw them, her eyes widening behind her lashes. She stared openly, mouth parting in speechless amazement, and for once she didn’t immediately compose herself. Harry could tell—she hadn’t expected this.

 

And truthfully, neither had he.

 

Hermione wasn’t just his best friend anymore, not just the clever girl with ink on her fingers and a worry for every rule—they were all changing, growing into something more. He felt a quiet, bittersweet pride as he looked at her—like a younger brother realizing his sister was someone the world might finally see the way he always had.

 

He offered her a small smile, and she blinked rapidly before smiling back.

 

“You okay?” Theo murmured at his side, low enough that only Harry could hear.

 

Harry nodded once, exhaling, “Yeah. Just… didn’t think we’d all look like this.”

 

Theo smirked, voice teasing, “Regret agreeing to come with me yet?”

 

Harry gave him a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching, “Not even close.”

 

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat gently to get their attention. “Champions and partners, if you’ll form a line, please. We’ll be opening the doors in just a moment,” she said leading them towards the door and getting them in place.

 

The double doors to the Great Hall loomed before them, golden and glittering with enchanted frost. Music swelled faintly from beyond.

 

Harry straightened, slipped his arm into Theo’s, and took one steadying breath.

 

“Ready to pretend we know how to dance?” Harry whispered.

 

Theo grinned, “Only if you promise not to step on my feet.”

 

“If it helps, I’ve been practicing with a mannequin,” Harry deadpanned, eyes forward.

 

Theo let out a quiet snort, his grip tightening ever so slightly around Harry’s arm, “Oh good. Nothing prepares a man for elegance like flinging a lifeless dummy across the floor.”

 

Harry grinned, heart racing—not just from nerves, but from the way Theo leaned ever so slightly toward him, calm and confident like this was all perfectly normal. Like they were perfectly normal.

 

The doors opened with a slow, dramatic sweep.

 

A hush fell over the Great Hall.

 

Harry’s breath caught.

 

The entire space had been transformed. The ceiling shimmered like a night sky blanketed in stars, soft snowflakes falling in slow, lazy spirals. Candles floated higher than usual, their flames casting a warm golden glow over ice-sculpted trees and crystal-frosted garlands. Tables had been pushed to the edges, leaving a wide polished floor in the center that gleamed like glass.

 

All eyes turned toward the champions.

 

Harry kept his head high, even as a hundred stares bore down on them. He felt Theo’s presence beside him, steady and grounding, and for the first time, the pressure didn’t feel quite so crushing.

 

They followed behind Cedric and Cho, who glided onto the dance floor with effortless charm. Viktor and Hermione came next, Viktor as stiff and grim as always, but Hermione’s soft smile more than made up for it.

 

Then it was Harry and Theo.

 

As they stepped onto the floor, the orchestra swelled, strings rising in a sweeping waltz that echoed through the enchanted air.

 

“Just follow my lead,” Theo murmured smoothly, offering his hand.

 

Harry nodded, slipping his hand into Theo’s.

 

Theo’s other hand found the small of Harry’s back, warm and steady, and they began to move.

 

To Harry’s surprise, Theo was actually… good. Graceful. Measured. It took a beat to find the rhythm, but once they did, it felt natural—almost easy.

 

They twirled slowly across the floor under the drifting snow, spinning beneath chandeliers made of frost and starlight. The world melted away—just the two of them moving in sync, Theo’s eyes never quite leaving Harry’s.

 

Harry couldn’t help it. He smiled.

 

“I think you lied,” he said softly.

 

Theo blinked, “About what?”

 

“You’re not pretending.”

 

Theo’s lips curved slightly, “Neither are you.”

 

“I was honest. I practiced with a mannequin.”

 

They danced on, the music swelling, the room watching—but for a little while, Harry didn’t care. He wasn’t hiding, or surviving, or playing a part.

 

He was just there. Dancing. Glowing.

 

As the final notes of the waltz faded into a gentle hush, polite applause rippled through the Great Hall. Harry and Theo slowed to a graceful stop, their steps aligning naturally as the music drew to a close. For a heartbeat, Harry stood still, breathing in the moment—heart pounding not from nerves anymore, but from something warmer and far more confusing.

 

Then the spell broke.

 

An usher gave a small wave, signaling for the champions and their dates to exit the floor. With murmured conversation and rustling robes, the couples filed off and were directed toward the elevated head table that overlooked the hall.

 

As Harry ascended the few short steps, hand still loosely in Theo’s, his eyes swept across the room—and froze.

 

There, standing just in front of the head table, were his parents.

 

Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy stood side by side, perfectly composed, dressed in elegant formal robes befitting the evening’s grandeur. Narcissa wore deep emerald green that made her pale features appear nearly ethereal under the candlelight. Her expression was hard to read—proud, perhaps, or calculating, or both. Lucius looked just as severe as ever, cane in hand, posture immaculate, his gaze sharp and assessing as it followed Harry’s movements across the floor.

 

Between them stood Draco, one arm loosely linked with Astoria’s, his usual swagger dialed back to something far more thoughtful. All three had clearly been watching.

 

Draco’s eyes met Harry’s first. Something flickered in them—surprise, maybe, or quiet amusement—but then he gave the smallest nod. Approval, or at least acknowledgement.

 

Narcissa’s gaze swept from Harry’s face to Theo’s hand still resting lightly at his back. Her expression didn’t change, but her chin lifted a fraction higher. She said nothing, but she didn’t look away.

 

Then Lucius inclined his head ever so slightly—formal, cool, and unmistakably Malfoy.

 

Harry’s stomach twisted, but he didn’t flinch. He returned the nod with one of his own and turned his attention to the seating arrangement.

 

He and Theo were guided to two open chairs beside Cedric and Cho. Fleur and Roger sat across from them, still mid-conversation, while Hermione as little way down was correcting Viktor on the pronunciation of her name. The table was beautifully set, the silverware gleaming, and each place card hand-written with curling golden script.

 

“I think they were watching the whole time,” Harry murmured, sliding into his seat.

 

Theo sat beside him, composed as ever, “Let them watch.”

 

Harry gave a soft, dry laugh, “You’re either very brave or very stupid.”

 

Theo turned slightly, eyes glinting with mischief, “I’m sitting next to you in a room full of people who want your attention. I’d say I’m very lucky.”

 

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the gentleness in Theo’s tone. He ducked his head slightly, smile pulling at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

 

As dinner began to appear on the table—platters of enchanted winter dishes, steaming and fragrant—Harry finally felt the tension in his shoulders ease. His parents had seen him. The entire school had. And he was still standing.

 

He reached for his goblet, lifted it slightly in Theo’s direction.

 

“To surviving another social death trap.”

 

Theo clinked his glass against Harry’s, “And looking unreasonably good while doing it.”

Chapter 38: Chapter 38

Summary:

Second half of the last chapter.

Chapter 38

 

After dinner, the real dancing began—this time, the entire hall was invited to the floor. The music shifted from ceremonial to celebratory, and guests flooded the space with laughter, swirling robes, and the soft rhythm of enchanted strings.

 

To Harry’s mild surprise, he and Theo ended up dancing far more often than he had expected. He wasn’t sure how it kept happening—whether Theo kept offering his hand or Harry kept accepting without thinking—but somehow, they always seemed to drift back to the floor between songs, drawn together like magnets in motion.

 

What surprised Harry even more was how natural it felt. He had never imagined that being in someone else’s arms—someone’s grasp—could feel so steadying. There was something unspoken in the way Theo held him, never too tight, never possessive. Just enough to guide, to anchor. As they moved together, gliding and turning with the music, Harry found himself exhaling tension he hadn’t realized he was holding.

 

For those moments, the rest of the world seemed to blur at the edges. He barely noticed the flashes of Rita Skeeter’s cameraman lurking at the corners of the room, nor the whispers that followed him like a trailing fog. The stares—curious, judgmental, awestruck—slid off him like water. All that mattered was the rhythm and the soft pressure of Theo’s hand in his.

 

As the current song wound to a close, Theo slowed their steps with graceful ease. He gave a small, elegant bow, eyes glinting with warmth and mischief.

 

“I’ll fetch us drinks,” he offered smoothly, straightening. “Don’t wander off too far—someone might try to steal you.”

 

Harry chuckled, still catching his breath from the twirl-heavy dance. “They’ll have to duel you for it.”

 

Theo smirked as he turned and disappeared into the crowd, cutting a striking figure even in his understated black robes.

 

Left alone for the first time in what felt like hours, Harry took the moment to breathe—and look.

 

The Great Hall was awash with music and color. The soft silver snowfall still drifted lazily from the enchanted ceiling, catching in the lights like glittering dust. Students twirled across the floor in every direction, robes swirling, faces alight with laughter or flushed with excitement.

 

He spotted Viktor and Hermione dancing nearby, the pair moving with surprising ease now that Viktor had found his rhythm. Hermione’s eyes shone with quiet happiness, and even Viktor looked more relaxed than usual, his broad hands gentle on her waist.

 

Not far from them, Neville and Luna swayed with an endearing lack of coordination. Luna wore a dreamy smile as if the music were a private lullaby meant just for her. Neville looked nervous, but he was smiling too—and when Luna said something, his ears went pink and he laughed aloud.

 

They all looked so content. Like, just for tonight, the world outside didn’t exist.

 

Harry’s smile faltered slightly.

 

His gaze shifted across the hall until it landed on the edge of the crowd—where he spotted her.

 

His Mum.

 

She stood alone near one of the tall frosted windows, her posture graceful, her expression unreadable. Though technically acting as a chaperone alongside Lucius, she wasn’t speaking with students or staff. She simply watched. Eyes sharp. Still. Regal.

 

Lucius was nowhere in sight—likely off making conversation with Snape—but Narcissa remained, a lone sentinel in silk and starlight.

 

On impulse, Harry wove through the dancers and approached her side, silent and careful. He came up beside her before she even turned her head.

 

Narcissa didn’t flinch, but there was the faintest flicker of surprise in her gaze before recognition softened her expression.

 

“Castor,” she said quietly, dipping her head in acknowledgment. “You startled me.”

 

“Sorry,” he said, hands folded behind his back, “You just looked like you needed company.”

 

A faint smile touched her lips, more ghost than expression, “Perhaps I did.”

 

They stood in silence for a moment, side by side. The music swelled again, and around them, the party continued as though nothing had changed.

 

“You look very grown-up tonight,” Narcissa said softly, her gaze drifting toward the dancers but her attention clearly fixed on him. “Your designer has… captured something of you.”

 

Harry glanced down at the sleek black and silver ensemble—the shimmer of the embroidered threads catching the candlelight like frost. He shifted slightly, still getting used to how it fit so well, how it made him feel both like himself and someone entirely new.

 

“Valentin says I’m his muse,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “Yes… I have heard. He’s been positively rhapsodic about you since those images of the First Task made the papers. Called you—what was it? Ah yes—‘an icon of raw mythic energy wrapped in aesthetic tragedy.’”

 

Harry winced, “That sounds… alarmingly on-brand.”

 

“Mm,” she hummed, “He has always had a flair for dramatic men.”

 

Harry raised an eyebrow, “You mean like Lucius?”

 

She gave him a very dry look, “I was thinking more of himself, but yes. That too.”

 

He laughed under his breath. It was strange—speaking to her like this. Calm. Dry. Almost like she was teasing him.

 

He looked at her for a moment, watching the flicker of candlelight against her pale, composed face. Then, on impulse:

 

“Would you like to dance?”

 

There was a flicker of something—surprise, hesitation—before she recovered, her posture as graceful as ever.

 

“I’d be honored.”

 

He offered his arm and led her onto the edge of the dance floor as a slow, stately waltz began. Her hand on his shoulder was light but firm; she moved with the precision of someone who had been born to glide through society.

 

“You’ve practiced,” she noted quietly after a turn or two.

 

“I didn’t want to step on Theo,” he replied, deadpan. “The mannequins don’t complain, but he might.”

 

That pulled a small, genuine smile from her. They moved in a quiet circle, surrounded by glittering gowns, drifting snow, and the echo of string instruments. It wasn’t warm, exactly, but it wasn’t cold either.

 

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually come,” he admitted, eyes not meeting hers.

 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want me here,” she said just as honestly.

 

He swallowed, looking up, “I don’t mind.”

 

That earned a pause. Then, in a voice gentler than he expected: “Then I’m glad I did.”

 

The music wound down, and she stepped back with a slight, elegant bow of her head.

 

“Thank you for the dance, Castor.”

 

He hesitated—then, shyly but sincerely: “Thank you, Mum.”

 

Her eyes fluttered subtly at the word, but she didn’t correct him. A small knot of tension uncoiled in his chest—he’d half-expected her to insist on Mother, the way Draco always did in public. But the word Mum felt more natural on his tongue, softer, warmer… and somehow more real. He was quietly relieved that she didn’t seem to mind.

 

Instead, she touched his shoulder gently, just for a second.

 

Harry smiled at her before saying, “I should get back before Theo decides I’ve abandoned him.”

 

“Of course,” she said softly, inclining her head with a touch of formality, “Enjoy your evening… Castor.”

 

There was a brief pause, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, and then she turned away.

 

Harry pivoted, exhaling a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It didn’t take long to spot Theo—he was exactly where Harry had left him, leaning casually against a marble column near the edge of the dance floor. His eyes had been on them, sharp and unreadable, but when Harry approached, Theo’s expression shifted into a familiar, crooked smirk. Wordlessly, he held out a glass, the crystal catching the golden candlelight like firelight on water.

 

Harry accepted it with a grateful nod, their fingers brushing briefly. He glanced up just as Theo’s eyes narrowed in amusement.

 

“Trade me in for a better partner?” Theo asked, tone light but laced with something else beneath the teasing. “I suppose if anyone’s going to steal you away, it might as well be your mother. Come on, before someone else claims you again.”

 

888

 

As the night wound down and the last few songs faded into soft instrumentals, Harry knew it was time to grab his bag before heading back to the manor. He wasn’t bringing his full trunk—his mum had already informed him earlier that Valentin had sent over a selection of his essentials so he’d have a second wardrobe waiting for him. Still, there were a few things he preferred to keep close. His bookbag, for one, held some schoolwork he wanted to finish, a few books he was in the middle of reading, and—perhaps most importantly—the Marauder’s Map and his Invisibility Cloak. Old habits died hard, and Harry liked knowing those things were always within reach.

 

Just as he started to slip away from the hall, Theo appeared at his side, falling into step with effortless ease.

 

“I’ll walk you,” he offered casually, but there was a spark of something more behind his voice—concern, maybe, or just the desire to extend the night a little longer.

 

Harry paused, uncertainty flickering across his face. He didn’t want to appear rude or ungrateful—especially not after everything tonight—but the truth was, only Hermione knew where he’d been staying. The thought of Theo accidentally discovering the Room of Requirement made him oddly uneasy. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Theo. He did. More than most. But still… something about the idea felt too exposed. Too vulnerable.

 

Still, Theo was watching him with that calm, patient expression of his, and Harry didn’t have the energy to invent an excuse. After a beat too long, he gave a small nod. “Alright. Just to the seventh floor.”

 

Theo’s smirk softened into something gentler, and the two of them slipped out of the Great Hall together, the noise and candlelight fading behind them.

 

The castle was quieter now, the corridors bathed in moonlight and the occasional flicker from enchanted sconces. Their footsteps echoed faintly as they walked in companionable silence, neither rushing nor dawdling.

 

Theo walked close enough that their shoulders brushed now and then—never enough to seem intentional, but often enough to make Harry acutely aware of it.

 

“You clean up well, you know,” Theo said after a moment, his tone light but edged with something softer, “Though I suppose I should’ve guessed the dragon tamer look wasn’t your only aesthetic.”

 

Harry shot him a sideways glance, half-smiling, “You’re one to talk. I didn’t even recognize you without that I-know-something-you-don’t smirk on your face.”

 

Theo gave an exaggerated gasp, “You wound me. I thought that smirk was my most charming feature.”

 

Harry hummed, pretending to consider, “It’s definitely... in your top three.”

 

Theo arched a brow, amusement dancing in his eyes, “Top three, huh? And what are the other two?”

 

“I’ll let you guess,” Harry said, picking up the pace slightly, a bit of heat creeping into his cheeks.

 

Theo caught up easily, his grin unmistakably smug, “Challenge accepted.”

 

Theo narrowed his eyes, walking just a little faster to stay at Harry’s side, “Alright then. Top three features. Let’s see... My stunning intellect? My devastating wit? Or is it my overwhelming modesty?”

 

Harry snorted, “Wow. So humble. Truly, it's inspiring.”

 

“I do try,” Theo said with a mock sigh, clasping his hands behind his back as if he were posing for a portrait.

 

Harry shook his head, grinning despite himself, “If I tell you the smirk’s not actually in the top three, will you be crushed?”

 

Theo feigned a look of horror, “You mean I’ve been leading with the wrong weapon all this time?”

 

“Well, it’s certainly disarming,” Harry said, pretending to be thoughtful. “In a smug, infuriating kind of way.”

 

Theo leaned in slightly, voice lower now, teasing, “And yet here you are. Walking beside me. Again.”

 

Harry bumped his shoulder into Theo’s, “Careful. That almost sounded like confidence.”

 

They reached the seventh floor corridor, and Harry slowed, glancing toward the blank stretch of wall.

 

“I can take it from here,” he said, pausing.

 

Theo tilted his head slightly, glancing down the empty hall, “If you are sure.”

 

Harry just nodded.

 

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Theo gave a small nod, stepping back with an ease that said he understood—or at least wouldn’t press.

 

“Well then,” he said quietly. “Goodnight, Castor.”

 

Harry hesitated, then offered him a half-smile, “Night, Theo. And… thanks. For tonight.”

 

Theo’s eyes met his, and something unreadable flickered there before he gave a slow, deliberate bow, “Anytime.”

 

With that, Harry turned toward the wall, focusing his thoughts. A safe place. A hidden space. The door began to form behind him with a gentle creak of magic, and as he reached for the handle, he wondered—just briefly—how much longer he could keep this part of his life secret.

 

He quickly gathered his things and changed out of his dress robes—there was no way he was traveling through the Floo in those. They were far too nice for soot and ash. Valentin had poured his heart and soul into every detail, and Harry intended to take care of the pieces the man had given him.

 

Instead, he pulled on his stain-repellent trousers and slipped into the sleek, silvery-black coat Valentin had designed as part of his daywear set. It still felt a little too polished for his usual taste, but compared to the formalwear, it was a significant downgrade.

 

 

With his bag slung over his shoulder, Harry turned toward the door, coat fluttering behind him as he picked up his pace. He didn’t want to keep his parents waiting—especially with the walk back to the Great Hall being a fair distance from the seventh floor. The castle was quieter now, the hum of celebration distant, replaced by the soft echo of his footsteps.

 

He rounded a corner at speed—and nearly crashed into someone coming from the opposite direction.

 

Harry skidded to a halt, stumbling back instinctively as his heart leapt into his throat.

 

There, standing right in front of him, was Ron Weasley.

 

The other boy blinked in surprise, mid-step and mid-chew, clutching an open box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. He was dressed in his usual hand-knit Christmas jumper—this year’s looked like it had a reindeer stitched across the front—along with pajama bottoms and a pair of fraying slippers. He looked, quite frankly, like someone who had wandered out of the dormitory in search of a midnight snack and gotten a bit lost.

 

Harry froze, pulse still racing. He hadn’t seen Ron properly since the blow-up after the First Task. Their last interaction had nearly killed him—literally.

 

Ron stared at him, expression unreadable, a green bean halfway to his mouth.

 

The Bertie Bott’s bean pinched between his fingers was forgotten as his eyes narrowed slightly, and his jaw shifted as if he were biting back a comment.

 

Harry’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. The hallway suddenly felt smaller, the space between them charged with old friendship and fresh wounds.

 

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, voice guarded.

 

Ron shrugged stiffly, popping another bean into his mouth like he needed something to do with his hands, “Just walking. There’s no curfew tonight, and the prefects are all busy playing dress-up, so I figured I’d go up to the Astronomy Tower. Clear my head.”

 

His tone turned sharper as he added, “Not like I had anywhere else to be. You know… since I was banned from the ball.”

 

Harry crossed his arms, “Don’t try to pin that on me.”

 

Ron’s eyes flashed, “Why not? You’re the one everyone's falling over backwards to protect. Suddenly you’ve got a rich daddy, a designer wardrobe, and your own bloody room no one’s allowed to talk about.”

 

Harry took a step forward, voice low but steady, “You were banned because of your actions, Ron. You nearly got me killed. That wasn’t something I did to you. You did that to me. To yourself.”

 

Ron looked away, jaw working, hands clenched at his sides. “I was angry.”

 

“So was I,” Harry said. “But I didn’t harm you or your things.”

 

For a second, it looked like Ron might say something more—but the words didn’t come.

 

Harry shook his head slowly, a tired sort of finality in his voice, “You can be angry, Ron. That’s your right. But don’t twist the story just to make yourself feel better. That won’t change what happened. It won’t undo the choices you made.”

 

He let the silence sit for a moment, watching as Ron looked anywhere but at him.

 

“Do yourself a favor,” Harry went on, quieter now but no less firm. “Let it go. We’re not going to be friends again—not after everything. I think we both know that ship sailed a long time ago, and it’s not coming back.”

 

Ron’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

 

“But that doesn’t mean you have to keep going down this path,” Harry added. “The only person you’ve really hurt in the end is yourself. You’ve pushed people away, isolated yourself—and for what? A grudge? Pride?”

 

He adjusted the strap of his bag, voice softening just slightly, “You’re still only fourteen, same as me. There’s time to change how people see you—how you see yourself. Lay low for a bit. Maybe do some actual studying for once. Just… stop looking for someone to blame. Start figuring out who you want to be.”

 

He gave Ron one last look—level, steady, and full of a sadness that had nothing to do with anger—before turning away and walking off down the corridor, leaving Ron alone with the weight of his own silence.

 

888

 

When Harry returned to the entrance of the Great Hall, the Malfoys were already waiting for him just outside. His pulse was still thrumming with leftover frustration from his encounter with Ron, the words of that argument echoing in his head—but he forced himself to breathe, to refocus. This was his first Christmas with his mum. He wasn’t going to let Ron ruin it.

 

If the Malfoys noticed the tension in his shoulders or the tightness in his expression, they didn’t mention it. Instead, they greeted him with quiet warmth and turned as one to head down the corridor, their footsteps soft against the stone.

 

They made their way to Snape’s office in calm, composed silence, where the familiar flicker of green fire awaited them once again.

 

As it was late the entire family headed off to the family wing. Draco quickly said goodnight and went to his bed but when Harry went to do the same Narcissa gently held him back, “Just one moment darling. While we will be having our Christmas in the morning I do have a surprise for you.”

 

Lucius nodded, “I shall let your Mother give you this one on her own. She worked rather hard on it after all.”

Harry’s curiosity grew as Lucius made for there room. Looking up at his mum she guided him to his door.

“I do hope this is more up to your standards.”

When she opened the door to his room he froze.

 

It had changed. Not just tidied or redecorated—transformed.

 

The ominous bed was gone. In its place, the grand window alcove had been extended into a proper sleeping space. The stone bench he’d grown used to had been carefully enchanted and expanded into a real bed—still nestled within the window’s arch, still his favorite spot, only now custom-built for him.

 

In the middle of the bed sat a large plush snowy owl that looked exactly like Hedwig. The bedding was the same blue and white plaid he had picked out before. The familiar pattern was layered with pillows, and the whole thing practically called out for a good book and a long nap.

 

A short distance away, a tall silver perch stood beside the writing desk, Hedwig already preening herself upon it like she knew it had been made for her. The base of the perch included a small drawer, labeled in Narcissa’s unmistakably elegant hand: For Hedwig – Treats & Ink.

 

His eyes caught on the final addition: a mannequin standing tall in the corner, dressed in dragon tamer gear unmistakably designed by Valentin Noirveil. Sleek, black leather framed in stormy blue with silver accents shaped like curling dragon talons. The boots were reinforced, spell-resistant, and stylish—as only Valentin could make them. The shirt beneath was pale and soft, patterned faintly like dragon scales, barely noticeable unless you caught it in the right light.

 

A folded note rested in the mannequin’s open hand, sealed with a silver wax V.

 

Castor didn’t move toward it yet. He was still taking everything in.

 

He ran his fingers across the bedding. He’d chosen this pattern. He had. But someone had remembered. Someone had listened.

 

Behind him, the door opened softly.

 

“I assumed you'd want to keep the window,” Narcissa said, her voice light but measured.

 

He turned to look at her, “You did this?”

 

She stepped inside, smoothing an invisible crease on the duvet, “You already made yourself a room. I thought I’d… make it permanent.”

 

Castor looked around again, “You even kept the plaid.”

 

Narcissa raised a brow. “You picked it for yourself. I merely trusted your taste.”

 

He blinked, “And the perch?”

 

“Hedwig liked watching over you,” she replied smoothly. “It was long overdue.”

 

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, quietly: “Thank you.”

 

She gave a small nod, almost formal—then paused.

 

“This is your home, Castor,” she said. “Even if you’re not ready to call it that yet.”

 

She didn’t wait for a reply, only turned to go.

 

Before she left, she added over her shoulder, “I will collect you in the morning if Draco does not first. And that note from your designer’s been glaring at me for three days. I suggest you open it before it combusts.”

 

Then she disappeared down the hall.

 

Castor let out a breath and dropped onto the bed—his bed. The mattress gave just enough, and the quilt smelled like fresh linen and something vaguely like pine.

 

He stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting it all sink in. Then, slowly, he reached for the note from Valentin.

 

To my dragon-eyed muse,

 

Forgive the forwardness of delivering yet another ensemble without request, but inspiration is not a polite houseguest. It does not knock—it possesses. And the moment I saw those photographs—you, on dragonback, commanding fire and sky with your hair like starlight and your expression carved from stormclouds—I knew.

 

This design was not optional.

 

Your new attire is the beginning of what I am calling the "Draconis Collection"—equal parts function and fantasy, tailored for strength, resilience, and the kind of quiet power that cannot be taught. The coat is flame-resistant, woven with thread charmed for elemental shielding. The shirts are enchanted to stay dry no matter what depths you find yourself in and the boots are, naturally, silent—but impossible to ignore.

 

The storm-blue accents are deliberate. Dragons are creatures of the sky, and you have always struck me as a boy with thunder in his bones.

 

And before you ask—yes, the mannequin was my idea. It sulks beautifully when dressed well.

 

I trust you’ll wear it like it was grown from your skin.

 

And if you don’t… well, I will know.

 

Yours in artistry (and mild obsession),

Valentin Noirveil

Artiste. Visionary. Professional menace.

 

P.S. If the boots scuff, I’ll cry actual tears.

Notes:

We’ve officially passed 20,000 hits—which is wild, because I started this less than a month ago and genuinely thought maybe a couple hundred people would read it.

We’re also creeping up on 900 kudos, which is bonkers. And based on the very passionate messages I’ve gotten, that number would be way higher if AO3 didn’t have a “one kudos per person” rule.

Also, shoutout to the comment section of dreams—I don’t know how I ended up with the nicest, funniest, most unhinged-in-the-best-way readers, but you keep me going. Y’all are the real MVPs.

Chapter 39: Chapter 39

Chapter 39

 

Christmas morning at Malfoy Manor was a quiet kind of grand though Draco’s not-so-subtle excitement did echo through the hallways.

 

Despite being fourteen, Draco had woken early and made sure the rest of the house knew it. He claimed he was only “ensuring everything was in order,” but Harry suspected he was still just a boy who loved presents.

 

Narcissa knocked gently on Harry’s door, gliding in with a warm smile and a steaming mug of cocoa, “Your brother is about five seconds from staging a formal retrieval. I told him you’d prefer to wake up like a civilized person.”

 

“I appreciate the intervention,” Harry murmured, sitting up and accepting the mug.

 

When he finally joined them in the drawing room, the gifts were already arranged with immaculate care—no chaotic pile, just a graceful display of opulence. The fire crackled. The snow fell. It was almost surreal.

 

A broom polishing kit from Narcissa. A leather wand holster from Lucius—elegant and understated. A magically enhanced sketchbook from Draco, who claimed it was “to encourage your emotional spiraling in a productive way.”

 

It was strange, Harry thought, sipping cocoa from a porcelain cup that likely cost more than his wand. Strange, but not bad. Not lonely.

 

He hadn’t even unwrapped everything, and still—he felt, for once, like he belonged.

 

Suddenly remembering the gifts he’d tucked in his bag, Harry excused himself briefly and disappeared down the hall. A few minutes later, he returned with three neatly wrapped parcels—each one thoughtfully provided by the Room of Requirement.

 

He handed Narcissa a slim silver box tied with a velvet ribbon. Inside, a delicate glass hairpin charmed to match whatever color she wore and enchanted to repel moisture and wind—a subtle but powerful statement piece. “Thank you—for everything.”

 

She blinked, genuinely touched, “It’s beautiful.”

 

For Lucius, a dragonhide-bound journal, embossed with silver detailing and runes along the edge—equal parts practical and elegant. “For notes or secrets,” Harry had said, half-joking.

 

Lucius had given a small nod of approval, “A fine choice.”

 

And for Draco, a magically charmed cufflink set shaped like miniature serpents—each enchanted to subtly shift color with the wearer’s mood. Draco grinned at once, “So, everyone will know how annoyed I am without me saying a word?”

 

“Exactly,” Harry smirked.

 

It wasn’t until every present had been opened and admired—twice in Draco’s case—that he finally permitted them to go down to breakfast. The meal was quiet and relaxed, filled with soft conversation and the occasional smug remark from Draco about his superior taste in gift-giving.

 

Despite it being the first morning back at the manor, everything felt… oddly natural. Comfortable, even. Maybe it was the warm familiarity of Narcissa’s smile, or the way Lucius had nodded at him over tea without a single sharp remark. Or maybe, Harry thought, it was the fact that—for the first time—he had a space here that felt like his. A real room. A real place in the house.

 

It was beginning to feel like home.

 

Maybe even more than Hogwarts ever had.

 

The day drifted by in slow, luxurious fashion. With presents exchanged and breakfast long past, the Malfoys retreated into their preferred forms of leisure. Draco alternated between lounging by the fire drawing in his sketchbook and critiquing the fashion choices of every guest at the Yule Ball from memory. Narcissa spent much of the afternoon in her private parlor with correspondence and a pot of delicate jasmine tea. Lucius had vanished into his study after breakfast and remained cloistered there for the rest of the day, the only evidence of his presence the occasional clink of glass through the door.

 

It wasn’t until dinner—when the final plates of dessert were cleared away by silent, efficient elves—that the conversation turned toward less comfortable topics.

 

Narcissa, ever graceful, eased into it with a question delivered casually as she dabbed her lips with a napkin. “So,” she said, glancing between the boys, “how did you enjoy the ball?”

 

Draco shrugged with practiced disinterest, “Nothing special.”

 

Harry smiled faintly as he pushed aside his cocoa cup, “I enjoyed it.”

 

“Oh?” Draco arched a brow, “Funny. You seemed rather stormy when you came back in after your little walk with Nott.”

 

Harry blinked, then gave a quiet laugh, “Oh! That wasn’t about Theo. I ran into Ron on the way down to the hall.”

 

“Did he do something?” Narcissa asked, her voice still light, but her gaze sharpened.

 

“Not really,” Harry said with a shrug, “Nothing new, at least. It just... put me in a mood. Theo was actually really sweet all night.”

 

Lucius raised an eyebrow, “Sweet? Mr. Nott?”

 

Draco leaned forward slightly, fingers steepled, “Alright, I’ve been dying to ask—how did that even happen? I know you two talk more now because we are all potions partners, but I’m always there. I didn’t even notice anything.”

 

Harry hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek before answering, “We’ve been working together on... sort of a project.”

 

Lucius’s interest visibly piqued, “What kind of project?”

 

Harry gave a careful smile, “It’s kind of a surprise. More Theo’s thing than mine—I’m just helping.”

 

Narcissa placed a hand on Lucius’s arm before he could press further. “And we’ll look forward to hearing about it. When you boys are ready.”

 

There was a beat of silence before Harry spoke again, softer this time. “So you really don’t mind?”

 

“Mind what?” Draco asked, brow furrowing.

 

“That I went with Theo.”

 

Draco crossed his arms, “I mind that he didn’t ask me first. That’s just rude.”

 

“Draco,” Narcissa said warningly, “It’s not your decision.”

 

“I know, but it would’ve been polite,” Draco muttered under his breath.

 

“But... you don’t mind that he’s a boy?” Harry pressed, watching their reactions carefully.

 

That made both Narcissa and Lucius blink—of all the reasons the boy might have feared their disapproval, that hadn’t occurred to either of them.

 

“Why would we mind?” Narcissa asked, genuinely puzzled.

 

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned in confusion. “I just thought... Purebloods care a lot about bloodlines and heirs and all that. Two guys can’t... you know, have kids.”

 

Lucius set down his glass of wine, his expression unreadable, “True, but that has little to do with preference. Bloodlines continue through proper legal channels, not just biology.”

 

“Same-sex couples typically blood adopt,” Narcissa added, her voice calm and steady. “It’s not uncommon, Castor. Especially not in old families.”

 

Draco waved a dismissive hand, “And besides, I’m the eldest. Future head of house. I’ll do the family duty bit. You don’t even need kids if you don’t want them. Easy.”

 

Harry blinked, “That’s... surprisingly progressive of you.”

 

Draco smirked, “I’m progressive when it benefits me.”

 

Lucius gave a low hum of agreement, eyes fixed on the silver-blond, “Your happiness is more valuable than gossip, son. If Theodore Nott treats you with respect, then that is all that matters.”

 

Narcissa reached across the table, fingers brushing lightly against his, “You are our son. That’s all that matters to us.”

 

Harry swallowed hard and nodded, throat tight. He hadn’t realized just how tense he’d been until now.

 

Sensing the conversation had wandered too close to vulnerable territory for his son’s comfort, Lucius shifted gears with practiced ease. He set down his wine glass and folded his hands neatly atop the table.

 

“Madam Bones will be arriving in the morning,” he said, his tone light but deliberate. “She wishes to speak with you regarding one of your... cases.”

 

Harry froze, the warmth from moments before draining from his limbs. His stomach twisted into an anxious knot.

 

Of course. He’d known this moment was coming, had even promised himself he would speak the truth. But knowing it and facing it were different things entirely.

 

Sirius. Dobby.

 

His chest tightened at the thought of it. He only hoped the little elf had listened to his warning and fled Hogwarts before the Aurors could come sniffing around. Not because he believed Dobby was blameless—but because deep down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Dobby had been manipulated. Used. Just like he had been.

 

He looked down at his plate, suddenly finding the polished silver reflection more interesting than dessert.

 

“She’ll be coming after breakfast,” Lucius added, unaware of the storm now brewing behind his son’s eyes. “We’ll host her in the drawing room. There’s no need to be nervous.”

 

Narcissa glanced at Harry then—something subtle flickering in her gaze. A mother’s instinct. She didn’t press, but she reached for her teacup with practiced elegance, clearly filing the moment away for later.

 

Draco, oblivious to the tension, had already moved on to inspecting the post-dinner chocolates with great seriousness.

 

Harry nodded slowly, “Alright.”

 

He would tell them. He had to. The truth was coiled too tightly inside him now to stay buried much longer.

 

But first—he needed to find the right words.

 

That night, sleep came slowly.

 

Back in his room, Harry sat cross-legged on the window bench, forehead resting against the cool pane of glass. Outside, snow dusted the manicured gardens, untouched and perfect. The moonlight spilled across the lawns like frost, painting the world in silvers and blues.

 

But inside, his mind refused to be still.

 

He knew he needed to tell them—his mother, his father, Madam Bones. The truth about Sirius. About Dobby. About the night he was taken and the secrets that had been buried ever since.

 

But how do you explain something when you don’t fully understand it yourself?

 

He thought of Sirius’s wild eyes in the fire, the way his voice had cracked when he called it saving. He thought of Dobby’s trembling hands and watery eyes, so desperate to please.

 

He curled tighter into the blanket around his shoulders, the soft blue-and-white plaid a small comfort in a world that didn’t make sense.

 

Eventually, long after the manor had fallen silent, he slipped into bed and drifted into a restless slumber.

 

888

 

“My Lord,” the same ragged man from Harry’s earlier dreams knelt low on the floor. His long, matted hair hung over his face, obscuring the fanatic gleam in his eyes. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering fire in the hearth and the soft, eerie glow that seemed to radiate from the small, twisted figure perched in the chair above him.

 

“Barty,” the child-like voice of Voldemort rasped, high and cold, “What news do you bring me?”

 

The man—Barty, trembling with eagerness—reached into his tattered robes and pulled out a carefully folded stack of newspaper clippings. He laid them reverently at the Dark Lord’s malformed feet. The top clipping was one Harry recognized instantly: a photograph from the First Task, taken mid-flight. Castor, high in the sky, mounted on the back of a roaring Hungarian Horntail, his silver-blonde hair whipping in the wind, robes fluttering like wings.

 

“There is more to the boy than we could have ever guessed, My Lord,” Barty whispered with awe.

 

Voldemort leaned forward, small fingers curling like claws as he plucked the image from the pile.

 

“So it seems,” Voldemort murmured. “Not just Potter. Not just the boy who lived. No... something else entirely.”

 

He flipped through the rest of the articles—the boy amongst children of his followers, fashion muse of Valentin Noirveil.

 

“He’s... adapting,” Barty said, licking his lips nervously. “Becoming more than anyone anticipated. Even Dumbledore doesn’t seem to know what to make of him.”

 

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed red in the firelight. He let the photograph fall back onto the pile.

 

“Tell me, Barty... is the mark on your arm burning?”

 

“Not yet, My Lord. But it will. Soon.”

 

“Good,” Voldemort hissed. “Soon, we act. And when we do... the boy—Castor—he will come to me. Whether he knows it or not.”

 

He leaned back into the shadows of his throne, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper.

 

“We share more than he understands.”

 

888

 

“Castor! Castor, darling, please wake up!”

 

Harry jerked upright with a strangled gasp, chest heaving, eyes darting around in panic. Three tall figures loomed over him. His heart pounded as he scrambled back against the headboard, blinking hard to recognize the familiar faces.

 

It was just the Malfoys.

 

Narcissa’s perfectly styled hair was falling loose from sleep, her face pale with worry. Draco stood beside her looking rattled, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Lucius, dressed in a dark dressing robe, hovered behind them with a pinched, cold expression.

 

“What the hell was that?” Draco burst out, his voice sharp. “You were thrashing and mumbling—we’ve been trying to wake you up for five bloody minutes!”

 

Harry ran a hand over his face, drenched in sweat. “It was just a dream,” he muttered, even though he knew it was a lie. His hands were still trembling.

 

“Some dream,” Draco muttered, clearly shaken.

 

“You were speaking,” Narcissa said quietly, her eyes searching Harry’s. “Names, strange phrases… You said the Dark Lord’s name, Castor.”

 

Harry froze, glancing at Lucius, who gave away nothing. “I— I don’t remember,” Harry lied smoothly, “It was just a nightmare. Probably nerves about tomorrow.”

 

Lucius’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, “Was it a vision?” he asked, voice like cool glass.

 

Harry looked down at his blanket, “I don’t know. Maybe.”

 

Narcissa reached out to gently fix his hair, “You poor thing. You’re pale as parchment.”

 

Lucius finally stepped closer, voice low and unreadable, “If you remember anything of value from this dream… you will tell us, won’t you, Castor?”

 

Harry nodded mutely. He wasn’t sure what counted as “of value” to Lucius Malfoy—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

 

Narcissa, mercifully, shifted the tone, “Try to sleep, darling. We’ll have a calmer day tomorrow.”

 

The three Malfoys slowly withdrew, though Lucius lingered for a beat longer than the others. When the door clicked shut, Harry let out a long, shaking breath.

 

He couldn’t keep this up forever.

 

888

 

Harry was unusually quiet at breakfast.

 

The clink of silverware on fine china and the occasional flutter of an owl outside were the only sounds for several long minutes. As soon as he had sat down, Lucius—ever sharp and watching—had fixed him with a probing look and asked smoothly, “Have you, perhaps, recalled anything further from your dream?”

 

Harry had shaken his head, keeping his tone neutral, “No, sir.”

 

Which, technically, wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t remembered anything new—not really. What was he supposed to say? That some unhinged man named Barty was feeding baby Voldemort clippings from the Daily Prophet? He’d sound as mad as Sirius.

 

The very thought of Sirius turned his stomach, which twisted with guilt and unease. Instinctively, his hand reached for a small vial, uncorking the stomach soother potion and sipping it quickly, hoping no one would notice.

 

They did.

 

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly in concern. “You still need those?” she asked, her voice carefully casual, but Harry could hear the worry underneath.

 

He ducked his head, cheeks pink. “Every once in a while,” he mumbled.

 

Draco looked up from buttering his toast. “You’ve had one almost every day,” he said bluntly.

 

Lucius spoke again, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin, “Perhaps we ought to schedule a proper evaluation with a mind healer. Nightmares, anxiety, physical distress… all might be signs of something more concerning.”

 

“I’m fine,” Harry said too quickly, staring at his eggs like they’d personally betrayed him.

 

Narcissa gave him a long, thoughtful look but said nothing more. For now.

 

They ate in silence for another minute before Lucius leaned slightly forward, “As I mentioned last night, Madam Bones will be arriving shortly after breakfast. I expect all of us to be present and cooperative.”

 

Harry nodded stiffly. “Of course.”

 

“You’ll be polite,” Narcissa added, placing her napkin neatly beside her plate, “but honest. And careful. She’ll be asking about your memories… some of which may be sensitive.”

 

Harry swallowed thickly. He hadn’t even figured out what he was going to tell them yet, let alone an official.

 

His stomach churned again, but he didn’t reach for the potion this time.

 

“Castor,” Lucius said, his voice even but commanding. “We’ll be right there. Nothing will happen to you. All you need to do is tell her the truth—as far as you understand it. You’ve done this before.”

 

Harry nodded again, but his thoughts were racing. Because his truth would be very hard to speak aloud.

 

The moment breakfast concluded, the air in the manor shifted. Lucius murmured something to one of the elves, who bowed and vanished with a sharp crack. Within minutes, the Floo flared to life in the drawing room, green flames licking up the hearth as Madam Bones stepped gracefully into the manor, brushing soot from the sleeves of her robes.

 

She nodded once to Lucius and Narcissa, then offered a brief, knowing smile to Castor. “Good morning, Mr. Malfoy. I hope you’ve been well.”

 

Harry stood automatically. “Madam Bones. I’ve been… trying.”

 

Her expression softened just a touch at that. “That’s all any of us can do.”

 

The five of them—four Malfoys and one Auror—settled into the formal sitting room once again. Castor sat directly across from Madam Bones, who, for all her calm authority, offered him a small, almost reassuring nod. It was clear she had come for him.

 

“As you may recall,” she began evenly, her hands folded neatly over a slim folder, “we’ve continued to investigate the case involving your early childhood. I’m here today to inform you that we’ve made an arrest.”

 

Castor’s heart dropped into his stomach. He leaned forward sharply. “Sirius?”

 

For a heartbeat, Madam Bones blinked at him in surprise, her brow knitting in confusion. “Sirius Black?” she repeated. “No. The arrest was of Vernon and Petunia Dursley—your Muggle guardians. Why would you think this had anything to do with Black?”

 

Castor’s mouth opened, then shut again as the mistake hit him like a stone to the chest. Right. She meant that case—the abuse investigation, not the kidnapping. Not that tangled mess.

 

“Oh,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, face warming under the weight of everyone's eyes. “Sorry. I thought we were… talking about the other case.”

 

Madam Bones tilted her head slightly, gaze narrowing with professional interest. “The other case?” she repeated carefully. “Is there another matter I should be aware of?”

 

Narcissa said nothing at first. She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. But her gaze had fixed on her son—not with suspicion, but with the sharp, assessing focus of someone used to reading between lines no one else could see. Her gloved fingers tightened just slightly where they rested on her lap, the only sign that her mind was working rapidly.

 

“The other case.”

 

It wasn’t just a slip of the tongue. When Madam Bones mentioned an arrest, the first name he’d offered hadn’t been the Muggle couple. It had been Sirius Black.

 

Narcissa’s expression remained calm, practiced, but a quiet storm of calculations stirred behind her pale eyes.

 

Why Sirius? Why leap to him? Unless—

 

Unless something had changed.

 

“The other case,” Narcissa interjected gently, her voice soft but deliberate. “You said you thought she was here about the other case. You used that exact phrasing, darling.”

 

“And you named Sirius Black,” Lucius added.

 

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again.

 

Madam Bones shifted in her seat ever so slightly, interest sharpened, “Mr. Malfoy, if you’re aware of any criminal activity connected to Sirius Black, I assure you the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would consider it highly relevant.”

 

Harry’s throat felt dry, “I—” he faltered, heart hammering in his chest. The words tangled in his mouth, each one heavy with the weight of truth. He shut his eyes for a moment, mentally summoning the details—the story as he’d heard it, twisted and painful and impossible to forget.

 

When he finally spoke, it was quiet but steady.

 

“It started before I was even born. Early in the pregnancy, my—my mother sent out an announcement to the Black family. A formal one. She used a house-elf named Dobby to deliver it. He—he hated our family, honestly. But he was a wedding gift from the Black side, and he knew the family well enough to be trusted for the task.”

 

He opened his eyes again, gaze flickering to Narcissa, who gave a faint nod, as if to encourage him.

 

“When Dobby delivered the announcement to Sirius… something happened. Sirius asked when the baby was due, and then—he made a plan. With Dobby. A month after we were born.”

 

Harry paused, and Madam Bones said nothing—just watched, not even blinking.

 

“Sirius told the Potters that a cousin of his had gotten pregnant by a Muggle-born. That the family would disown her, maybe hurt her, if they found out. He said she needed someone to raise the baby in secret. The Potters agreed to help—James, especially. He couldn’t have children of his own, so it must have felt like fate or something.”

 

He gave a bitter little laugh that didn’t sound right, even to him.

 

“To sell the lie, James and Lily pretended to be pregnant. They faked it. All of it.”

 

“And how,” Bones asked carefully, “did Sirius Black get access to you?”

 

“Dobby,” Castor said, voice tightening. “He helped bring down the wards on the manor just enough to let Sirius in. It was easier because… because he was blood. He didn’t trip as many alarms.”

 

Lucius let out a sharp breath through his nose but said nothing.

 

“Dobby drugged the other elves—put something in the elf tonic. Knocked them out. But Sirius hadn’t known there were twins. No one had. Dobby didn’t even know. The birth announcement had only mentioned a baby. So when Sirius showed up and saw two… he just picked the one who looked more innocent.”

 

He swallowed, suddenly feeling much younger than fourteen.

 

“He picked me.”

 

Madam Bones was scribbling something furiously now, her eyes no longer on him. Still, he pressed on.

 

“He took me back to the Potters, and they came up with a plan to disguise me. At first they thought about doing a blood adoption, but… they decided against it. Too risky. Blood adoptions show up on every medical and magical scan. They wanted it to look like I was their biological child—so they couldn’t leave any obvious magical trace.”

 

He finished in a whisper, “That’s how it happened.”

 

The silence that followed was thick and brittle.

 

Narcissa had gone pale. Draco looked like he’d been hexed in the stomach. And Lucius—Lucius was absolutely still, his expression unreadable.

 

Madam Bones finally looked up. Her quill hovered just above the parchment.

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Madam Bones said carefully, her tone even but probing, “how exactly did you come by this information?”

 

Harry’s fingers twitched against the fabric of his robes, “They told me,” he said, quietly.

 

There was a beat of silence—then Narcissa’s voice broke through, barely a whisper, “What?”

 

Harry hesitated. He could feel every eye on him—his mother’s worry, Draco’s confusion, Lucius’s tightly leashed suspicion. He exhaled slowly.

 

“Before I left Gryffindor Tower,” he began, voice steady but tight, “Sirius floo-called me. Out of nowhere. He said he wanted to warn me… told me not to trust you—any of you. Said you were manipulative and dangerous. That you always had been. He claimed he took me to save me from growing up like that.”

 

The words tasted foul in his mouth. He looked down at his hands.

 

“I didn’t believe him,” Castor continued, a flush creeping up his neck. “But when I asked him how he could’ve possibly done it—how he got past the wards, how he even knew—he said he had help. He called them his ‘inside man.’ He didn’t say who.”

 

He rubbed at the back of his neck, embarrassed, “I… I panicked. Told him to never contact me again and cut the connection.”

 

Madam Bones said nothing, her eyes dark with consideration. But it was Narcissa who leaned forward slightly, lips parted in disbelief.

 

“And Dobby?” she asked, voice thin with restrained emotion.

 

Harry gave a single nod, “Later, Dobby slipped up. He said something about protecting me—saving me. It didn’t make sense. Not in the context we were talking about. So I pressed him.”

 

His throat felt dry again, “He eventually admitted that he helped Sirius get into the manor. That he drugged the other elves, weakened the wards… all of it. I—I kept asking questions. He told me the rest, bit by bit.”

 

A shadow flickered across Madam Bones’s face. “And where is this elf now?”

 

“I told him to run,” Harry said, his voice quieter now. “To leave Hogwarts. I didn’t want them to find him.”

 

“And why would you do that?” she asked, though not unkindly.

 

“Because,” Harry said, glancing around the room, “I don’t think Dobby planned it. I think Sirius used him. Manipulated him. Just like he tried to manipulate me.”

 

Madam Bones leaned back slightly, her fingers steepled beneath her chin, assessing him with new gravity, “Mr. Malfoy… you realize the weight of what you’ve just told me.”

 

Harry nodded, though it was slow and hesitant. “I do. But I didn’t want to hide it. Not really. I just… needed a little time to figure out what it meant.”

 

Lucius, who had thus far remained carefully still, spoke at last. “And you’ve said nothing of this to anyone else? Not Dumbledore?”

 

Harry blushed, “Hermione knows a little bit. She was with me for part of the talk with Dobby. No one else.”

 

That earned a faint arch of an eyebrow from Madam Bones, but she did not comment on it. Instead, she turned her gaze to Narcissa, who had gone pale, her posture rigid as though frozen in time.

 

“You’re saying,” she said at last, voice faint with disbelief, “that Walburga’s wedding gift—the elf we kept out of obligation—was the one who delivered you into Sirius’s hands?”

 

Harry didn’t answer aloud, but his silence was answer enough.

 

Draco muttered, “That’s mental.”

 

“No,” Lucius said grimly, “it’s betrayal.”

 

“More than betrayal,” Madam Bones added, her tone now fully professional again, sharp as a knife. “This was a planned abduction, with assistance from within the house. From a servant bound by magic. It opens an entirely different category of charges.”

 

She turned back to Harry, “Do you know if this elf—Dobby—was acting under compulsion? Or did he help willingly?”

 

Harry winced. “I don’t know. He never said he was ordered or cursed. But he always talked about it like he thought he was doing the right thing.”

 

Lucius’s jaw tightened, eyes cold. “Elves do not act entirely of their own volition, not in matters this complex. If he was manipulated, we will find proof. If he acted freely… we will have to consider our next steps.”

 

Draco frowned, clearly uncomfortable. “But… he was trying to help.”

 

“He betrayed this family,” Lucius said sharply. “And endangered a child. No amount of good intentions excuses that.”

 

“Enough,” Narcissa said suddenly, her voice soft but firm. She looked at Castor, her eyes filled with something unreadable. “You should not have had to carry this alone.”

 

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t tell you sooner because… I didn’t know how. I didn’t want you to hate me for caring about him at all.”

 

Her expression softened—cracked, really. And she leaned forward just slightly. “Darling, you were a baby. Nothing that happened was your fault. Nothing about your feelings now—grief, anger, confusion—makes you guilty. It makes you human.”

 

Harry looked away, blinking hard.

 

Madam Bones gave a short nod, “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. This… will need to be investigated formally. But your honesty here is appreciated.”

 

Harry nodded slowly, feeling the weight of the room settle back onto his shoulders now that his part had been laid bare. After a moment, he cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.

 

“I think that’s… everything I know,” he said quietly, his voice a little hoarse from the tension. Then, as if needing to pivot away from the emotional cliff he’d just walked, he added, “You said earlier… the Dursleys were arrested?”

 

Madam Bones gave a curt nod, her expression sharpening with purpose, “Yes. A few weeks ago actually. We brought them in on charges of child endangerment, neglect, and a host of violations related to magical guardianship law. Their treatment of you during your time under their roof was appalling.”

 

“They told you that?” Harry asked, blinking in surprise.

 

Amelia Bones gave a dry, almost grim smile. “Not exactly. We’ve spent the last few weeks sifting through every scrap of evidence we could find—medical records, school reports, statements from neighbors... and, of course, Vernon Dursley’s endless tirades. The man seems incapable of keeping his mouth shut, especially when angry. Frankly, the case could be prosecuted on his own words alone.”

 

She paused, then added with quiet steel, “It’s one of the more clear-cut files I’ve handled in years.”

 

Harry's fingers curled slightly on the edge of his chair. “Good,” he muttered, but there wasn’t any triumph in it. Just a hollow sort of finality.

 

“They’ll be tried in Muggle courts,” she continued. “We’re working closely with Muggle authorities to ensure full accountability. It hasn’t been swift, but we have been thorough.”

 

Lucius let out a cold, humorless breath, “A pity they’ll never understand the full consequences of what they’ve done.”

 

“I doubt they’d care even if they did,” Harry muttered, bitterness edging his quiet voice. “What about Dudley?”

 

“He’s been placed in the custody of his aunt—Marjorie Dursley.”

 

Harry winced and leaned back slightly, “Oof. Aunt Marge. That’s not exactly an upgrade. They handed him over to the family racist with a drinking problem.”

 

“That part of your life is over,” Narcissa stated firmly, as if to seal it into truth.

 

Draco leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh, “Shame, really. I was rather looking forward to hexing them.”

 

Lucius smirked faintly. “There’s always Marge.”

 

“Please don’t tempt me,” Draco drawled.

 

Harry gave a short, startled laugh before covering it with a cough. For a moment, it was enough. The heaviness in his chest eased just slightly. Not gone—but manageable.

 

Madam Bones stood, the rustle of her robes drawing their attention. “That’s all I needed for now. Thank you, Mr. Malfoy… Castor.”

 

Lucius rose with her, offering a courteous nod. “You’ll let us know if anything further develops.”

 

“Of course.”

 

When she left, silence settled over the room once again. Harry stared at the door she’d walked through before saying, softly, “I still don’t know what I’m supposed to feel about any of it.”

 

Narcissa touched his hand gently, “You don’t have to feel anything yet. Just breathe, darling.”

 

So Harry did.

Chapter 40: Chapter 40

Chapter 40

 

The silence after Madam Bones' departure lingered in the drawing room like fog clinging to the floor. No one moved at first. The green flames still burned when Narcissa sat down gracefully on the chaise, one hand pressed to her temple. Lucius remained standing, arms crossed, brow furrowed in the way that meant his mind was already six steps ahead.

 

Harry hovered awkwardly near the fireplace, arms crossed tight against his chest like armor. Draco flopped into the nearest chair with far less grace than either parent, staring at his twin like he’d grown an extra head.

 

"So… Dobby and Black kidnapped you?" Draco asked slowly, as if he were still trying to piece the story together. "That’s… mad."

 

"That’s Sirius Black for you," Lucius said darkly, voice clipped, "Impulsive, self-righteous, and infatuated with his own delusions."

 

Draco blinked, “You knew him well?”

 

Lucius's mouth twisted in distaste, “I was ahead of him at school, thankfully, so we weren’t well acquainted but I knew of him. His reputation preceded him—Black sheep of the noble House of Black, and proud of it. He made it his mission to disgrace his family at every opportunity.”

 

Draco blinked, “So he was always… like this?”

 

“Yes,” Lucius muttered, his tone sharp. “Reckless, entitled, and insufferably dramatic. And now we know his idiocy extended into full-blown criminal conspiracy—with a house-elf accomplice, no less.”

 

Harry shifted slightly, “Madam Bones mentioned that this could lead to more charges against Sirius. Do you know what she meant?”

 

Lucius laced his fingers together, thoughtful, “A few possibilities come to mind. First, the unlawful manipulation of house-elf magic. Coercing a bonded elf to act against their master’s interests—especially one still bound to the family—is a grave offense under magical law. House-elves may be considered subservient, but their bond is magically enforced. Tampering with that crosses into dangerous legal territory.”

 

He glanced briefly at Narcissa, who gave a faint nod of agreement.

 

“Then,” Lucius continued, “there is the conspiracy itself. This wasn’t some impulsive act. According to what you've told us, Black and the elf began planning your abduction before you were even born. That makes it a premeditated criminal conspiracy—a far more serious charge than mere kidnapping.”

 

Harry swallowed hard.

 

“Moreover,” Lucius added, voice cool, “Sirius orchestrated a fraudulent adoption. He falsified your identity, arranged for others to impersonate your biological parents, and effectively erased your existence from all proper records. That sort of deception—particularly when it interferes with bloodline protections, inheritance rights, or magical contracts—is taken very seriously in our world.”

 

Narcissa spoke softly, “It’s not just a betrayal of our family. It’s a violation of ancient laws meant to preserve magical lineage and protect children.”

 

Despite everything, Harry couldn’t shake the gnawing worry that clung to him like a shadow. For all Sirius had done—for the lies, the manipulation, the theft of an entire life—Harry had still grown inexplicably, almost unwillingly, fond of him. Their connection had been brief, strange, and built on shaky ground, but there had been something about Sirius’s reckless charm and fierce loyalty that had appealed to a part of Harry that craved family. Real family.

 

And look where that had gotten him.

 

Trusting Sirius had been like reaching for warmth and grabbing a flame—comforting for a moment before it burned. Now, all that was left was the sting.

 

888

 

The moment Madam Bones stepped back into the DMLE’s headquarters, she didn’t so much as pause to remove her cloak before snapping out her first order.

 

“Tonks—Black’s file. Everything. I want every scrap we have.”

 

The young Auror, wide-eyed but obedient, leapt into action. Amelia's tone brooked no delay.

 

“I mean everything, Nymphadora. His escape from Azkaban, all known sightings, every unconfirmed lead, his ties to Death Eaters—every report, every memo, every witness statement. I want that file thicker than the Prophet’s Sunday edition.”

 

She strode through the office with clipped, decisive steps, already formulating the new angles this case had taken. The abduction was no longer theory—it was confirmed, with a conspirator from within the victim’s own household. And that changed everything.

 

She wanted Sirius Black’s entire history waiting on her desk by the time she sat down. No gaps. No excuses. No holes to fall into.

 

Collapsing into her office chair with far less grace than usual, Amelia pressed her fingers into her temples, trying to stave off the dull throb of a headache blooming behind her eyes.

 

Nothing about Castor Malfoy was ever straightforward. The boy was a walking puzzle box—layers upon layers of secrets, tangled allegiances, and half-formed truths. Every time she thought she’d uncovered one mystery, another sprang up in its place.

 

And Sirius Black—of course it came back to him.

 

It hadn’t been long after the boy’s reappearance that Lucius Malfoy had marched into her office, cloak immaculate and expression carved from frost, declaring that Black was somehow in contact with their son. Lucius had warned her then, eyes flinty with certainty: if Black found a way to speak to the boy again, he would try to turn him. Twist the truth. Poison his loyalties.

 

Amelia had taken it with a grain of salt at the time. Paranoia wasn’t uncommon among pureblood families, especially ones with skeletons rattling in every gilded closet. But now…

 

Now she had the boy’s own confession. Black had reached out. Had manipulated him. Had framed himself as the victim. And the boy—clever, guarded Castor—had faltered just enough to prove Lucius’s suspicions true.

 

She opened a fresh parchment, dipped her quill, and began to prepare a formal request for a full investigation into Black’s actions. If what the boy said was accurate, they weren’t dealing with a fugitive anymore.

 

They were dealing with a long-standing, premeditated conspiracy. One that involved betrayal by magical servants, forged identities, and a stolen child raised under false pretenses.

 

And if that didn’t warrant reopening every file and dragging Black’s secrets into the light—nothing would.

 

A brisk knock sounded at her office door, snapping Amelia out of her thoughts.

 

“Enter,” she called, already bracing herself.

 

Tonks stepped inside, arms laden with files stacked almost to her chin. She dropped them onto the desk with a heavy thump that scattered loose parchment and rattled the inkpot. Her hair had gone from a serious black to an anxious sort of murky grey, which Amelia took as a sign the news wasn’t good.

 

“Got everything I could on Sirius Black, ma’am,” Tonks began, brushing a lock of hair out of her face. “His escape from Azkaban, a handful of reported sightings—though none confirmed—and his original arrest. But…” She hesitated, shuffling through the stack until she pulled one folder out with a deep frown. “That’s where the trail just… ends.”

 

Amelia narrowed her eyes. “Ends?”

 

Tonks nodded grimly, “I mean it, Madam Bones. There’s the crime scene report from the night he was arrested—explosions, twelve Muggle casualties, Peter Pettigrew dead, the whole thing. But after that? Nothing. No trial transcripts. No sentencing documents. No prison intake logs. Just a single line in the registry confirming he was taken to Azkaban. Then nothing at all until the day he broke out over a decade later.”

 

The room went still for a long moment.

 

Amelia leaned back slowly in her chair, her gaze sharpening as a familiar chill settled in her bones, “You’re telling me a man accused of mass murder and consorting with Voldemort was imprisoned without trial—and no one thought to ask why?”

 

“I checked twice,” Tonks said, lowering her voice, “No Wizengamot files. No hearing notes. I even checked the old internal memos from the Department—nothing. It’s like he was tossed in and everyone just… let it happen.”

 

Amelia exhaled through her nose, eyes narrowing at the files as if they might suddenly reveal more under pressure. “This was no oversight,” she muttered, “This was deliberate. Someone buried this.”

 

Tonks hesitated again, “But why?”

 

Amelia’s expression turned steely, “That’s what I intend to find out.”

 

888

 

After finally learning the truth about her son’s abduction, Narcissa Malfoy had refused to let Castor out of her sight for the remainder of the day. Guilt weighed heavy in her chest—guilt born not just of maternal instinct, but of blood. It had been her cousin and her elf who had orchestrated the crime. No matter how uninvited Sirius had been in her life, or how unruly Dobby had proven to be, they had both once belonged to the House of Black. Her House. Her legacy.

 

And now, the consequences of their betrayal were sitting right there across from her—quiet, guarded, and reading by the window like a ghost who hadn’t quite decided whether to stay.

 

Neither Sirius nor Dobby was in custody. One was on the run. The other had simply vanished. That lack of resolution gnawed at her. If they had succeeded once, what was to stop them from trying again?

 

Lucius had already begun preparations to hire a master warder—someone with the skill to weave protections tighter than any the manor had ever seen. The wards would be reinforced, rewritten to repel not just uninvited guests, but specifically unbound elves and Sirius Black. No exceptions. No loopholes.

 

But that would take time, and time offered no comfort to Narcissa’s frayed nerves. So, with her usual subtlety, she orchestrated an afternoon of enforced togetherness. No one had protested—though Lucius had raised a brow, and Draco had sighed with mild theatricality.

 

They settled into the drawing room. Narcissa and Lucius took their places at the chessboard, where Lucius moved his pieces with clinical precision and Narcissa countered with quiet elegance, half her attention always drifting toward the boys.

 

Draco had tucked himself into an armchair with his sketchpad, long fingers smudged faintly with charcoal as he shaded something he didn’t show anyone.

 

Castor sat by the window, his face framed by pale afternoon light, a book resting in his lap. He hadn’t said much since the meeting. Hadn’t looked at any of them for more than a few seconds at a time. But he was there. That was what mattered.

 

Narcissa’s eyes lingered on him with a mixture of fierce pride and unspoken sorrow. She would not let him be taken again. Not by Sirius. Not by fate. Not by anyone.

 

Not while she still breathed.

 

From his spot on the window bench, Harry kept his eyes fixed on the pages in his lap, though he hadn't turned one in several minutes. The words blurred together, drowned by the weight of the silence in the room. Not uncomfortable, not exactly. Just… deliberate.

 

Every so often, the clink of chess pieces broke the stillness, followed by the soft scratch of Draco’s charcoal as he worked on whatever dark swirl he was brooding into life. Harry didn’t dare look. Knowing Draco, it was either a dragon or something personal.

 

He shifted slightly, tugging the blanket tighter around his legs. Narcissa had tucked it around him earlier with careful hands. It was blue and soft and smelled faintly like whatever perfume she always wore—expensive, clean, and a little sharp.

 

He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel.

 

His stomach still twisted when he thought of Sirius—of that terrible confession and the way it had all spilled out in front of Madam Bones like acid through a cracked bottle. The grief hadn't hit him the way he thought it might. It wasn't sharp. It was more like a hollow, aching stretch of space behind his ribs.

 

He’d wanted Sirius to be someone he could belong to. Someone who chose him. But Sirius hadn’t chosen him at all. He’d chosen a baby. A fantasy. And when the truth got complicated, he’d lied and run.

 

Harry swallowed hard and turned the page, not reading a word of it.

 

A rook clicked against the board.

 

"You’re distracted," Lucius said smoothly, his tone so mild it might have been about the game, or might have been about everything.

 

“I’m fine,” Narcissa replied just as calmly, making a decisive move. “You always say that when I’m winning.”

 

Harry glanced at her then. Her eyes were on the board, her mouth set in a soft, amused line. But there was tension in her shoulders. The kind that hadn’t eased since Bones’s had left.

 

Across the room, Draco let out a soft exhale and tilted his sketchpad so the light hit it differently. He didn't speak either, but his eyes flicked over to Harry once—just once—before dropping again.

 

Harry hugged his knees to his chest, book forgotten.

 

He was still getting used to moments like this. The quiet. The safety. The sense that someone would notice if he disappeared.

 

And as strange as it was, the thing that unsettled him most wasn’t the silence or the stares or even the weight of what he’d revealed.

 

It was how badly he didn’t want to leave.

 

As the afternoon light began to fade, Harry drifted off where he sat curled in the corner of the window bench, knees tucked up, the book he’d barely been reading slipping from his hands. It wasn’t unusual—rather it was becoming routine how often he fell asleep by a window, drawn to the quiet and the comfort of the view. There was something almost ritualistic about it now, as though window seats had become his sanctuary in a world that still didn’t feel entirely safe.

 

Draco glanced up from his sketch, catching the slight change in his brother’s breathing, “He’s out,” he noted, tone casual but observant. Then, after a beat, he added with a faint wrinkle of concern, “Let’s just hope he doesn’t wake up like he did last night.”

 

Narcissa’s hand froze halfway through moving her knight. Her gaze flicked toward the window seat, softening at the sight of her son curled against the cushion. She didn’t say anything immediately, but her expression gave her away. The worry was there—just under the surface.

 

She had already seen it twice in the short time Castor had been back. The sudden flinch at a sound. The trembling, unfocused look in his eyes. The way he gripped the edge of the bench as though anchoring himself to reality. His bursts weren’t loud or violent, but they were sharp and heavy, and far too practiced for a fourteen-year-old.

 

“They seem to be frequent,” she said finally, voice quiet as she moved her piece with more force than necessary. “Far too frequent.”

 

Lucius, who had been watching the board with narrowed eyes, glanced toward the window as well. “Trauma takes time to unspool,” he murmured. “Especially when it’s been buried for so long.”

 

Draco set his pencil down, now more openly watching his twin. “He didn’t even twitch when I dropped my charcoal earlier,” he said, low. “He’s not really sleeping, is he? Not properly.”

 

“No,” Narcissa said, almost to herself. “But he’s trying.” She rose from the chess table, stepping carefully over to the window. Gently, she pulled the blanket up higher over Castor’s shoulder and brushed his hair back from his face.

 

Her fingers lingered for a moment—long enough to feel the tension still coiled in his jaw, even in sleep.

 

“We will protect him this time,” she said quietly. “Whatever it takes.”

Chapter 41

Chapter 41

 

It was over a quiet dinner in the manor’s dining room that Lucius brought up something he had clearly been waiting to discuss.

 

“I had a conversation with Dane Ironmuir earlier today,” he said, setting down his wineglass with a deliberate clink. “The reserve is quite eager to have you on-site, even if only for a few days. I was thinking we could all go down together and take a proper look. They’ve already arranged a family-sized tent, outfitted for comfort, so we may join you as often as we’re able. Of course, anytime you're at the reserve without us, you’ll be accompanied by a chaperone.”

 

He paused, glancing toward Narcissa and then back to Harry, “I thought we might leave tomorrow. The warders will be arriving to strengthen the protective enchantments, and it seems an opportune time to introduce you. We can return New Year’s Eve—just in time for the Greengrass Ball.”

 

Harry’s face lit up at the mention of the dragon reserve, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. But then the final words registered, and the excitement fizzled into a groan.

 

“A ball? Again?” he said with a grimace. “Do I really have to go to another one?”

 

Across the table, Draco arched a single eyebrow, “Didn’t you say you enjoyed the last one?”

 

Harry’s ears turned pink, “I did. Kind of. But that one was mostly students. I spent the night with Theo and Mum. It was… safe.”

 

“Then spend the night with Theo again,” Draco said casually, though the slight smirk on his lips betrayed amusement. “He’ll be there.”

 

Harry ducked his head, chewing his lower lip. The idea of being paraded in front of half the pureblood community—even just by proximity—filled him with unease. Many of those families had ties to Voldemort. Some of them were still actively aligned with him. Attending a ball and mingling with Death Eater families seemed like asking for trouble, even if no one openly acknowledged their allegiances.

 

Sensing his discomfort but misreading its cause, Narcissa offered a reassuring smile, “There’s nothing to worry about, darling. Monsieur Noirveil already knows about the event—he’ll make sure everything is handled appropriately. And I have no doubt he’ll be designing something new for you to wear. We wouldn’t dream of sending you out in the same robes twice in one season. That simply isn’t done.”

 

Harry gave a noncommittal hum, nudging the vegetables on his plate. The promise of a new outfit did little to ease the tight knot in his chest. It wasn’t about fashion—it was about the guest list. The Greengrass Ball would be crawling with people whose parents had served Voldemort, who had cheered at his supposed disappearance and quietly waited for his return. People who would look at Harry and remember the scar and the history.

 

After supper, Narcissa returned to Harry’s room carrying a sleek, forest green travel bag embroidered with a subtle silver “M.” She handed it to him with a graceful motion, then perched herself on the edge of his window bench, where Hedwig joined her insisting on pets, as he began gathering a few belongings to take to the reserve.

 

“Just enough for a few days,” she advised as she ran her fingers through the owls feathers. “There’s no need to overpack—they’ll have essentials on-site, and anything you forget can be picked up by an elf.”

 

She glanced toward the mannequin in the corner, still dressed in his dragon handler uniform. “Don’t pack the uniform, by the way. I want you to wear it tomorrow morning so we can make sure it fits perfectly before you leave. Once you’re dressed, I’ll shrink the mannequin and bring it along with us. That way you’ll have it at camp to hang and store the uniform properly between uses.”

 

Harry glanced at the mannequin, feeling a flicker of anticipation. It still felt surreal that it was his. This wasn’t a costume or a school project. It was real.

 

888

 

Morning light spilled through the tall windows, casting pale gold across the window bed. Harry rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced toward the corner where the mannequin stood, proud and expectant. The dragon tamer uniform looked even more impressive in the daylight—sleek black leather trimmed in deep storm-blue, the silver talon-like accents gleaming faintly. It looked like something conjured from a storybook, too elegant to be real gear.

 

He approached slowly, a knot of nerves and awe in his chest. Carefully, he undressed the mannequin, fingertips brushing over the buttery-soft leather and smooth scale-patterned shirt. The fabric was surprisingly light in his hands, deceptively soft for something that could withstand dragon fire.

 

Piece by piece, he slipped it on. The shirt hugged his frame like it had been made with him in mind—because it had. The leather jacket settled over his shoulders, the reinforced boots fitting like a second skin. Everything fastened with clean, enchanted closures that adjusted themselves the moment they touched his body.

 

When he glanced at himself in the mirror, he hardly recognized the boy staring back. Not Harry Potter. Not Castor Malfoy. Just a dragon handler in the making—steady, determined, and dressed for it.

 

Behind him, the door creaked open on silent hinges, and Narcissa stepped inside, her eyes immediately drawn to the figure by the mirror. Her gaze softened, pride gleaming behind her usual composure.

 

“You look ready,” she said, her voice warm and sincere.

 

Harry turned slightly, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “I feel ready,” he admitted, brushing a hand over the curve of his jacket’s collar, “I can’t wait to see the girls again.”

 

Narcissa’s lips curved into a smirk she didn’t bother to suppress. “The girls,” she repeated, amused, “You speak of them as if they’re your own.”

 

“They kind of are,” Harry said with a quiet laugh, “At least, a little. One let me ride her, remember?”

 

“I do,” she replied, though her tone carried the faintest thread of tension. Narcissa crossed the room, adjusting the fall of his sleeve with a mother’s practiced hand. “And I also remember how long it took my heart to start beating properly again afterward.”

 

She hesitated, letting her hands linger just a moment longer before stepping back, “I won’t lie to you. I’m still uneasy about this. These are not Kneazles or Puffskeins you’re working with—they’re dragons, Castor. Massive, volatile creatures that could kill a grown wizard in a blink if provoked.”

 

Harry looked down, his fingers curling slightly against the smooth fabric at his sides, “I know. But I don’t feel scared around them. Not like I thought I would. It’s like... I can understand them. Not just with words, but deeper than that.”

 

Narcissa nodded slowly. She had seen her son speaking to the dragons, calming them when others could not. There was something ancient and strange in his blood, something neither she nor Lucius could explain. But she had come to accept that the boy in front of her had always been more than he appeared.

 

“I know this means something to you,” she said softly, “So I won’t stop you. But promise me you’ll be careful. I don’t care if you can charm them out of the sky—I expect you to listen to your handlers and respect their danger.”

 

“I will,” Harry said firmly, locking eyes with her. There was a steadiness in his voice—a quiet resolve that hadn’t been there before. Narcissa felt a strange ache in her chest. He was still her son, still so young in so many ways, but there was no mistaking the maturity that had begun to settle into his bones. It made her proud and a little wistful all at once.

 

Satisfied, she reached up to straighten his collar one last time, her fingers brushing lightly over the soft fabric near his throat. Then she smoothed back a stray lock of his ever-messy hair and gave a small, approving nod.

 

“Good,” she murmured, her voice gentler now. “Now come along. You need proper breakfast before we set off. No son of mine is arriving on-site underfed.”

 

She took his hand, as if he were a child on their first day of school, and he didn’t pull away. Together, they picked up the sleek travel bag they’d packed the night before and made their way downstairs to the dining room.

 

Draco was already there, seated at the table with an untouched plate in front of him and a grin stretched so wide across his face it bordered on absurd.

 

Harry blinked, “What’s got you so excited?”

 

Draco leaned forward, hands clasped with theatrical delight, “Dragons, Castor! We are about to spend multiple days in the presence of dragons!”

 

Harry snorted, “Yeah, but I’m the one working with them. You’re just tagging along.”

 

Draco scowled for a second, clearly tempted to argue, but the sparkle in his eyes never faded. “True,” he allowed, “but while you’re busy shoveling dung, dodging fire, and following orders, I’ll be lounging in a tent with my sketchbook, capturing every majestic scale and snarl. I fully plan to spend the next three days in dragon paradise—with none of the risk and all of the aesthetic.”

 

“You’re unbelievable.”

 

“I’m inspired,” Draco countered, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “You get scorched eyebrows; I get artistic enlightenment. A perfect arrangement.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips. Somehow, knowing Draco would be nearby—annoying or not—made the idea of stepping into the reserve feel less daunting.

 

Narcissa cleared her throat pointedly as a Mipsy appeared and set a steaming plate of breakfast in front of Harry. “Eat, both of you. The portkey activates in twenty-three minutes. I want no complaints about missed meals when you’re halfway up a dragon’s back or lost in your sketchbooks.”

 

After breakfast had been cleared and final preparations checked, the Malfoys gathered in the front entryway. Narcissa stood beside Harry, adjusting the collar of his cloak for the third time. Lucius, standing a little apart near the front doors, slipped on his gloves with deliberate precision. Then he turned, gaze fixed on Harry.

 

“Castor,” he said quietly, tone deceptively mild. “Before we depart… I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

 

Harry, already bracing against the cold creeping in through the tall windows, looked up, “What is it?”

 

Lucius studied him for a moment, then said, “You speak Parseltongue.”

 

Harry stiffened. He glanced sideways at Narcissa, but her expression was unreadable. Draco tilted his head, clearly intrigued.

 

“Yeah,” Harry said slowly. “I do.”

 

Lucius’s eyes narrowed slightly, “It’s not something common in our family. In fact, it’s vanishingly rare outside of one bloodline.”

 

Harry looked away, jaw tight, “I know.”

 

When he didn’t offer more, Lucius raised an eyebrow, “You don’t seem surprised by the connection.”

 

Harry shifted his weight, “I… I asked Dumbledore once. I wanted to know why I could do it. Why it felt so normal.”

 

“And?” Lucius prompted.

 

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair, “He said it’s because of Voldemort.”

 

A beat of silence followed. The temperature in the hall seemed to drop.

 

Narcissa’s lips parted slightly, “What do you mean, darling?”

 

“He said,” Harry began, voice low and tense, “that when Voldemort tried to kill me as a baby—he left something behind. A piece of himself. Magic that clung to me.”

 

Draco made a sound in his throat, something between a gasp and a curse. Lucius said nothing, but his expression turned to stone.

 

Harry pushed on, as if getting it out quickly would make it easier, “That’s why I can speak Parseltongue. Because he could.”

 

For a long moment, no one spoke.

 

Then Narcissa reached out, her hand cool and poised as it settled gently on Harry’s sleeve—not clutching, not trembling, just there.

 

Her voice was soft, thoughtful, “Whatever the source, it has given you something useful. That matters more than its origin.”

 

Harry looked at her, surprised, “You don’t think it’s… wrong? That I have his magic?”

 

Narcissa’s eyes flicked briefly to Lucius, then returned to Harry’s face, “Magic is not defined by who it once belonged to. Only by what you choose to do with it now.”

 

Lucius gave a small nod of approval, though his jaw remained tight, “The Dark Lord values power above all else. And if he gave you a fragment of his by mistake—then perhaps it’s only fitting you turn it to your advantage.”

 

Draco let out a low whistle, “So basically, he cursed you by accident, and now you get to speak dragon. Talk about irony.”

 

Harry exhaled, a small, dry laugh escaping him, “Yeah. Something like that.”

 

Lucius turned toward the doors, “Come. The portkey is waiting.”

 

The three of them stood in the crisp morning air on the front lawn of Malfoy Manor. Each of them had their travel bags slung across their shoulders and clutched in Lucius’s gloved hand was the portkey: an old, frayed belt that looked ready for the rubbish bin.

 

Harry eyed it skeptically, “This is what we’re trusting to send us to Romania?”

 

“It’s not the appearance that matters,” Lucius said coolly, holding it out toward them. “It’s the enchantment. This particular portkey was calibrated directly by the reserve warders. It will deposit us just outside the main boundary wards—safe, precise, and discreet.”

 

“I’d rather it be clean, too,” Draco muttered, wrinkling his nose as he reached out to take hold of the cracked leather loop, “Is it too much to ask for a portkey that doesn’t look like it came from the bottom of a troll’s laundry basket?”

 

Narcissa arched an elegant brow, “Do try not to be dramatic, darling. It's unbecoming.”

 

Harry bit back a laugh and reached for the belt.

 

Lucius gave a nod, “Hold tight.”

 

There was a sudden lurch, a pull just behind Harry’s navel as the world tilted and twisted around him. The wind howled in his ears, colors blurred past his vision, and the ground vanished beneath his feet.

 

Then, with a sharp jolt and a thud, they landed.

 

Harry stumbled forward, boots skidding slightly on packed dirt as he caught himself. The air was different here—thinner, laced with the scent of smoke, wild grass, and something distinctly reptilian. It was warm, too, despite the season, the sun already higher in the sky than it had been back home.

 

His heart leapt.

 

They were here.

 

The Romanian Dragon Sanctuary stretched out before them, nestled deep in the Carpathian Mountains, hidden within an ancient forest that seemed untouched by time. Towering pines rose around them like silent sentinels, their dark green boughs swaying gently in the wind. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the thick branches, painting the forest floor in shifting patterns of gold and shadow.

 

The reserve was alive with sound—not the sounds of civilization, but something wilder. The distant rustle of wings. The deep, sonorous groan of something large shifting its weight. A sudden, high screech echoed through the trees, avian in tone but unmistakably reptilian in power.

 

They had landed on a flat, cleared rise just outside the reserve’s protective perimeter. A sturdy wooden archway stood a few feet ahead, carved with runes and warning glyphs, its sides flanked by stone pillars pulsing faintly with warding magic. A narrow, well-trodden path led down into the valley beyond, disappearing into dense undergrowth and then reappearing as it wound toward a cluster of canvas tents and wooden watch towers in the distance.

 

Smoke curled lazily upward from a fire pit near the camp, and Harry could make out figures moving about—handlers in leather gear, a few bundled in coats against the brisk mountain wind, one or two leading harnessed dragons off toward the trees. The creatures were enormous even from afar, their forms shifting between the trees like living shadows.

 

Above them, the mountains loomed—jagged, snow-dusted, and half-shrouded in mist. Yet the forest floor remained warm from geothermal heat radiating from the dragons' presence, the air tinged with sulphur and ash, the earth beneath Harry's boots dry and cracked in places where dragon fire had scorched away all greenery.

 

A sense of awe settled over him, mingling with anticipation.

 

“Merlin,” Draco whispered beside him, eyes wide as he stared out over the camp. “It’s… it’s like a painting.”

 

“It’s real,” Harry said softly, a grin spreading across his face. “And we’re really here.”

 

A low, bone-deep roar echoed through the trees—closer this time. Narcissa’s hand instinctively found Harry’s shoulder, but he barely flinched. Instead, he turned toward the sound, his eyes alight.

 

This was no dream.

 

As they made their way down the winding path, the forest seemed to part just enough to reveal two figures approaching from the direction of the main camp. Harry’s eyes lit up immediately as he recognized them—Dane Ironmuir, tall and broad-shouldered with his usual commanding presence, and beside him, Charlie Weasley, all easy charm and wind-tousled hair.

 

Without a second thought, Harry broke into a jog, excitement propelling him forward while his family—elegant and unhurried—remained behind, making their way at a far more regal pace.

 

“Hi!” Harry called out, breathless and grinning as he reached them.

 

Charlie’s face broke into a wide grin. “Whoa, Castor! Look at you!” he said, eyes sweeping over the sleek dragon handler uniform, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d been working here for years. You look the part already.”

 

He reached out and gave Harry’s hair a familiar ruffle, laughing as the boy ducked away, still beaming.

 

“You think?” Harry asked, cheeks flushed from more than just the hike. “It’s Valentin’s design.”

 

Charlie gave a low whistle, “That explains the flair. Functional and flash—it’s got his signature all over it.”

 

Dane gave a more reserved nod but his approval was no less sincere. “Good to have you here, Mr. Malfoy,” he said formally, offering a hand which Harry shook with a firm grip. “We appreciate your willingness to join us—especially while still managing your school responsibilities. Not many would take on this kind of challenge.”

 

Harry looked past them toward the sprawling reserve, eyes wide with wonder as smoke curled through the trees. “It’s beautiful,” he breathed, voice full of reverence.

 

Charlie followed his gaze. “That’s one word for it,” he said fondly, “Also loud, dangerous, unpredictable, and occasionally smells like something died a week ago. But yeah—beautiful.”

 

Harry laughed, the sound ringing clearly through the trees.

 

Behind him, the rest of the Malfoys caught up. Lucius kept a polite, diplomatic expression, though his eyes swept the area with practiced scrutiny. Narcissa offered a nod to the handlers, her fingers back to resting on Harry’s shoulder. Draco was already scanning the treetops, likely trying to catch a glimpse of something worth sketching.

 

Dane gave a small bow of acknowledgment to the family, “We’ve set up your accommodations in one of the family tents just past the main paddocks. We’ll walk you through the warded zones shortly and introduce you to the handlers you’ll be shadowing. We’ve placed Castor with a team that’s been briefed on his experience—and his… affinities.”

 

“I’m ready,” Harry said, standing taller.

 

Charlie clapped a hand to his back, “Good. Because the girls have missed you. And one of them’s already singed the supply tent looking for you.”

 

Draco blinked, “That’s... not a joke, is it.”

 

“Not even a little,” Charlie said cheerfully, “Welcome to dragon country.”

Chapter 42: Chapter 42

Chapter 42

 

Charlie and Dane led the Malfoys along the winding path that carved through the dense heart of the dragon reserve. It was quieter here—distant from the crackling forges and bustle of handlers—until they reached a secluded clearing shaded by a circle of towering, time-weathered pines. Nestled among the trunks was a large enchanted tent, its canvas sturdy and charmed with subtle silver runes that shimmered faintly in the light.

 

“This’ll be your base while you’re visiting,” Charlie said, stepping forward to undo the flap. The moment they passed through, the tent seemed to breathe outward, expanding into a spacious interior that felt more like a lodge than anything temporary. A polished wooden floor gleamed. A central hearth burned low, casting warm shadows against velvet drapes and oak-paneled walls. The scent of pine and cinnamon drifted faintly in the air.

 

Charlie gestured with a sweeping hand, “Quick tour.”

 

He moved toward the first doorway to the left, pulling back the heavy curtain. “This one’s for you, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy,” he said with polite formality. Inside, the space was plush, clearly designed with elegance in mind. A large bed draped in dark green linens stood against the far wall, flanked by brass sconces. A carved wardrobe and a writing desk sat beneath a window framed by enchanted glass—offering a safe, distant view of the mountains beyond.

 

Narcissa nodded in quiet approval. Lucius gave only a brief hum, eyes scanning every inch for weaknesses.

 

Charlie moved to the next space, “This one’s for Castor—though there’s a second bed for whenever Draco is staying over.”

 

Charlie crossed to the final door across the common area and pulled back the flap with a little too much flair, “And this one’s mine.”

 

Lucius turned toward him slowly, like he’d just heard something offensive. “Yours?” he echoed, voice icy with disbelief.

 

Charlie’s grin widened, “Yes, sir. Since Castor and I already know each other, I’ve been assigned as his official chaperone while he's here—especially when you’re off-site. Rules are rules.”

 

Harry lit up, “Seriously? That’s brilliant!”

 

Narcissa’s expression turned glacial. Draco made a noise of quiet protest under his breath and muttered something that might’ve been “obscene Gryffindor nonsense”.

 

Dane, sensing the shift in temperature, stepped in smoothly, “It’s standard procedure,” he said with quiet authority. “We don’t take underage trainees lightly. Each one is assigned a direct supervisor. Charlie’s not just experienced—he’s earned trust here. And frankly, no one else is better suited. He already knows Castor, and the dragons know him.”

 

Lucius didn’t respond at first, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his opinion well enough. Finally, he gave a curt nod, as though acquiescing to a bitter but unavoidable truth.

 

“I promise I’ll be on my absolute best behavior,” Charlie said cheerfully, pressing a hand over his heart.

 

Lucius made a noise in the back of his throat that might have been “Hn.”

 

Narcissa held him under an icy glare, “See that you are.”

 

Charlie clapped his hands again, “Right. Drop your things, then we’ll do a sweep of the outer ward path. After that, Castor can meet the girls.”

 

That got Harry’s attention, “Are they close?”

 

“Close enough to hear us,” Charlie said with a wink.

 

As if on cue, a low, thunderous roar rumbled in the distance, rolling through the woods like the growl of the mountain itself. The trees shivered faintly in response.

 

Draco froze, “That wasn’t thunder, was it?”

 

Charlie only grinned wider, “Nope.”

 

They stepped out of the tent into the chill-sweet evening air. The pines swayed overhead, their branches whispering secrets. Smoke curled faintly from deeper in the reserve, and beneath it all was the distinct tang of something primal—hot stone, old fire, and that metallic scent Harry now recognized as dragon musk.

 

“Outer wards first,” Dane instructed. “It’s important you know where to walk, and more importantly, where not to.”

 

Lucius took Narcissa’s arm. Draco fell in beside Harry, though he kept glancing sideways like he expected something with wings and teeth to lunge out of the trees at any moment.

 

Harry, for his part, walked with a little more bounce in his step.

 

He could feel them nearby.

 

And even if he couldn’t see them yet, the dragons knew he was here.

 

And they were waiting.

 

Harry listened intently as Dane Ironmuir spoke with calm authority as they approached the edge of the dragon enclosures.

 

“We do two full safety inspections every morning and evening,” Dane explained. “First thing before feedings, and again before dark. Every chain is checked, every rune inspected, and the surrounding perimeter is walked.”

 

Lucius gave a slight nod, expression unreadable, while Narcissa glanced toward the looming silhouettes in the trees with careful restraint.

 

“Chains?” Harry asked, unable to help the pinch in his voice.

 

Dane caught it, “For now. It’s standard. Chains are warded and tempered to withstand dragon strength and spellwork alike. They’re also tied into the ground runes, which signal to us if anything shifts. They’re not ideal, but they’re necessary.”

 

Harry pressed his lips together, not arguing, but not agreeing either.

 

As they walked, they passed several enclosures—natural clearings fortified with perimeter stones etched with containment runes. The dragons inside each one were tethered with long, heavy chains fastened around their midsections or hind legs, some even across their necks. The metal shimmered faintly with magic, and Harry could see small brass tags attached, likely labeled for tracking and safety logs.

 

“When do they get to fly?” he asked, trying to keep his tone even.

 

“The chains on their legs are long enough for a little air time,” Charlie answered. “Enough to stretch their wings. Though if they become temperamental or use their flight to go after the workers they get there flight privileges suspended and get more restrictive binds.”

 

Harry stopped walking, staring as a young Peruvian Vipertooth strained against its chain, huffing smoke in clear frustration.

 

“It’s like they’re in prison.”

 

“They’re not,” Dane said gently. “But I understand why it looks that way. Our job is to balance their freedom with safety. For them, and for us. If you’ve got a better system, we’re always open to improvements.”

 

As Harry continued to follow, he looked at the beautiful creatures with awe and pity. He would change things, but it would take time.

 

“This area houses the nesting mothers,” Dane explained, gesturing to the sloping terrain. “They’ve been more settled since the First Task, thanks in large part to you, Castor. But we don’t take any chances.”

 

The first dragon came into view.

 

The Hungarian Horntail.

 

Her black scales shimmered like volcanic glass beneath the filtered sunlight, and her golden eyes—sharp and calculating—lifted the moment Harry stepped into view.

 

His steps slowed instinctively. He didn’t speak aloud—he didn’t need to. The dragon’s pupils narrowed with interest, her head tilting ever so slightly in recognition.

 

Harry raised a hand in greeting.

 

The Horntail let out a low rumble that vibrated through the ground beneath their feet. It wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t exactly warm either—but it was acknowledgment.

 

She made no move to rise or snap her tail, though her claws flexed into the dirt as if testing her tethers.

 

Dane Ironmuir cast a glance over his shoulder as the group paused. “We’ve seen a noticeable change in her behavior since you bonded with her,” he said. “Your presence seems to settle her—but even so, we have protocols. All dragons on-site remain chained, especially the nesting mothers. Maternal instincts make them... unpredictable.”

 

Harry didn’t respond at once. His gaze swept over the iron collar around her neck, to the rune-etched shackles binding her rear leg and tail. She looked powerful even restrained. Dignified, despite the chains.

 

“She trusted me before,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “Without all this. She let me fly her.”

 

“Yes,” Dane agreed, not unkindly, “but we don’t share that bond. We can’t speak to them—not like you. We can’t earn their trust the way you do. We must rely on what keeps our handlers and visitors safe.”

 

Charlie added, a bit more gruffly, “We’ve tried relaxing protocols before. Got burned—literally. One handler lost a leg, another nearly lost an eye. Chains aren’t perfect, but they’re predictable. Reliable.”

 

Harry scowled faintly. “Not that reliable,” he countered, “They snapped during the First Task.”

 

Dane’s jaw tightened, “We still don’t know how that was possible. We’d reinforced everything—twice. Magical fail-safes, reinforced alloys, runes designed to withstand seismic-level force. We took every precaution, especially with an audience. It… shouldn’t have happened.”

 

At that, Narcissa and Lucius exchanged a quiet, uneasy glance. But Harry didn’t seem to notice. He took a step closer to the boundary ward and asked, “Can I go see her?”

 

Dane hesitated.

 

“She knows me,” Harry pressed gently. “She won’t lash out.”

 

Charlie scratched his chin, then gave a nod toward Dane. “You’ve already flown her, mate. If she wanted to torch you, we’d be scooping up ashes by now.”

 

Dane sighed, “You can go as far as the outer perimeter. No closer until she makes the first move—and don’t cross the protective ward unless she invites you. We’ve modified the boundary to allow some limited approach from you alone, keyed to your magical signature.”

 

Harry nodded in understanding, already stepping forward.

 

“Castor,” Narcissa called, a flicker of worry in her tone.

 

He looked back with a small smile, “I’ll be fine, Mum.”

 

The others watched in tense silence as Harry approached. The Horntail remained still, her eyes following his every step. As he neared the invisible boundary, she shifted her weight and gave a low, almost expectant snort.

 

Harry stopped just before the line and hissed softly in Parseltongue, “I am here. Are you well?”

 

The dragon rumbled back, the sound deeper and less sharp than before. A sound like gravel rolling over molten stone.

 

“She remembers him,” Charlie muttered, almost in disbelief.

 

“She does more than that,” Dane murmured. “She respects him.”

 

The Horntail tilted her head again and took one deliberate step forward, testing the chain’s slack—then lay down, her wings folding tight against her sides, golden eyes never leaving Harry.

 

Lucius’s expression was unreadable, but his knuckles had gone white around the head of his walking stick. Narcissa, for her part, looked as if she was holding her breath.

 

Harry crouched just beyond the ward line, the heat from the Horntail’s body rising in shimmering waves. Her massive head lowered slightly, nostrils flaring as she inhaled his scent again.

 

“Greetings Little One. You have returned.”

 

Harry smiled faintly, “I told you I would.”

 

The Horntail’s tongue flicked between her teeth, and she shifted her wings with a soft clink of chain.

 

“But now I wear these again,” Her tail gave a muted thump behind her. “You left. The two-legs came. Always chains.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry,” Harry said, his brows drawing together. “I had to. But I came back. For you. For all of you. I may not be able to stay forever but I will always come back. I will always check up on you.”

 

The Horntail’s golden eye blinked slowly.

 

“They fear us. They do not ask. They bind. Even when we sleep. Even when we grow eggs.”

 

Harry’s fists clenched at his sides. “I know. And I hate it.” He shifted, glancing toward the group watching him, “They do not hear your voices. They do not know your hearts. But I do. I will change this. I will find a way to make them see.”

 

The Horntail snorted, smoke curling from her nostrils.

 

“You are small.”

 

“So are seeds,” Harry replied. “But they grow.”

 

A low rumble vibrated through her throat, almost a laugh.

 

“And what have you done since the fire-flight?” she asked. “Did they make you fight again?”

 

“No more fights. I’ve studied. I’ve trained. I’ve come to visit as I have some time off from school. Once I finish school, I'll be able to help more, but I'm already getting started during my breaks.  So one day, you won’t have to wear those chains.”

 

The Horntail shifted again, settling into the dirt more comfortably, “You speak like a fledgling who dreams of flight.”

 

“Then I will dream until it becomes sky.”

 

A long moment passed. Then, with slow deliberation, she leaned forward, her massive head nudging the edge of the ward.

 

The boundary shimmered—and let her through.

 

Gasps sounded behind Harry, but he didn’t move. He simply lifted a hand and rested it against her snout. Her scales were warm beneath his fingers, and the breath from her nostrils blew his fringe back gently.

 

“We wait, fire-friend,” she murmured. “But not forever.”

 

Harry’s hand rested against her snout, the warmth of her breath curling around his fingers.

 

“I will make them listen. I’ll start with the chains.”

 

The Horntail’s great eyes blinked slowly. Her jaw shifted, teeth clicking faintly.

 

“The others asked where you flew to,” she said, her voice low and gravelled like stone cracking in heat. “The little one cried wishing for you to come back.”

 

Harry’s throat tightened. That had to be the smallest of the nesting mothers.

 

“They missed me?”

 

She tilted her head again, “And I… I missed your voice. No fire. No fear. Only sky.”

 

Harry swallowed hard. His fingers slid from her snout to the side of her jaw. “I missed you too. All of you. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. That flight—” He hesitated, heart pounding. “—that was the first time I felt like I truly belonged.”

 

The Horntail huffed a warm gust of breath over him. Smoke coiled faintly in the air, but she did not bare her teeth.

 

From behind him, a voice called cautiously. “Castor?” It was Charlie, tense but not alarmed. “Everything alright?”

 

Harry didn’t move at first. He kept one hand on the Horntail’s warm hide as he answered quietly without turning.

 

“I’m home.”

Chapter 43: Chapter 43

Chapter 43

 

Harry made his way slowly through the nesting grounds, weaving between the reinforced barriers and enchanted wards that marked the dragons’ territory seeking the rest.

 

One by one, the nesting mothers came into view.

 

He approached the Swedish Short-Snout first. Her eyes lit up when she spotted him, and she let loose a short, joyful bellow that startled two nearby handlers. Harry grinned and raised a hand to calm her before leaning into her snout as she rumbled happily.

 

The Chinese Fireball gave a pleased snort, shaking out her wings and snapping her jaws in the air—more playful than threatening. She lowered her head to bump his shoulder in a way that felt almost affectionate.

 

The Common Welsh Green gave a pleased trill, her tail swaying like a cat’s. She circled him once before settling again, visibly more relaxed with his presence near her nest.

 

They were excited to see him—not just curious, not simply tolerating his presence, but genuinely pleased. They remembered. They trusted him.

 

And more than that—they had expected him.

 

Each dragon reacted not with surprise, but with something closer to satisfaction. As if his return had been inevitable. As if this, right now, was a long-overdue step forward.

 

Harry’s chest ached at the thought. They knew he would come. They believed in him.

 

Giving the Common Welsh Green one final affectionate pat along her broad snout, Harry took a step back. Her golden eyes blinked slowly at him, content and at peace in a way that made his heart twist. He turned slightly, casting his gaze across the clearing where the other nesting mothers watched him from their respective spaces, some lying curled protectively around their eggs, others resting but alert, their attention drawn fully to him.

 

He drew in a breath and raised his voice—not loud in volume, but sharp and clear in Parseltongue, the syllables slicing cleanly through the heavy summer air.

 

“I must go now,” he hissed, shaping each word deliberately. “There are things I must say to the others—to the humans. I will speak of what I want for you. Of how we may move forward.”

 

A few heads lifted. A low, rumbling breath echoed back—curious, attentive. Harry took another step, wanting them all to hear.

 

“I will only be here for a few days, but I promise—I will come each day that I am able. If I do not return tonight, I will see you with the morning.”

 

A deeper hiss rumbled from the Horntail’s direction—low and approving. The Fireball let out a puff of fire into the air, and the Short-Snout gave a guttural purr of understanding.

 

Then, without another word, he turned back toward the footpath where the handlers were waiting.

 

He didn’t look back—he didn’t need to.

 

He could feel their eyes on him, and in the quiet between his steps, he swore he heard a gentle chorus of warm, protective huffs—a mother’s blessing from every corner of the clearing.

As Harry stepped back onto the path, the hush of the dragon clearing gave way to the soft crunch of forest floor beneath his boots. Dane and Charlie stood just ahead, both quiet, arms crossed but clearly watching closely. Behind them, the Malfoys waited as well—Lucius, regal and unreadable; Narcissa, arms loosely folded, her gaze sharp; and Draco, mouth slightly open in fascination.

 

It was Dane who spoke first, his voice low but full of something like awe, “You weren’t just speaking to them. They were listening.”

 

Charlie nodded, eyes wide with a flicker of disbelief, “They responded. That Fireball puffed fire like it was a salute. And the Short-Snout—did she just purr at you?”

 

Harry gave a shy sort of shrug, brushing a hand through his messy fringe, “I told them I had to leave, but I’d come see them again tomorrow.”

 

“Like you were tucking them in,” Charlie muttered.

 

“They’re not monsters to me,” Harry said quietly, his eyes still lingering on the dragons in the distance. “They’re intelligent. Protective. And... they remember kindness.”

 

Dane exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his beard as he studied the boy in front of him. “I’ve worked this reserve for thirty years,” he said. “I’ve seen dragons calm, even tolerant—but never affectionate. And yet, you spoke to them like you were one of their own… and they welcomed you like family.”

 

Lucius gave a soft scoff, but there was no heat in it, “They didn’t just act like he belonged, Mr. Ironmuir. They acted like they missed him.”

 

Draco nodded with visible pride—though he tried to mask it behind his usual affected boredom, “Well, they are his girls,” he said, like it was obvious.

 

Narcissa’s eyes were on Harry, “You gave them your word, and they believed it.”

 

“I meant it,” Harry said.

 

Charlie shook his head, a crooked grin spreading across his face, “You’re going to turn this place on its head, Castor. Whether the reserve is ready for it or not.”

 

Harry met his gaze steadily, “Then we’d better start with the chains.”

 

That wiped the smile off Charlie’s face, though the gleam in his eyes only grew sharper.

 

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry went on, voice calm but resolute. “I need the other dragons to trust me like the girls do. That won’t happen if they only see me from behind barriers or during emergencies. I want to be part of feedings whenever possible—rotate through all the grounds. If they start to associate me with food and calm, that’s a first step.”

 

Dane raised an eyebrow, “You think familiarity and a full belly will win them over?”

 

“It’s a start,” Harry replied. “They’re smart. They remember. If I show up daily, offer respect, food, and conversation—even the more standoffish ones might begin to accept me. And once they do, I’ll be in a better place to work on easing their restraints.”

 

Lucius, who had been standing silently, narrowed his eyes, “And what will you do when one of them doesn’t take kindly to your approach, and you’re within striking distance?”

 

Harry didn’t flinch, “I’ll back off. I’m not reckless. I’m not going to risk myself or the dragons. But I won’t stop trying.”

 

Dane gave a low hum of approval, “Well said. You’ve got a rare kind of courage, Castor. Not just in the way you handle dragons—but in the way you see them.”

 

Charlie clapped a hand to Harry’s shoulder, “You’ve got my support. We’ll talk to the rest of the team. Start small—feeding rounds and observation time. You prove it works, the rest will follow.”

 

Harry gave a nod, a small but determined smile on his lips, “That’s all I ask. A chance.”

 

And from behind, Narcissa watched her son, the young man who stood with dragons and talked of changing centuries of tradition with nothing but compassion and resolve. She didn't say a word, but her hand found Lucius’s.

 

The group made their way to the camp’s central mess tent, where the scent of roasted meat and spiced vegetables drifted invitingly through the air. Lunch was served buffet-style, and long wooden tables lined the open space. The moment Harry entered, all eyes turned toward him.

 

He barely had time to sit down before Charlie was introducing him around to the other handlers—dozens of weathered, sun-tanned witches and wizards in dragonhide gear, many of whom bore visible scars from years on the job. Harry was passed around from one conversation to the next, offering handshakes and awkward smiles while trying to remember names and faces.

 

Charlie, despite being one of the youngest in the group, was clearly respected. Everyone who mentioned him did so with a kind of fond pride, their words underscoring not only his skill but his character. Harry couldn’t help but think of Mrs. Weasley, and how she might never fully understand that her son wasn’t just “getting by” out here—he was thriving. He belonged.

 

The team was mostly men, burly and boisterous, but Harry counted at least three women among them, each as rugged and sure-footed as the others. One introduced herself as Sorina, a tall woman with a thick Romanian accent and a burn scar curling up her neck. Another, Jo, had short-cropped hair and inked runes up her arms. The third, Nika, was younger and wide-eyed, clearly excited.

 

They all seemed fascinated by Harry’s Parseltongue, peppering him with questions between bites of food.

 

“What do they say to you?” Jo asked, leaning forward with a gleam in her eyes. “Is it words or more like... feelings?”

 

Harry thought a moment, then answered, “It’s a mix. Some dragons speak more in emotions or behaviour. Others are clearer. It seems to be the older ones that are more practiced in their own way of thinking. The Horntail especially—she’s precise.”

 

“So, they know who you are,” Sorina said, brow furrowed thoughtfully. “You’re not just another human to them.”

 

Harry nodded, “They recognize me. They even told me they missed me.”

 

That drew a round of surprised murmurs from the handlers.

 

“Bloody hell,” someone muttered. “I’ve worked here ten years and never once have I been given the impression that I was missed.”

 

Charlie chuckled, “Because you weren’t.”

 

888

 

Charlie was scheduled to join the evening feeding team, and Harry, eager to begin earning the dragons’ trust beyond the nesting mothers, volunteered to accompany him. Their group that night included Jo—sharp-eyed and quick-witted with a mischievous sense of humor—and two older men, both seasoned handlers whose experience showed in the way they moved: careful, deliberate, but not fearful.

 

One was Mihai, a Romanian handler with deep laugh lines and a heavy accent, his gloves worn through in places from years of use. The other, Tomos, was quieter, a Welshman with a stiff gait and a habit of humming under his breath while he worked.

 

“Best to keep to Charlie’s side for the first couple of pens,” Mihai advised as they hoisted sacks of fresh meat into enchanted wheelbarrows. “Some of the males are meaner near dusk. They don't like anyone messing with their supper.”

 

“He’ll be fine,” Jo cut in, flashing Harry a grin, “I want to see how they react to him. Could be interesting.”

 

Charlie slung an arm over Harry’s shoulders as they walked, “This’ll give you a chance to meet some of the dragons that aren’t already in love with you.”

 

“I can win them over,” Harry said quietly, a determined spark in his eyes.

 

Jo laughed, “That’s the spirit. Just try not to get eaten while you charm them.”

 

They made their way through the reserve’s winding paths, the light of the sinking sun turning the trees to molten gold and long shadows flickering between the towering enclosures. The sound of rustling wings, deep huffs of breath, and the occasional echoing roar surrounded them. The energy of the reserve had changed—no longer calm and quiet like earlier in the day, but tense, expectant. Feeding time brought every dragon to attention.

 

And Harry was ready to meet each of them.

 

Harry moved steadily from dragon to dragon, careful not to get too close at first. Many of them snapped their chains or hissed in warning, jaws wide and eyes blazing with distrust. Their agitation crackled in the air, wild and heavy. But Harry didn’t flinch. He remained at a respectful distance, speaking softly in Parseltongue—calm, rhythmic sounds that rippled across the tense enclosures like a soothing current.

 

He didn’t expect immediate trust. He only hoped for attention.

 

One by one, the dragons began to notice. Some whipped their heads toward him, nostrils flaring as they registered the language that they had never heard from a human’s mouth. Others froze mid-snarl, their movements stilled by confusion or recognition. A few responded—short, gruff, or suspicious replies—but many just stared, their eyes narrowed and calculating.

 

Still, Harry kept talking. He explained why the chains were there—not as punishment, but as a precaution, a relic of fear more than cruelty. He told them that the humans in the camp weren’t hunters, but guardians—that they brought food and protection from poachers and injury. That it wasn’t perfect, but it was safer than the alternative. And that he, a strange little human who could speak their tongue, wanted to make it better.

 

It wasn’t magic—it was patience.

 

Gradually, the air began to shift. Dragons that had been thrashing or baring teeth started to ease back. They listened. A few tilted their massive heads in curiosity, studying him instead of threatening him. The feedings grew calmer. Some dragons, overhearing his hissing conversation with their neighbors, didn’t resist when the handlers approached. Others simply watched him with interest, allowing their meat to be delivered without incident.

 

“You’re bloody brilliant,” Jo muttered under her breath as they rolled another empty wheelbarrow away from the enclosures. She grinned as she tossed her gloves into the back. “Kid, you’re on rounds with me whenever you’re here. It’s so much simpler when they’re not trying to char us like sausages.”

 

Harry gave her a tired smile, sweat sticking his silver hair to his forehead, “They just needed someone to listen.”

 

“Yeah, well, I don’t speak snake,” she quipped, clapping him on the back, “So I’m glad you do.”

 

As they walked to the next clearing, under the setting sun, Harry glanced over his shoulder one last time. A young Peruvian Vipertooth—a dragon who had snarled at him just twenty minutes ago—was watching him go, no longer hostile, but curious.

 

It wasn’t peace yet. But it was a beginning.

 

They moved from clearing to clearing with practiced rhythm, repeating the same routine of calm approach, food distribution, and slow, soothing Parseltongue explanations. With each stop, the process grew smoother. Some of the more temperamental dragons still flared their wings or rattled their chains in warning, but fewer tried to lunge or scorch the handlers. By the end of the rounds, even the skeptical ones were watching Harry with curiosity rather than outright hostility.

 

When they returned to the mess tent, Charlie glanced at the time and whistled low. “That might be a record,” he said, grinning as he wiped his brow. “I’ve never seen a feeding go that fast without someone nearly losing an eyebrow.”

 

Outside the tent, Draco was seated under a tall pine tree, his sketchpad balanced on one knee, eyes fixed on the silhouette of a dragon visible through the trees. He glanced up as the group returned, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his expression before he looked back down to shade the wing he’d been working on.

 

Dane emerged from the tent just as they approached, having apparently been inside speaking with Lucius and Narcissa. He raised an eyebrow at how quickly they’d returned but didn’t question it.

 

Jo was the first to break the silence, unceremoniously tossing her gloves down and beaming, “I don’t care what anyone says—that was the best round I’ve ever had. All thanks to our own little dragon-whisperer over here.”

 

Harry, caught off guard, ducked his head as color rose to his cheeks, “I just told them the truth,” he muttered, trying not to fidget with the hem of his shirt. “Why they’re here… that we’re not trying to trap or hurt them. That the chains aren’t meant to punish, and that the humans just want to keep them safe.”

 

“Doesn’t matter what you said, kid,” Jo replied, clapping him on the shoulder. “It’s how you said it. You talked to them like they mattered.”

 

Charlie gave Harry a proud grin, “You did good today, Castor. Really good.”

 

Draco looked up again, his eyes flicking from Harry to the others, then down at his sketchpad. Quietly, he added a small figure to the page—leaning toward the dragon, hand outstretched. It wasn’t meant to be obvious. He didn’t mention it. But the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth was real.

 

Lucius stepped out of the tent, his gaze landing on Harry with something between consideration and mild astonishment. “It appears the handlers are impressed,” he said, tone neutral but not cold.

 

“They should be,” Narcissa said with quiet certainty, brushing some pine needles off her cloak. “Castor was meant for this.”

 

Harry, unsure what to say, nodded once and looked back toward the trees where the dragons rested.

 

He was exhausted. The muscles in his shoulders ached from hours of walking and the strain of keeping his body loose and non-threatening in front of dragons who could crush him with a single swipe. His throat was raw, dry and scratchy from the near-constant Parseltongue—some dragons had needed coaxing, others reassurance, and a few simply seemed to enjoy conversing now that someone could understand them. Not that he hadn’t loved every second of it.

 

Straightening up, he glanced toward Charlie and Jo, who were chatting near the supply crates, and then over to Dane, who stood with Lucius and Narcissa just outside the mess tent. Harry rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat.

 

“Is there anything else I should do tonight,” he asked, his voice hoarse but polite, “or would it be alright if I retired to the tent? I’m—well, a bit worn out. I think tea sounds like a very good idea right now. I'm not exactly used to hissing all day.”

 

Dane gave him a considering look before nodding, “You’ve done more than enough today. Go rest. Hydrate, warm your throat. We’ll need you again tomorrow—word travels fast around here, and now that the other teams have seen how much smoother feedings go with you… well, don’t be surprised if your schedule starts filling up.”

 

Jo gave him a thumbs-up, already walking toward the dragon paddocks for a final check. “You’re officially our favorite tool in the shed, kid. Don’t burn out.”

 

Charlie clapped him on the back, “I’ll be in not long after you. Go on, Castor. You’ve earned your tea.”

 

Harry gave them a grateful smile, then turned toward the path that led back to the family tent. The sun was low on the horizon now, painting the trees gold and orange, and a soft breeze stirred the pine needles overhead.

 

Ahead, he could see Draco still sketching, though now his quill was moving more slowly, eyes flicking up every few seconds to study a ridge or scale. Harry paused a moment to watch him, surprised by the peaceful expression on his brother’s face.

 

Inside the tent, the air was pleasantly cool, touched with the crisp scent of pine needles and woodsmoke. It was a quiet kind of comfort after the long day—sheltered, peaceful, and far removed from the roars and rustle of wings outside. Harry moved automatically, setting the kettle to boil with a flick of his wand before sinking into the plush sofa in the center of the common area.

 

The cushions gave way beneath him, and for a moment he simply sat there, letting his body relax for the first time since dawn. His shoulders still ached, and his throat burned faintly from overuse, but a small, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

 

His thoughts drifted as he stared into the low flames flickering in the hearth across from him. As far as first days went, he thought, this had to be one of the best. He’d impressed the handlers, helped calm dragons that had never known gentleness from a human, and taken a tangible step toward the future he was starting to believe in.

 

He let his head fall back against the cushions and exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded. If this worked—if what he did today could be built into something more—then maybe it didn’t have to end here. Maybe it could become something bigger. He could visit other reserves. Talk to more dragons. Show them they were safe. That not every chain was a prison, and not every human a threat. What if he could become a bridge between worlds that had never truly understood each other?

 

The kettle began to whistle softly in the background, but Harry didn’t move right away. He stayed there a little longer, the scent of pine in his lungs and the hope of something real unfurling quietly inside his chest.

 

888

 

Harry rose early the next morning, barely needing the gentle chime of his enchanted bedside clock to wake him. The ache in his limbs from the day before still lingered, but excitement pushed him forward. He was eager—practically buzzing—to see how the new dragons would react to his return. Would they remember him? Had his words made a difference?

 

Without waiting for an invitation, he decided to join the morning feeding rotation. Charlie had mentioned the day before that meals were served early in the mess tent for those on the first shift, though Harry barely registered the detail at the time. It hardly mattered to him though because as soon as he sat down Mipsy appeared with a brisk pop and placed a steaming plate of breakfast in front of him with a proud little nod, as though she’d been waiting for him to arrive.

 

He glanced around. To his surprise, he was the first one there. The mess tent was still dim with pre-dawn light filtering through its enchanted canvas. When the rest of the early shift began to trickle in, a few paused in the entryway at the sight of him already seated and halfway through his eggs.

 

There were startled glances and more than a few raised brows—punctuality, it seemed, was not something typically expected from someone still considered a guest. And certainly not from a teenager.

 

But when Harry explained that he intended to join the morning feeding rounds, the reaction was immediate and overwhelmingly positive. Several handlers exchanged amused looks, and one gave an approving whistle. Apparently, Jo had sung his praises around the fire the night before—loudly and at length. According to one grinning handler, she’d been insufferable in the best way, recounting in detail how he’d calmed aggressive dragons with nothing but a few careful words.

 

“Well, looks like we’ve got ourselves a new good luck charm,” said one of the older men with a wink as he clapped Harry on the shoulder.

 

With a thermos of hot tea cradled carefully in one arm—he had no intention of repeating the mistake of yesterday and hissing himself hoarse—Harry hurried to fall in step behind the rest of the team. They were a towering group, most broad-shouldered and battle-scarred, and their strides easily outpaced his. Still, no one minded waiting for him to catch up.

 

Outside, the morning air was crisp and clean, tinged with the scent of earth and distant smoke. The sky was pale with dawn, streaked faintly with gold, and the camp around them stirred with the sleepy sounds of waking life.

 

As they made their way down one of the gravel paths that snaked toward the northern enclosures, Harry couldn’t help but feel a quiet thrill. Today he was a member of the team.

 

888

 

When Narcissa woke, she looked into the boys room and immediately noticed the empty bed. Her youngest son was already gone.

 

She sighed, sinking onto the sofa. This was her life now—waking to find that Castor had stolen away in the early hours, chasing after dragons and danger without a second thought. Part of her wanted to scold him, to lecture him about safety and boundaries, about how fourteen-year-old boys didn’t belong in the company of fire-breathing creatures twice the size of the tent they slept in. But the larger part of her—the quieter, aching part—knew this was simply who her son had become.

 

Still, yesterday had eased something sharp in her chest. Watching the way the dragons responded to him, how they stilled and listened when he spoke in that strange, ancient tongue—it had been both terrifying and wondrous. She had seen the reverence in their eyes, the way they leaned toward him, not as a threat, but as something familiar. Something kin.

 

It soothed her, even if it didn’t quiet the worry entirely.

 

No mother could fully silence the part of her heart that feared for her child.

 

She moved to pour herself a cup of tea. Her hand lingered on the porcelain for a moment longer than necessary.

 

No, she would never stop worrying.

 

888

 

The morning rounds had gone even smoother than the evening before. Harry hadn’t needed to hiss or call out for attention—each time he stepped into a clearing, the dragons were already watching him. Heads lifted, nostrils flared, wings rustled with curiosity or recognition. Some even chuffed softly in greeting.

 

He moved from enclosure to enclosure like a trusted envoy, speaking to each dragon in low, steady Parseltongue while the handlers took care of the feeding. It was a simple division of labor—he talked, they tossed meat—and yet it transformed the entire process. The dragons remained calm, responsive. There were no flare-ups of flame or bared teeth.

 

By the time they returned to camp, the sun had risen higher and the late morning heat was settling into the earth. Harry’s throat was sore again from all the hissing, but the warm sense of accomplishment more than made up for the discomfort.

 

With a tired groan, he dropped onto the grass just outside the mess tent, right beside Draco, who was perched with his back against a smooth tree trunk, sketchbook balanced on his knees.

 

Draco didn’t look up, “You reek of dragon breath.”

 

Harry flopped onto his back, arms spread wide, eyes squinting at the sky, “Better than smelling like smoke and singed eyebrows.”

 

“I suppose,” Draco murmured, lips quirking faintly as he smudged a bit of charcoal with his thumb. “She let me get close today. The Horntail. She didn’t snap or glare. I think she likes you enough not to kill me.”

 

“High praise,” Harry muttered, smiling. “You almost sound impressed.”

 

“I’m reserving judgment,” Draco said airily, but there was no venom in it. “But she is... beautiful. Up close. There’s a sort of dignity to her.”

 

Harry turned his head toward him, “You should show her the drawing when you’re done. I think she’d be flattered.”

 

Draco snorted, “What, you want me to present my art to a giant fire-breathing lizard?”

 

“She’s not a lizard,” Harry said with mock offense. “She’s a majestic, misunderstood mother with trust issues.”

 

Draco gave him a long look, then went back to his sketching, “Merlin help us all if you decide to start a dragon rights movement.”

 

Harry grinned. “Too late.”

 

From a few feet away, Jo and Charlie were laughing about something, but Harry let the sound fade into the background. The breeze smelled faintly of pine and ash and warm scales.

 

888

 

After dozing in the sun for a while beside Draco, the drowsy heat still clinging to his limbs, Harry eventually stirred. His throat felt better after the rest and a few sips of tea, and a familiar pull tugged at his chest—he wanted to see the girls before the evening rounds. The thought of spending quiet time with them, without the urgency of feeding or managing their moods, felt like a small reward.

 

He brushed off his trousers, stretched the last of the sleep from his limbs, and began heading toward the enclosures—but didn’t get far before a familiar voice stopped him.

 

“Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?”

 

He turned to see Narcissa stepping down from the tent platform, arms crossed, brows lifted in that way that made it feel like she already knew the answer.

 

“I was just going to spend a little time with the girls before the night rounds,” Harry said casually.

 

Narcissa’s lips thinned, “You shouldn’t wander off to dragons alone, darling.”

 

Before Harry could respond, one of the handlers passed by carrying a large crate of tools and overheard them.

 

“Ha!” the man barked, grinning, “He’s the only one here who’s completely safe wandering near those beasts!”

 

Harry couldn’t help but smirk at the man’s retreating back, “See? Even the handlers agree.”

 

Narcissa did not look convinced.

 

“They’re my girls, Mum. I’m not sneaking off to meet a new dragon. Just the same four I already know.”

 

“Familiarity doesn’t negate danger,” she said primly, but then sighed, relenting. “Fine. But if you insist on going, I’m coming with you.”

 

Harry heard a quiet sigh behind him and turned to see Lucius step forward. With a subtle nod, he extended his arm to Narcissa in silent invitation, offering to escort her—making it clear that he, too, would be joining them.

 

Before Harry could respond, Draco perked up from his spot under the tree, holding up his sketchpad, “Me too. I want another look at the Horntail. I brought my good charcoal this time.”

 

Harry blinked, surprised but secretly pleased, “Well, alright then. Family outing it is.”

 

The three of them set off down the worn path that led toward the nesting grounds. The air grew quieter the further they walked, the sounds of the main camp giving way to the rustle of wind through pine boughs and the occasional distant roar. Narcissa stayed close, her sharp gaze sweeping the trees like she expected something to leap out.

 

When they reached the Horntail’s clearing, the great dragon stirred immediately, head lifting and eyes locking onto Harry like she’d been waiting for him. She let out a low, pleased rumble and stretched her wings lazily.

 

“She missed you,” Draco murmured, sounding oddly reverent as he flipped to a fresh page in his sketchbook.

 

“I missed her too,” Harry whispered, stepping up to the barrier and hissing a soft greeting. The Horntail blinked slowly, then dipped her head, a rare display of trust that made Narcissa's eyes go wide.

 

From deeper within the grove, the other mothers stirred—drawn not by sound, but by presence. Harry could feel it like a hum in his bones: recognition, connection, the echo of something ancient and wild and warm.

 

Harry slowed and turned back to his family. “All right,” he said, tone light but respectful. “They’re in a good mood today, but they’re still dragons—so don’t do anything sudden. Just stay calm.”

 

He stepped forward, shoulders relaxed, voice dipping into Parseltongue. The hissing language rolled easily off his tongue, smooth and sure now after so much use.

 

“My girls,” he called warmly. “I’ve brought my family to meet you. This is my mother, Narcissa. My fa- Er- Her mate, Lucius. And my brother, Draco. They’re safe. They’re mine.”

 

The Horntail lifted her head, eyes sharpening as she focused on the newcomers. A deep, low rumble vibrated through the ground, but her body remained still. Her gaze drifted to Harry’s family—assessing, but not hostile.

 

“She remembers you,” Harry said over his shoulder to Draco. “She saw you sketching yesterday.”

 

Draco blinked, then offered the dragon a small, respectful nod.

 

Harry turned back to the Horntail. “This one,” he gestured toward Draco, “likes to draw you. He thinks you’re powerful and beautiful.”

 

The Horntail snorted a puff of smoke, her tail flicking once in what Harry had come to recognize as amusement.

 

“See?” Harry said with a bright grin, nodding toward the Horntail as her eyes tracked Draco with curious interest. “She likes you. Go on—show her what you’ve been working on.”

 

Draco hesitated, lips pressed into a doubtful line, “You think she’ll care about a sketch?”

 

“She let you sit there and draw her all afternoon,” Harry replied. “Trust me—she noticed.”

 

With a reluctant sigh, Draco slowly turned his sketchpad outward, angling it so the Horntail could see. The detailed charcoal drawing of her proud, spiked profile caught the light just right. For a moment, she didn’t react—but then, she shifted her head slightly, her nostrils flaring as if to inspect it more closely.

 

Her gaze moved from the sketch to Draco, then back again. A low rumble vibrated in her chest—deep, resonant, but not threatening. Almost... pleased.

 

Draco blinked, “Is she—did she just purr?”

 

Harry chuckled, “Sort of. That’s her version of a compliment.”

 

Narcissa raised an eyebrow at her son, clearly impressed, “You’ve found quite the unusual muse.”

 

Draco didn’t look away from the dragon, “She has presence.”

 

“She’ll be insufferable now,” Harry teased, slipping back into Parseltongue. “He drew you beautifully, didn’t he?”

 

The Horntail gave a slow blink, her posture relaxed. She exhaled a puff of warm air toward Draco that stirred the pages of his sketchbook.

 

“She approves,” Harry translated with a smirk.

 

Lucius, silent until now, watched the exchange with a strange look—equal parts skepticism and wonder, “And to think I once thought dragons were mindless.”

 

Harry glanced over his shoulder, “They’re far from it. We’ve just never listened properly.”

 

He continued walking between the dragons’ territories, calling out to each nesting mother in turn.

 

“This is my mother,” he told the Swedish Short-Snout, who tilted her head curiously. “She worries. Human mother’s do that too.”

 

The dragon huffed, but slowly lowered her head, sniffing the air near Narcissa with a cautious but calm demeanor. Narcissa stiffened slightly but stood her ground.

 

“And this is my Mum’s mate,” Harry said with a touch more hesitation as he addressed the Chinese Fireball. “He... did not raise me, but he is trying. Be patient with him.”

 

The Fireball snorted, a brief gust of flame flickering from her nostrils. She did not move any closer, but neither did she threaten.

 

Harry turned, addressing the humans now, “They know you’re with me. That’s why they aren’t reacting aggressively. But it’s best not to get too close yet.”

 

Lucius studied the nearest dragon with a guarded expression, “They understand more than I thought possible.”

 

“They’re more than beasts,” Harry said gently. “They’ve always been more.”

 

“And you’re the only one who’s ever heard their side of it,” Draco murmured. “Well, you and Alexander Serpens.”

 

Harry offered a small, tired smile. “That’s why I keep coming back.”

 

888

 

Harry was roused in the dead of night by a gentle shake to his shoulder. He blinked blearily up at Charlie, confused and half tangled in his blanket.

 

“Wha–what’s going on?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

 

Charlie crouched beside the bed, speaking in a hushed tone so as not to disturb the other Malfoys, “Ashara’s eggs. They’re hatching.”

 

“Ashara?” Harry repeated, sitting up straighter.

 

“The Horntail. That’s the name the handlers gave her. Two of the eggs have already cracked open. The team wants to check over the hatchlings, make sure everything looks good… but she’s not letting anyone close.” Charlie gave him a look full of meaning. “You’re the only one she trusts.”

 

Harry was already throwing back the covers before Charlie had finished. He yanked on his boots—still spotless, thanks to Valentin’s enchantments—and grabbed his jacket, heart thudding. The fog of sleep vanished under a rush of excitement.

 

“Let’s go,” he said, already halfway to the tent flap.

 

Harry sprinted all the way to the nesting mothers’ den, his breath clouding in the cool night air. A cluster of handlers had already gathered near the clearing, standing at a cautious distance—close enough to observe, but far enough to avoid the sweep of flames if Ashara grew agitated.

 

He slowed his pace only as he neared the outer perimeter, not wanting to startle her. Her massive frame was coiled protectively around her nest, the dark gleam of her scales catching the moonlight. The moment her golden eyes locked onto him, something eased in her posture.

 

“I came as soon as I heard,” Harry said softly in Parseltongue. “How are they?”

 

Ashara gave a low rumble that vibrated through the clearing. “Beautiful,” she replied, her tone glowing with pride and wonder.

 

Harry stepped closer, slowly and respectfully, until he stood near enough to glimpse the nest—but still far enough to show deference. “May I see them?” he asked gently.

 

Ashara tilted her head and gave a single, regal nod.

 

He crept forward with quiet reverence, then gasped as the view opened before him. Three dragonlings—tiny compared to their mother but still fierce in their own way—wriggled within the nest. Their scales were still soft and dark, glistening wet from the shell, tiny spines curled against their backs. Two eggs remained intact, gently rocking in the nest’s warmth.

 

Harry felt a tightness in his throat, and before he could stop them, tears welled in his eyes. This was different from watching Norbert—now Norberta—hatch back in first year. That had been chaotic, funny in hindsight. This? This was sacred. These hatchlings were Ashara’s children. One of his girls. He didn’t know what it meant to be a parent, but watching her nudge one of the damp babies closer with the tip of her snout, he wondered if this was what it felt like to be a grandparent.

 

He wiped his eyes quickly, hoping the handlers behind him wouldn’t see. But Ashara noticed, “Why do you cry, little flame?”

 

Harry laughed softly, his voice thick, “Because they’re perfect. And I’m so proud of you.”

 

Ashara huffed, warm smoke curling around her nostrils, “You came. That is all I needed.”

Notes:

I had way too much fun writing this chapter—seriously, what a blast! Also… we’re already approaching 30,000 hits! I’ve only been working on this for just over a month, and the response has been absolutely incredible. Thank you all so much for reading, sharing, and supporting this story.

And can we talk about the comments section for a second? 459 comments in a month?! You lot are truly the best. I feel so lucky to have such an engaged and thoughtful readership. You make this journey a joy. 💙

Chapter 44

Notes:

This is a long one...

Chapter 44

 

Harry didn’t leave Ashara’s side for hours. The other handlers came and went, some whispering updates to Charlie or jotting notes on parchment, but Harry remained rooted just outside the nest, watching with bated breath as the eggs cracked open.

 

Each hatching was a quiet miracle. Ashara crooned softly over each of her children, curling her tail protectively around the nest. Her massive frame shifted gently, her wings acting as a canopy, sheltering the newborns from the night air.

 

By the time the fourth egg had hatched—its occupant a sleek little creature with unusually silvery spines—the handlers were relaxed and hopeful. But the fifth egg remained still.

 

Minutes turned into an hour. Then two. Even Ashara began to shift with unease, letting out low, throaty rumbles of concern. The other handlers grew quiet, exchanging glances full of unspoken worry. A few murmured doubts. Harry could feel the tension like a weight pressing down on the clearing.

 

But then—a tiny sound. A faint crack. Harry surged forward to the edge of the nest just in time to see the egg rock once… twice… then still again. He held his breath.

 

Suddenly, a small clawed foot punched through the shell, fragile and trembling. The rest of the dragonling, however, seemed unable to push through. The egg wobbled, tipped, then went still once more.

 

Harry looked to Ashara, who gave him a knowing, almost beseeching look. Without needing more of a prompt, he slowly approached the egg and knelt beside it.

 

“You’re so close,” he whispered, “You’ve already made the first break. Let me help you now.”

 

He reached out with gentle fingers and began peeling back the shell piece by piece, murmuring encouragement all the while. The shell was thicker than the others had been—slightly tougher—and the hatchling inside smaller, with paler scales and a softer cry. But after a few careful minutes, the last of the shell came away, and the tiny dragonling flopped free into the straw-lined nest, blinking up at Harry with enormous, drowsy golden eyes.

 

Harry laughed, overcome, “There you are,” he said softly. “You made it.”

 

Ashara shifted closer, nudging the smallest hatchling with her snout. She gave a rumble so gentle it was nearly a purr, then turned that same gratitude-filled look toward Harry, “You helped her live.”

 

“She was just stuck,” he replied, brushing the shell fragments from the straw.

 

Now that he was sure all five hatchlings were healthy and safe beneath their mother’s watchful eye, Harry carefully climbed out of the nesting hollow. His limbs were stiff from sitting so long, but his heart felt light. He wiped his hands on his trousers and moved toward the circle of handlers gathered a short distance away.

 

As he neared, their quiet murmuring hushed—just for a moment. Then someone, thinking he was still out of earshot, whispered in a tone of awe, “I don’t care what anyone says. That boy’s not just a Parselmouth. He’s a bloody dragon whisperer.”

 

Harry blinked, warmth rising to his cheeks, though he pretended not to hear. He didn’t know if that was true, but it didn’t matter. The dragons were safe. That was enough.

 

Charlie gave him a proud nod as he stepped into the group, and someone handed him a mug of warm cider. The air was still cool with night, but the sky on the horizon had begun to soften with the first streaks of dawn.

 

“You did good, Castor,” Charlie said quietly. “Really good.”

 

Harry sipped the cider and glanced back toward Ashara’s nest, where five tiny shadows squirmed beneath their mother’s wing.

 

888

 

Harry slipped quietly back into the tent just as the first golden light of morning filtered through the flaps. He blinked against it, his body aching pleasantly from the long hours he'd spent crouched in the nesting den. The warmth and pine-scented air of the tent greeted him, but he barely had a chance to breathe it in before Narcissa turned from the mirror, her eyes widening.

 

“Oh, Castor,” she gasped, one hand flying to her chest.

 

He followed her gaze down to himself and grimaced. His pajamas—Valentin originals—were a mess. The once elegant silver-trimmed fabric was now crumpled and streaked with dirt and damp grass, the knees caked in dried mud. His boots, though still miraculously intact, were speckled with ash and soot. His curls were a wild halo of windblown chaos, and his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

 

Draco, halfway through buttoning his shirt, paused and gave his brother a once-over. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked, incredulous.

 

Harry gave a tired, sheepish grin, “Ashara’s eggs started hatching in the middle of the night. Charlie woke me up to help. All five made it.”

 

Lucius, who had just emerged from his room fastening his cufflinks, raised an eyebrow, “Ashara?”

 

“The Horntail,” Harry corrected gently. “And yes. She let me stay with her the whole time. The last hatchling was stuck, so I helped her out.”

 

“You helped… hatch a dragon,” Draco said slowly, as though trying to make sense of the words in real time.

 

Harry said, rubbing at a smudge on his cheek, “Yeah.”

 

Narcissa moved closer, brushing a leaf from his shoulder. Her eyes were shining, though she said nothing for a moment. Then: “Go clean yourself up, sweetheart. I’ll have Mipsy bring something warm for you when you’re done. You look frozen through.”

 

“I am,” Harry admitted, “but it was worth it.”

 

As he headed toward the washroom, Draco called after him, “You’re not wearing those pajamas ever again, by the way. I think I can hear Valentin screaming from Paris.”

 

Harry shrugged on his way to the washroom. “Mipsy’s good with stains,” he said casually. After all she got basilisk blood out of my robes once—she could handle a little dragon nest and mud.

 

888

 

Harry had missed a feeding for the first time since arriving on the reserve, and though no one seemed upset with him, he still felt the need to make it up to the dragons. After a quick nap and a hot cup of tea, he made his way to the food shed. He grabbed a large bucket and filled it with raw meat chunks typically used to lure hesitant dragons during training or medical checks. Today, though, he wasn’t using them as bait—he was bringing treats.

 

He walked from clearing to clearing, the bucket swinging at his side, and greeted each dragon with a quiet hiss and a respectful nod. He apologized for missing breakfast, explaining that he had spent the night with Ashara while her eggs hatched. That revelation earned him several curious stares and a few surprised huffs. Among dragons, hatchings were sacred—and Harry’s presence during such an intimate moment seemed to garner a new level of respect.

 

“Five healthy babies,” he added proudly to a particularly large Hebridean Black, who rumbled low in approval before accepting a meat chunk with delicate precision.

 

He moved from one dragon to the next, continuing his quiet one-sided conversations and handing out pieces of meat like a proud relative showing off baby photos. Eventually, he reached Norberta’s enclosure. The Norwegian Ridgeback was stretched across a sun-warmed patch of grass, her spined tail flicking lazily.

 

Harry grinned and tossed a chunk of meat toward her. She snatched it out of the air with a snap of her jaws, then looked down at him with something like recognition.

 

“Did I ever tell you I was there when you hatched?” he asked, “You were the first dragon I ever met.”

 

Norberta tilted her head, letting out a low croon that made the ground underfoot vibrate slightly.

 

“I was eleven,” Harry continued, setting the bucket down and easing onto a nearby rock. “You were this tiny, scaly thing with sharp little teeth and way too much attitude. Hagrid thought you were a boy back then. Your first name was Norbert.”

 

She blinked slowly, tongue flicking out for a moment.

 

"You bit a boy named Ron once," Harry said with a chuckle, reaching for another chunk of meat. "His hand swelled up like a Bludger and got horribly infected. Madam Pomfrey was furious."

 

Norberta let out a huff that almost sounded amused, her jaws snapping the treat from the air before it even began to fall.

 

“I never properly thanked you for that,” Harry added with a grin, tossing her an extra chunk. “So consider that a retroactive treat.”

 

She blinked at him slowly, her spined tail flicking against the dirt in what Harry liked to imagine was mild satisfaction. She stretched her wings lazily, and Harry took a step back to avoid getting accidentally bowled over by the gust of wind they kicked up.

 

A voice called out from behind him, “You bribing the Ridgeback into friendship now?”

 

Harry turned to find Jo approaching, a harness slung over one shoulder and her usual cocky smirk in place. Her boots were muddy, her sleeves rolled, and a faint smear of soot streaked across one cheek.

 

“More like rekindling old ties,” Harry said, lifting the bucket. “I knew her as a hatchling.”

 

“Seriously?” Jo blinked, “You’ve got history with a dragon and didn’t lead with that?”

 

Harry shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips, “Didn’t seem important until now.”

 

Without further explanation, he started down the path toward the next enclosure, the bucket of meat chunks slung over his arm like an offering. Jo trailed after him, clearly curious.

 

“What are you doing now?” she asked, raising a brow.

 

“Apologizing,” Harry said simply, tossing a chunk toward a sunbathing Opaleye who rumbled in greeting. “Missed morning feeding. Felt rude.”

 

The dragon snapped up the treat, huffing a puff of steam as Harry called out, “Sorry I missed breakfast! The Horntail’s eggs hatched—five healthy hatchlings!”

 

The Opaleye blinked slowly and lowered her head in what felt almost like a nod.

 

Harry turned back toward Jo with a lopsided grin, “Only a few left to go.”

 

Jo folded her arms, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement, “You’re apologizing to dragons.”

 

“Well… yeah,” Harry replied, a little defensively. “They understand more than people think. Figured they deserved to know why I vanished.”

 

Jo shook her head, not in disagreement, but in awe, “You’re mental. But the dragons love you for it, so I guess I can’t argue.”

 

They continued walking side by side through the enclosures, and Harry offered his final handful of meat to a sleepy-looking Peruvian Vipertooth who lazily accepted the offering before curling back around its tail.

 

With the bucket now empty, Harry exhaled and dusted off his hands.

 

“That’s it,” he said. “My dragon penance is complete.”

 

Jo chuckled and nudged him with her elbow. “You realize you’ve just set the bar ridiculously high, right? You’ve made us all look bad.”

 

Harry smirked, “Good.”

 

She laughed again, “Charlie’s by the food shed, by the way. He was asking if you’d join the afternoon sweeps.”

 

“Alright,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Might as well stay useful.”

 

He paused, looking out over the reserve. The distant roar of a dragon echoing softly through the hills.

 

He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

 

“Let’s go find him, then.”

 

888

 

Time on the reserve passed in a blur of roaring wings, smoky sunsets, and the warm scent of pine. Before Harry could fully grasp how much the experience had changed him, it was time to say goodbye. Far too soon, he found himself standing before each dragon one last time, offering quiet farewells and final bits of conversation. Some huffed curiously, others nudged him gently with warm snouts, and a few simply watched him go with unreadable, ancient eyes. He felt the weight of each farewell settle somewhere deep in his chest—grief laced with pride.

 

When the goodbyes were finished, he and his parents sat down with Dane Ironmuir in the large field tent overlooking the nesting range. The atmosphere was serious but not grim—there was something hopeful in the air, something enduring.

 

Dane folded his hands over the desk, “You’re the first underage wizard I’ve ever considered giving long-term access to the reserve, Harry. You’ve earned that much—and more.”

 

“I want to keep helping,” Harry said simply. “If they ever need me, I want to come back. Even if I’m still at Hogwarts.”

 

Lucius, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet through the conversation, gave a subtle nod, “We agree. If this is the future he chooses, then we intend to support it properly.”

 

And so, arrangements were made.

 

By the end of the meeting, Harry had been gifted a custom Portkey in the form of a sleek obsidian pendant etched with draconic runes. The necklace would activate only when spoken to with a specific word—one only Harry, his family, and a few select handlers would know. It would bring him directly to the grounds should the need arise.

 

Additionally, Dane assured them that one of the few reserve members capable of casting a full corporeal Patronus would be assigned the task of contacting Harry in case of urgent need. “Not many of us can do it,” Dane admitted, “but Jo’s is reliable. She’ll know what to say when the time comes.”

 

Harry held the necklace in his hand as they exited the tent, watching the way it caught the light. It felt cool and solid against his palm, but more than that—it felt like a promise. One he intended to keep.

 

As they walked back toward their own tent to begin packing, Harry glanced back at the reserve. The sun was beginning to set, casting long golden beams across the trees and warming the scaled backs of dragons as they lounged peacefully in their enclosures. Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard a soft roar—familiar and fond.

 

“I’ll come back,” he murmured, fingers tightening around the pendant. “Whenever you need me.”

 

Narcissa, walking just beside him, gave a knowing look, “They know, sweetheart.”

 

Draco, still clutching a sketchbook filled with illustrations of dragons, muttered, “Merlin, you’re going to cry, aren’t you?”

 

Harry smirked, eyes still fixed on the horizon, “Shut up.”

 

888

 

The moment Harry stepped back into his room at the manor and caught sight of his familiar window bed, his body gave in. He didn’t bother to undress or pull back the covers—he just collapsed face-first onto the mattress, the scent of clean linen wrapping around him like a blanket. Within seconds, he was out cold.

 

The past few days at the reserve had been exhilarating and exhausting in equal measure. Early mornings spent walking the perimeter with Dane, long hours in the heat of the enclosures, and late-night talks under the stars with Charlie had all taken their toll. His muscles ached in places he hadn’t known existed, and even his magic felt heavy in his veins—like it, too, was tired.

 

But it had been worth it. Every second.

 

Still, as much as he already missed the dragons—their warm, earthy scent, the way they hummed low in their throats when they recognized him, the thrill of hearing wings split the air—he couldn’t deny the strange comfort of being home. The manor, despite everything, had a rhythm to it he was starting to learn. And this room, with its tall arched window and soft blue plaid bedding he’d picked out himself, had become his space.

 

A small part of him still felt like an imposter every time he stepped inside. But tonight, he didn’t have the energy to question it.

 

When Narcissa peeked in on him not long after, she found him curled up on his side, one arm hanging loosely off the edge of the bed, shoes still on, breathing deep and steady. She didn't disturb him. Instead, she stepped quietly inside, adjusted the blanket so it covered his shoulders properly, and reached out briefly to smooth his hair away from his face. Her fingers hesitated there for a moment longer than necessary before she withdrew.

 

“Sleep well, darling,” she whispered, before leaving the room in silence.

 

Downstairs, the manor was quieter than usual. Draco had vanished into his own rooms, muttering about reorganizing his art supplies. Lucius had retreated to his study, a half-empty glass of firewhisky in hand, pretending to read while his thoughts circled around the boy upstairs that he still didn’t quite know how to protect.

 

For now, though, Harry on, wrapped in a rare moment of peace.

 

He dreamt of wings and smoke and the comforting rumble of something ancient that still knew his name.

 

888

 

The following morning, as the Malfoy family gathered for breakfast in the sunlit dining room, a neatly wrapped parcel bearing the Noirveil family crest swooped in, delivered by none other than Hedwig.

 

The snowy owl landed gracefully on the back of Harry’s chair, then hopped down onto the table to drop the package beside his plate. She gave a sharp, expectant hoot, fluffing her feathers and fixing Harry with a pointed look.

 

“Hey, Hedwig,” Harry greeted fondly, reaching across the table to snatch a strip of bacon—right off Lucius’s plate—and offered it to her.

 

Lucius lowered his paper just enough to shoot Harry a disapproving glare, though he said nothing.

 

Narcissa set down her teacup with a delicate clink and smiled knowingly, “Ah, that must be from Monsieur Noirveil. Most likely your ensemble for this evening’s ball.”

 

Harry paused mid-bite and glanced at the parcel. It was long and flat, wrapped in pale silver silk and tied with a wide black ribbon. A wax seal pressed with a coiling serpent held a note in place on top. He reached for it but made no move to open it just yet, letting his hand fall back to his lap.

 

“I still think it’s strange,” he muttered, spearing a slice of orange with his fork, “Two balls in a row feels excessive.”

 

Lucius didn’t look up from his paper, “It’s traditional.”

 

Narcissa tilted her head slightly, brushing back a curl from her cheek, “Not strange at all, darling. The season often calls for back-to-back events—especially among the older families. It’s customary for one of the houses to host a private gathering on Christmas Eve. In years past, we’ve hosted it ourselves.”

 

“But with the Tournament keeping most of the children at Hogwarts,” Lucius added smoothly, setting down his paper, “there was little point in the usual crowd squabbling over who would host the grandest event. No audience, no spectacle.”

 

Narcissa’s eyes gleamed faintly over the rim of her teacup, “It will only make next year’s season more extravagant,” she said with a knowing smirk, casting a sidelong glance at Harry. He got the distinct impression that she would be hosting next year.

 

Harry finished the last bite of his toast, wiped his hands on his napkin, and stood, “I’m going to go open the package upstairs.”

 

Harry made his way back to his room, Hedwig trailing behind him lazily. Once inside, he set the package gently on the end of his bed. The wrapping was sleek and minimalistic, silver ribbon tied crisply over deep navy paper embossed with the faint outline of a raven.

 

Undoing the ribbon, he peeled back the paper to reveal a pristine black garment box. A handwritten card sat atop it—Valentin’s elegant scrawl reading:

 

For your second grand entrance. Let them see you as you are, Castor Malfoy. – VN

 

Inside was an outfit unlike anything he’d ever worn before: deep forest green velvet robes with silver accents worked subtly into the cuffs and collar, the fabric light and tailored to drape with the fluid ease of motion. A matching vest embroidered with twisting vines and hidden dragons shimmered when the light hit it just right. Tucked into the side pocket was a silk cravat and a set of cufflinks shaped like coiled serpents.

 

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. But it was unmistakably regal.

 

Harry let out a breath and ran a hand across the smooth fabric, his thoughts a swirl of nerves, excitement, and something heavier—an echo of all the masks he’d worn and the names he’d answered to. This, somehow, felt like armor.

 

He wasn’t sure he was ready for another ball, but he was certain of one thing.

 

People would see him tonight.

 

888

 

It wasn’t until after dinner, as steam drifted through the marble-tiled bathroom and Harry stepped out of the shower, that he noticed something was missing. Valentin’s sleek ensemble hung neatly from the wardrobe door, elegant and untouched—but the little details that had brought the first look together were nowhere to be found.

 

The vials of potions, the smoothing salves, the cologne—everything he’d used to refine himself into something presentable for the first ball—were still in the Room of Requirement, locked away in the place he wasn’t supposed to be living. Along with them, the insulting book.

 

Dripping slightly and wrapped in a towel, Harry frowned at his reflection. There was no way he’d show up to this event half-put-together, not with Narcissa’s reputation at stake—and not with the Malfoy name stitched into his collar this time.

 

With a resigned sigh, he tugged on a robe and stepped out of his room, hair still damp and feet bare as he padded quietly down the corridor.

 

He knocked lightly on her door, “Mum? Can I come in?”

 

“Of course, darling,” came Narcissa’s voice, warm and composed. She was standing at her vanity in a silken dressing robe, brushing her hair. Her room smelled faintly of lavender and something richer, more floral—probably one of her expensive perfumes.

 

Harry stepped in sheepishly, “I, um… I didn’t bring any of the things from the last ball. Like the hair stuff. And… the other stuff. I don’t really know what half of it was, honestly.”

 

Narcissa arched one perfectly manicured brow and turned toward him with a knowing smile, “You mean the products that made you look like a polished young heir instead of a windswept dragon wrangler?”

 

Harry winced, “Yeah. Those.”

 

She set her brush down with a soft clink, “You should have told me sooner, sweetheart. Come here.”

 

Harry moved closer, and she gestured for him to sit on the small stool in front of her mirror.

 

“I keep a full second set of everything,” she said lightly, already pulling open drawers with practiced ease. “Boys are forever forgetting to pack the essentials.”

 

As she worked, gently smoothing the styling balm into his hair and murmuring a soft glamour to lessen the evidence of a sleepless night, Harry found himself relaxing. The motions were careful, almost reverent—nothing like the way Aunt Petunia used to scrub at his scalp or shove a comb through his hair. This was… soothing.

 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, watching her reflection as she pinned a single strand back from his face.

 

Narcissa met his eyes in the mirror and gave a faint smile, “You’re welcome. Now hold still—if we’re going to turn you into a Malfoy prince again, I need to concentrate.”

 

He let out a small laugh, but obeyed. And for a few precious minutes, under the glow of Narcissa’s vanity mirror and her practiced hands, Harry allowed himself to feel like a son being cared for.

 

888

 

The Malfoys were among the first to arrive at the Greengrass Ball, their entrance as elegant and calculated as ever. Given Draco’s betrothal to Astoria, it was only proper that the family make a prompt appearance—Draco, after all, was expected to be by her side throughout the evening, escorting her.

 

Harry, dressed to perfection in his newest set of formalwear, lingered near the entrance for a moment as the grandeur of the ballroom settled around him. The Greengrass estate was nothing short of opulent—enchanted chandeliers glittered like constellations overhead, and the entire space shimmered faintly under layers of seasonal charmwork. Silver snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, dissolving before they ever touched the guests.

 

Though he hadn’t spoken much to Astoria yet, Harry decided it would be polite to seek her out before the room became too crowded. She stood near the base of the grand staircase, poised and radiant in an ice-blue gown that complimented her pale features and cool demeanor. Draco stood dutifully at her side, offering her his arm and murmuring something that made her laugh behind her gloved hand.

 

“Astoria,” Harry greeted, giving a respectful incline of his head. “Thank you for the invitation.”

 

She smiled, a small but genuine expression, “I’m glad you came, Castor. You’re looking well.”

 

“Trying my best,” he said with a faint smile, and let the moment linger just long enough to be courteous before politely excusing himself to find Daphne.

 

He spotted her across the ballroom, speaking animatedly to her betrothed—tall, dark-haired, and aristocratic in the way only someone from an old family could be. If Harry remembered correctly, he was a cousin of Blaise Zabini’s.

 

Daphne caught Harry’s eye as he approached and offered a graceful nod, “Castor. You’re braver than I thought, coming to two balls in a row.”

 

“I suppose I’m a glutton for punishment,” he replied dryly. “You look incredible, by the way.”

 

Daphne raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Flattery will get you far. This is Matteo,” she said, gesturing to her date, “He doesn’t speak much English, so don’t bother trying to charm him.”

 

Matteo offered Harry a polite, unreadable nod. Harry returned it in kind, deciding he was just fine with that.

 

“Save me a dance later?” Daphne asked, tilting her head.

 

“Only if you promise not to judge my footwork.”

 

“I make no promises.”

 

Harry smiled and drifted away from Daphne and her betrothed, his steps light and measured. But as the room steadily filled, the smile began to feel more like armor than anything genuine. The ballroom glowed with warmth and candlelight, but Harry felt the chill of caution settle over him.

 

There was a good chance Death Eaters or their sympathizers were among the crowd. This was a pureblood event—exactly the sort of place where dangerous loyalties could be hidden behind silk gloves and practiced smiles.

 

He kept one eye trained on Lucius, silently cataloguing everyone who approached him. It wasn’t paranoia—it was prudence. If anyone in the room had a problem with Harry’s return, they’d be watching Lucius just as closely. After all, it had been Lucius who had openly welcomed his son back.

 

So focused was he on his parents that he startled slightly when someone touched his wrist.

 

“Easy, Castor,” Theo said softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s just me.”

 

Harry blinked and looked over, immediately relaxing at the sight of Theo Nott standing beside him in black formal robes, embroidered subtly with serpentine patterns.

 

“You caught me off guard,” Harry murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he glanced sideways at Theo.

 

“You looked miles away,” Theo replied gently, his tone laced with concern. “Is something bothering you?”

 

Harry hesitated, his teeth catching his bottom lip as his gaze briefly swept the room again observing the conversations that felt too smooth to be honest. He didn’t want to admit how tense he felt—how much his instincts were screaming to stay alert.

 

But Theo wasn’t just another classmate tonight. He wasn’t even just a friend. He was here—solid, steady, familiar. And that mattered more than Harry could easily explain.

 

He exhaled slowly and gave a faint shake of his head, trying to dispel the weight that clung to his shoulders. Then, without overthinking it, he reached out and slipped his hand into Theo’s.

 

“Would it be alright if I stayed close to you tonight?” he asked, quieter this time. Not just a polite question—more like an admission. “I just... I feel safer with you.”

 

Theo’s hand tightened slightly around his, grounding and warm. “Of course,” he said softly, without hesitation, “You don’t even have to ask.”

 

Harry glanced at him again, and this time, his smile was real—small, but genuine.

 

“Thanks,” he said.

 

Theo tilted his head just enough to meet Castor’s gaze, his voice soft but steady, “Always, Castor.”

 

There was no hesitation in the answer, no uncertainty—just a quiet promise between them that didn’t need embellishment. Castor gave a small nod, his fingers curling more securely around Theo’s. He wasn’t sure if Theo felt it—the flicker of unease still humming beneath his skin—but the warmth of that familiar hand helped ground him.

 

It didn’t take long for the usual Slytherin crowd to drift in, like a tide of emerald and silver threading through the grand ballroom. They moved with practiced elegance, heads held high and expressions carefully measured, but Castor found it easier to face them with Theo at his side.

 

Blaise was the first to reach them, dressed in deep navy robes.

 

Blaise gave Theo a pointed look before flicking his gaze down to their interlaced fingers, “Still joined at the hip, I see.”

 

“Why break a good thing?” Theo replied smoothly, his tone affectionate without veering into showy.

 

Harry flushed. He leaned a little closer instead, just enough that Theo’s shoulder brushed his.

 

They were soon joined by Pansy, Millicent, and a few other familiar faces from their year. Pansy eyed them both with a mischievous smirk.

 

“Typical,” Pansy said dryly as she spotted them, “Leave it to Nott to monopolize Castor all night.”

 

Blaise smirked, hands in his pockets, “You can hardly blame him. The two of you were on the dance floor more than the actual band at the last ball.”

 

Millicent gave a dramatic yawn, “Some of us just went for the food.”

 

Harry chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders as the group closed in around them. There was teasing, laughter, and a bit of jostling as they all fell into a loose, comfortable rhythm—one that Harry was still getting used to, but no longer felt like an outsider in.

 

Theo stayed close beside him, one hand casually within Harry’s as he kept him close.

 

Just then, the low hum of conversation shifted—quieting, then sharpening—as a new wave of guests entered the hall. They moved with deliberate grace, robes whispering against marble, their eyes sweeping the room like they owned it. They were older. Sharper. Powerful in the way that had nothing to do with wands and everything to do with bloodlines and secrets whispered into goblets at midnight.

 

Harry didn’t recognize a single one of them.

 

But they all knew him.

 

He felt it immediately—the weight of their stares, the subtle shift in posture, the way conversation around them bent without words.

 

Theo stiffened beside him, his body angled just slightly toward Castor, a subtle shield.

 

“Keep your chin up,” Theo murmured, voice low and certain. “You’re not the one who should be nervous tonight.”

 

Harry nodded slowly, even as unease curled in his stomach. It was strange—standing in a room where everyone seemed to know his name, his face, his entire story… and yet he didn’t know theirs. Not their names, not their allegiances, not whether the look in their eyes was admiration or hunger.

 

A tall man with iron-grey hair and a dark green cloak brushed past the group of Slytherins. He paused just long enough to give Castor a once-over, eyes sweeping from head to toe like he was inspecting a priceless artifact—or a weapon.

 

“So this is the boy,” the man said, addressing no one and everyone at once. “The one they’ve been writing about. Looks less like a Malfoy in person.”

 

Theo didn’t even flinch, “Careful. He bites.”

 

The man’s lip curled in amusement before he drifted away.

 

Another witch, her rings glittering with crests and ancient family sigils, gave Harry a sharp smile as she passed. “You have your mother’s chin,” she said smoothly, “and your father’s... nose. Let's hope you don't inherit his judgment.”

 

Harry’s throat went dry, but he stood tall. He didn’t rise to it. He didn’t look away.

 

Pansy leaned in just enough for her voice to reach him, “You’ll get used to it. They’re sharks. You’re blood in the water.”

 

“Thanks,” he muttered. “Very comforting.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Blaise added dryly, “they only circle if they think you're interesting. Right now, you're practically dinner theatre.”

 

Theo’s hand squeezed his, anchoring him.

 

It wasn’t long before the band struck up, the smooth blend of strings and soft percussion filling the hall with a gentle rhythm. As if drawn by an unspoken agreement, Harry and Theo found themselves back on the dance floor.

 

For Harry, it quickly became the safest place in the room.

 

The weight of curious stares pressed against him from all sides—some subtle, others not—but in Theo’s arms, it was easier to shut it all out. The glances, the whispers, the constant buzz of speculation that seemed to follow him everywhere since returning to the Malfoys… it all dulled in the face of the steady rhythm of their steps and the quiet confidence in Theo’s presence.

 

They moved together in easy time, Theo’s hand at his waist a steady anchor. And as long as they were dancing, no one could pull him aside for awkward questions or forced politeness. No one could interrupt.

 

It was a strange kind of freedom—floating in a sea of watching eyes, but entirely untouchable.

 

Harry glanced up at Theo, who met his gaze with a faint smirk and a glint of mischief in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

 

After several songs and a fair amount of twirling, Theo gently slowed their steps as the next tune began to play. He leaned in, voice pitched low just for Harry.

 

“Come on,” he murmured, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes. “Let’s sit for a bit. You’re going to collapse if we keep this up all night. My family’s table is nearby—we can grab a drink or some food.”

 

Harry’s stomach turned at the casual mention. Theo’s family. Of course they were here. Harry had known, in the abstract, that he’d eventually meet them—but the idea of doing so now made his pulse quicken.

 

He nodded anyway. “Sure,” he said, managing to sound more confident than he felt.

 

He hadn’t asked much about Theo’s family. He knew Theo’s father wasn’t in the picture—something he'd mentioned in passing, with the sort of precision that made it clear the topic wasn’t open for discussion. Instead, Theo lived with his mother and his paternal grandparents. That was all Harry knew, and it was enough to make the thought of this brief detour feel like something far more significant.

 

They wove through the crowd, Theo moving easily, like the room belonged to him. Harry followed just a step behind, trying not to overthink every movement, every glance.

 

The Nott family’s table was situated near one of the darker corners of the ballroom, elegantly set but removed from the most visible areas. It was well-placed—intentional, probably. Quiet. Observing. Watching without being watched.

 

A tall, willowy woman stood as they approached. Her hair was pinned in an elaborate twist, silver jewelry gleaming against dark purple robes. Her gaze swept over Harry with careful precision—not hostile, but certainly assessing.

 

“Castor this is my mother, Selene. Mother,” Theo said smoothly, reaching for the back of her hand and brushing a kiss across her knuckles in a gesture so formal it made Harry blink. “This is Castor.”

 

Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, “Of course. Hard not to recognize someone when they’ve been splashed across every headline this season.”

 

Harry swallowed bowing his head, “Ma’am.”

 

She inclined her head, graceful and cool, “Welcome. I trust my son hasn’t worn you out yet?”

 

“A little,” Harry admitted before he could stop himself, which earned him a soft laugh from Theo and a raised eyebrow from the woman.

 

Seated at the table were two older adults—Theo’s grandparents, Harry assumed. The man had a narrow face and a sharp jaw, his pale blue eyes assessing Harry with quiet scrutiny. There was something familiar about him, though Harry couldn’t immediately place it. Perhaps he’d seen him in the Prophet—his face had that kind of sharp-edged presence, the sort that lingered in memory even if the details didn’t.

 

The woman beside him was regal in posture, draped in deep royal-blue robes embroidered with bronze thread. Her white hair was pinned in place with a single, dark emerald comb, and her expression was reserved but not unkind.

 

As they both looked up, Theo leaned slightly toward Harry and murmured, “These are my grandparents—Alban and Calla Nott.”

 

Harry gave a polite nod and stepped forward, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m—well, Castor.”

 

Alban Nott gave a short, considering nod, “We’ve read a great deal about you recently.”

 

There was no real emotion in his voice—just calm observation, and the faintest flicker of curiosity behind his pale eyes. Harry couldn’t tell if it was approval or suspicion that lingered in that look.

 

“Welcome, Castor,” Calla said, her voice smoother and more deliberate. “We’re pleased to finally meet you.” Her gaze flicked to Theo for the briefest moment before returning to Harry. “You dance well.”

 

“Thank you,” Harry said, surprised, though he dipped his head politely. “Theo makes it easy.”

 

At that, Calla’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. Alban hummed quietly, a sound that could have been agreement or something else entirely.

 

Theo pulled out a chair for Harry with an ease that made it clear he thought nothing of the gesture—no ceremony, no hesitation. Just quiet care.

 

“Sit,” Theo said with a knowing look. “Rest for a moment. I’ll grab something to eat—and drinks.”

 

Harry’s stomach twisted slightly at the idea of being left alone, but he swallowed it down. Theo wasn’t abandoning him; he was entrusting him to the people he trusted most. That realization made Harry’s chest tighten in an entirely different way. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep the smile from taking over his face as he murmured a soft, “Thanks,” and settled into the seat.

 

Theo gave his shoulder a reassuring pat before slipping away, weaving through the crowd with his usual graceful confidence.

 

Harry could feel all three of the elder Notts watching him as he adjusted in his seat. Their gazes weren’t unfriendly—just measured, careful, as if they were trying to place exactly what kind of creature had landed at their table.

 

Not wanting to sit there like a lump or appear intimidated, Harry turned slightly toward the older man beside him. The resemblance to Theo was there in the sharp set of the jaw and the intensity of his eyes.

 

“Theo speaks very highly of you,” Harry offered, pitching his voice politely but with warmth.

 

The man arched an eyebrow, mildly surprised, “Does he now?”

 

Harry nodded, “Yes, sir. We’re potions partners in class, and he’s always quoting advice he says came from you. About ingredients, preparation methods. He trusts your knowledge.”

 

That earned a faint chuckle from the older wizard, “He’s always been a clever boy. Too clever, sometimes.”

 

“I think he’s brilliant,” Harry said, before he could stop himself. Then, realizing how that might sound, he flushed and quickly added, “As a partner, I mean. He’s taught me a lot.”

 

Theo’s grandmother, seated across from them in dark velvet robes and a sharp-edged string of pearls, gave him a once-over like she was sizing him up for a fitting, “And what exactly is it you’re studying so intently with our grandson, Mr. Malfoy?”

 

“Castor,” Harry offered gently.

 

“Castor, then,” she repeated, voice smooth. “Your name has been… difficult to avoid lately.”

 

Harry fought the urge to squirm, “Yes, ma’am. I suppose it has.”

 

“Hmm,” She sipped her wine, eyes still on him, “The press rarely has the full truth, of course.”

 

Harry held her gaze, straightening a bit, “No, they don’t. But the truth tends to come out eventually.”

 

There was a pause—tense, curious—but not hostile. The elder Notts exchanged a glance between them, the kind of wordless conversation that only came with years of marriage and shared secrets.

 

Theo returned just then, sliding a goblet of chilled punch in front of Harry and setting a small plate of neatly arranged finger foods beside it.

 

“Still alive?” Theo teased as he took a seat.

 

“Barely,” Harry muttered with a half-smile.

 

“Don’t worry,” his grandfather said dryly, “If we wanted to hex him, we’d have done it before the dancing.”

 

To Harry’s surprise, the table chuckled—even the grandmother gave a faint smirk.

 

The tension eased, just a little.

 

Theo’s grandfather leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes sharp behind aged lids, studying Harry with a curiosity that bordered on clinical examination, “So, Castor… what exactly are your plans now that you've been properly returned to your roots?”

 

Harry took a measured sip of his drink, choosing his words with care, “After the First Task, I was offered a position at a dragon reserve. I’ll still need to finish my education, of course, but they’ve arranged for me to train during holidays and be on call for emergencies. I’ve actually spent the past few days there—getting settled, learning the basics.”

 

That earned a spark of interest from the old man, “Dragons, is it? An unusual path. Dangerous, certainly, but… noble creatures. Ancient. Unforgiving. They don’t tolerate weakness.”

 

Theo’s grandmother tipped her head, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and reservation, “Noble, perhaps. But volatile. And not precisely the future one envisions for a Malfoy.”

 

Harry met her gaze without flinching, “I don’t think safety was ever going to be part of my story. And I may be a Malfoy, but I am also a Gryffindor. The reckless streak sort of comes with the territory.”

 

Theo gave a quiet snort beside him, clearly amused, and took a long sip of his wine to hide the smirk tugging at his mouth.

 

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” murmured his grandmother, arching a single perfectly sculpted brow.

 

The grandfather gave a low, dry chuckle, something almost like amusement glinting in his pale eyes, “At least the boy is honest. A rare trait these days, particularly among our kind.”

 

Harry blinked. That wasn’t the reaction he’d expected.

 

The elder Nott leaned forward slightly, resting a heavy hand on the table, “Still, magical beasts… it’s a curious choice when you’ve inherited a name as old and weighted as yours. The Malfoy legacy was built on tradition. Prestige. Clean alliances. Your father walks the Ministry halls. Your mother commands a room with her bloodline alone. You’re not… entirely free to make your own path, not really.”

 

Harry stiffened, though he fought to keep it from showing. He knew exactly what the man was saying—and more importantly, what he wasn’t saying. This wasn’t about dragons. It was about power, loyalty, and the old ways that refused to stay buried.

 

“I respect tradition,” Harry replied, voice even but firm. “But sometimes, tradition is a path carved for someone else. I don’t think honour comes from doing what’s expected. I think it comes from doing what’s right—for you. Especially when it would be easier not to.”

 

A beat of silence followed.

 

Even Theo held his breath.

 

Then, to Harry’s surprise, the grandmother let out a soft, almost elegant laugh. Not mocking, not cruel—genuinely intrigued, “He’s clever, this one.”

 

“I did warn you,” Theo said smugly, leaning back in his seat like a cat who’d caught a particularly rare mouse, “I don’t waste time.”

 

His grandfather gave a thoughtful grunt, his gaze still fixed on Harry like he was something interesting beneath a microscope. “No… you don’t,” he murmured. Then, with the faintest twitch of his mouth, “And neither does he.”

 

The silence that followed held a curious weight, not quite approval, not quite challenge—but something sharpened by expectation.

 

Harry took the pause as an opportunity, shifting slightly in his seat and glancing between the three older Notts. “Theo mentioned that you all work with magical creatures as well,” he said, keeping his tone light, genuinely interested. “He said you have a magical zoo?”

 

Alban nodded.

 

“Yes,” Harry pressed on, warming to the topic. “I’ve been curious about it ever since he told me. I think my mum she is planning to bring me for a visit this summer.”

 

Lord Nott inclined his head slightly. “Many of the creatures we keep aren’t suited for idle onlookers,” he said, voice cool but not unkind, “However, if your mother gives us sufficient notice, I imagine we could arrange a more… comprehensive tour for you.”

 

Harry turned toward the woman seated beside him—Theo’s mother. Her posture was more relaxed than her in-laws, but her sharp eyes had not stopped appraising him since he’d arrived, “Theo mentioned that you recently took in a unicorn. A rescue.”

 

At that, her eyes flickered with something warmer—pride, maybe, or something softer.

 

“I did,” she said, her voice the first note of genuine warmth Harry had heard from her. “It was injured—caught in a trap not meant for it, out near the edge of the Ashbarrow Wood. Poachers, more likely than not. Its leg was broken. Nasty wound. We were able to save it, though it may never run quite the same again.”

 

“That’s… incredible,” Harry said, and meant it. “I’ve never actually seen a unicorn up close. Well, only a dead one.”

 

“You’ll see it when you visit,” she said after a moment, the corner of her mouth tilting up. “It’s taken a liking to Theo, of all people. Follows him around the east enclosure like a shadow.”

 

Theo groaned softly from his seat, “It licked my hair once.”

 

Selene chuckled and reached delicately for her glass. “And you complained about it for a week,” she teased, eyes twinkling as she sipped.

 

Harry laughed, the sound lighter than he expected, easing a knot of tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. The warmth at the table had begun to settle around him like a well-worn cloak, and he gratefully picked at the plate Theo had brought him, the familiar comfort of food grounding him further.

 

“Oh!” he said, perking up as he turned to Theo, who’d claimed the seat beside him. “Speaking of magical creatures… I actually brought something for you. I realized I hadn’t given you a Christmas gift yet, so I collected a few things while I was at the reserve. I’m not sure if they’re useful, but you’re always saying things like ‘Everything has its use,’ or ‘In all things, potential,’ so…”

 

Harry reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small, square box wrapped in a strip of simple twine. He passed it to Theo, who accepted it with a flicker of surprised curiosity.

 

Theo opened it right at the table, his long fingers deft with the twine. Nestled inside, cushioned in soft cloth, were several iridescent dragon scales in varying hues and a few pale fragments that looked almost pearlescent.

 

“The shells are from a Hungarian Horntail egg,” Harry explained, watching Theo’s expression. “The hatchling was struggling to break through, so I helped it out. These were the bits left behind. The scales were all naturally shed—I picked them up during feedings or while cleaning enclosures.”

 

Theo’s gaze softened as he gently lifted a glimmering scale, holding it up to the light. “This is… incredible,” he murmured. “You’ve no idea how hard it is to get Horntail eggshell in usable condition. Even these fragments could stabilize volatile catalysts. And the scales…”

 

His eyes flicked up, and for a moment, there was a rare kind of reverence in his voice, “You thought of me while you were working with dragons?”

 

Harry blushed faintly, shrugging, “Of course. I think of you frequently.”

 

That earned a quiet snort from Alban, but it was Selene who smiled warmly.

 

“You’ve got a good instinct for gifts,” she said, tipping her glass again. “Most boys your age would’ve picked out a bottle of cologne or a Quidditch poster.”

 

Theo, however, seemed entirely absorbed in the contents of the box. He turned one of the gleaming scales over between his fingers, expression unreadable for a moment before he finally said, softly but sincerely, “This is one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received.”

 

Harry gave an awkward little shrug, trying to downplay the warmth blooming in his chest. “It’s just… dragon bits,” he muttered, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “And I’ve only been there a few days. Imagine what I’ll be able to send once I’m working there full-time.”

 

Across the table, Alban let out a dry chuckle and lifted his goblet, “You collect enough of those, Theo, and you’ll have no excuse not to join the family business. Might even break my record, at this rate.”

 

Theo’s eyes glinted with amusement as he shut the lid of the box and tucked it safely into his inner coat pocket, “Oh, no. These are too special. They’re going into my private collection,” he said, lips quirking into a sly grin. “Besides, I’m already weeks away from breaking your record as it is… with Castor’s help, of course.”

 

That earned a few raised brows around the table.

 

Alban leaned forward slightly, interest clearly piqued, “Oh?”

 

Theo offered a proud sort of nod, equal parts smug and earnest, “Mhm. Don’t be surprised if you receive an owl requesting a formal retrieval from Hogwarts soon. I’m close to completing my entry.”

 

That caught Alban’s attention. His brows rose slowly, “Already?”

 

Theo leaned back in his chair, utterly composed, “You always said the rarest finds take the most risk. Well, we took a calculated one.”

 

Selene narrowed her eyes in interest, “Don’t tell me this has something to do with that cryptic letter you sent last week. I assumed you were still in the planning stages.”

 

Theo shook his head with practiced nonchalance, “Thanks to Castor I skipped that step. The hardest of the work’s done. It’s just a few more small things we have left to deal with.”

 

Alban leaned in, lips twitching upward in a smirk, “You’re not going to tell us what it is.”

 

“Of course not,” Theo said smoothly. “Where’s the fun in that?”

 

That earned a quiet chuckle from Selene, “So dramatic. You get that from your father’s side.”

 

She lifted her glass, then added with a pointed look, “Are you at least able to tell us how you managed it while still at school? You two haven’t been sneaking into the Forbidden Forest at night or anything… reckless, I hope?”

 

Her tone held that familiar motherly disapproval, even as curiosity gleamed in her eyes.

 

Theo smirked, completely unfazed, “Thanks to Castor, it was far easier than that. Let’s just say—I had as much luck as you did, Grandfather.”

 

Alban’s brow arched with interest.

 

Harry shifted under the weight of their collective attention, sitting a little straighter, “I didn’t do much. Theo did most of the real work, I just followed his lead.”

 

Selene hummed, not entirely convinced, “Well, that tends to say more than you think, dear.”

 

Alban studied him for a long moment, then inclined his head, “That’s no small thing, lad. Theo’s been training for this, but our business is not for the faint-hearted.”

 

“We will be finished soon,” Theo added, voice low but certain.

 

Alban raised his glass in a toast, “To the next heir of the Nott legacy—may your entry be as bold as your ambition.”

 

Selene joined him, murmuring, “And may it not blow up half the school in the process.”

 

Theo smirked, “No promises.”

 

Harry clinked his glass gently against theirs, eyes flicking to Theo’s for just a moment.

 

Theo was clearly pleased to impress is family.

 

And Harry couldn’t help but feel a little proud to be part of it.

Notes:

Once again, thank you to everyone for the Kudos and Comments!

I tried to fit a lot into this one to move forward a bit but I am not sure it is up to the normal standards I had set. Please let me know if anything feels off. Whether it is the flow or if I made any parts hard to follow. I am really not sure on this one.

Thank you!

Chapter 45: Chapter 45

Chapter 45

 

After polishing off the last of their food, Harry and Theo found their way back to the dance floor. Laughter passed between them in quiet pockets, low and private, as the world blurred pleasantly around them.

 

They took breaks now and then—slipping back to the table for a drink or a conversation with Theo’s family—but always found themselves drawn back to the floor, as if orbiting one another.

 

It was well past midnight when a familiar voice interrupted their rhythm.

 

“Castor,” Narcissa’s voice was soft but firm as she approached the Nott table, her posture graceful and impeccable despite the late hour. “We should be going. The hour is quite late.”

 

Harry turned, slightly flushed from dancing, but smiling, “Of course, Mum.”

 

Selene gave a polite nod in greeting, and Alban stood briefly as a show of respect to the Lady Malfoy. “He was no trouble,” he said evenly. “A curious boy. We rather enjoyed his company.”

 

“I should hope so,” Narcissa replied, her tone gracious but clipped. “He has a way of leaving an impression.”

 

Theo stood as well, his hand brushing briefly against Harry’s back in a barely-there goodbye. “I’ll owl you tomorrow.”

 

Harry nodded, grateful for the promise. “You’d better.”

 

As he turned to go, Selene leaned in just enough to murmur, “You're welcome to sit with us anytime, Castor.”

 

Harry glanced back, surprised—and just a little warmed—by the unexpected invitation, “Thank you, ma’am. I’d like that.”

 

Narcissa’s hand found his elbow as they stepped away from the table, her touch light but unmistakably protective. As they made their way toward the exit, she glanced sideways at him.

 

“You looked… happy,” she observed.

 

Harry offered a soft smile, “I was.”

 

888

 

Harry didn’t wake until nearly noon the next day, his limbs heavy and pleasantly sore from dancing and the late night. He reluctantly got out of bed and made it down to the dining room just in time for lunch.

 

The moment he sat down Mipsy appeared with his lunch—and, as always, a goblet of nutrient potion he had been instructed to take daily since his return. He had been taking a swig of it when Draco flopped into the chair across from him, far less poised than usual. His robes were rumpled, his hair slightly out of place, and his expression suggested he was already done with the day—despite it barely having started for Harry.

 

“You look like you were run over by a Thestral herd,” Harry said around a bite of eggs.

 

Draco groaned and slumped forward until his forehead hit the table with a soft thud, “That’s because I basically was.”

 

Harry raised a brow, intrigued, “Bad night?”

 

“Exhausting,” Draco muttered, turning his head just enough to glare at him with one eye. “Astoria insisted we make the rounds to every single guest. Every. Single. One. Do you know how many people attend the New Year’s gala?”

 

“More than a Quidditch match?”

 

“Almost,” Draco grumbled, “Apparently being her escort means I had to be presentable and polite and make conversation with half of Wizarding Britain's upper crust—most of whom smelled like mothballs and were very interested in my bloodline and intentions.”

 

Harry smirked, amused, “Sounds like your dream evening.”

 

Draco sat up and made a vague motion of strangling himself, “I’m never agreeing to that again. I need a week of silence and maybe a foot rub.”

 

“And here I was wondering why you weren’t already bragging about your dance card being full.”

 

“Oh, please. You got out easy. All you had to do was look mysterious and moon at Theo Nott under the fairy lights. I was in social combat.”

 

Harry snorted into his pumpkin juice, “Not sure that’s the phrasing I’d go with.”

 

“I was wounded, Castor. Verbally accosted by three matrons, two foreign dignitaries, and a very aggressive matchmaking aunt.”

 

“Did you survive with your virtue intact?”

 

“Barely.”

 

They both laughed, the tension from the previous day dissolving into a comfortable hum of post-holiday exhaustion. Harry hadn’t realized how much he’d missed these kinds of mornings—lazing about in soft pajamas, trading snark over breakfast, feeling like things were almost normal.

 

Draco reached across the table and casually stole a piece of toast from Harry’s plate, tearing off a corner and popping it into his mouth with the smug entitlement of someone who’d been doing it since childhood.

 

“So,” he began, tone laden with mischief, “how was your mysterious romantic escapade? Moonlit strolls? Secret alcoves? Any scandal I should be aware of before it makes the gossip circuit?”

 

Harry flushed and gave him a sharp nudge under the table with his foot, “Hardly. I spent most of the evening getting to know his family, actually.”

 

Draco wrinkled his nose, “That’s almost worse.”

 

Before Harry could respond, the dining room doors opened and Narcissa entered, followed closely by Lucius. They took their usual seats at the head of the table—graceful as ever, though Harry noted with mild curiosity that Narcissa had The Daily Prophet in hand.

 

It struck him as odd. Lucius was the one who typically unfolded the morning paper at the table, his expression unreadable as he scanned the headlines. Narcissa, on the other hand, usually ignored the Prophet entirely, preferring correspondence from private contacts or Ministry reports.

 

He might’ve dismissed it—chalked it up to a late start or a new habit—but his attention sharpened the moment he caught a glimpse of the front page.

 

There, clear as daylight, was a moving photograph of himself and Theo dancing together at the Yule Ball. The image looped, elegant and damning, Theo’s hand at his waist and Harry’s gaze lifted toward his with unmistakable fondness.

 

Harry felt his stomach drop.

 

“Oh no,” he muttered.

 

Draco followed his line of sight, and when he saw the photo, his brows climbed, “Ah. So it’s begun.”

 

Narcissa’s eyes flicked toward Harry, her expression carefully composed—but her grip on the newspaper had tightened slightly, the edge of the parchment crinkling beneath her fingers.

 

Harry swallowed and met her gaze, “What does it say?”

 

She handed the paper over in silence, her face unreadable, “Perhaps you’d best see for yourself.”

 

"Trouble in Paradise? Castor Malfoy’s Questionable Choice of Company!"

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

 

It seems the Boy Who Was Stolen is now the Boy Who Can't Stay Out of the Headlines—and not always for the right reasons.

 

Fresh off his triumphant return to the wizarding world (and to the waiting arms of the Malfoy family), young Castor Malfoy—formerly known as Harry Potter—has been spotted not once, but twice in the company of one Theodore Nott, a reclusive Slytherin known more for his brooding silences than his sparkling conversation.

 

The pair arrived together at the Hogwarts Yule Ball, raising more than a few carefully plucked eyebrows. A curious choice for a date, given Nott's shadowy background and even murkier family history. But if there was any doubt of the closeness between them, those doubts were dashed when the two were later seen—again together—ringing in the New Year at the exclusive New Years Ball.

 

Yes, dear readers, Castor Malfoy appears to be growing increasingly entangled with the son of convicted Death Eater Tiberius Nott, who is currently serving a life sentence in Azkaban for crimes so disturbing the Wizengamot refused to publish the full details.

 

What, one must wonder, is Narcissa Malfoy thinking? Is this truly the company she hopes her long-lost son will keep—or is this all part of a more carefully orchestrated plan?

 

Some sources whisper that the Malfoys are eager to reestablish their pureblood connections in the wake of their family drama, and young Castor may be nothing more than a charming pawn in an age-old game of power and alliances. Is it love, manipulation… or just business as usual in the dark corners of high-society wizarding Britain?

 

And what of the boy himself? The one heralded as the Boy Who Lived, Castor seems strangely quiet on his new loyalties, his romantic entanglements, and the peculiar company he keeps. Is he being drawn in by old magic and older families? Or is he simply lost, clinging to anyone who makes him feel he belongs?

 

Neither the Malfoy nor Nott families could be reached for comment.

 

But rest assured, dear readers—Rita Skeeter will be watching. And if there’s more to this story (and there always is), you’ll read it here first.

 

“What the fuck?” The words tore out before Harry could stop them, sharp and incredulous.

 

“Castor!” Narcissa hissed, eyes wide with scandalized disbelief.

 

But Harry barely heard her. His heart was thudding in his ears, blood rushing in a confusing mix of outrage and disbelief. He stared down at the Prophet, the ink seeming to blur and sharpen in equal measure as his mind tried to catch up with what he’d just read.

 

Theo’s father. Tiberius Nott. Life in Azkaban.

 

Harry’s stomach churned.

He had known, of course, in some abstract way, that many of his Slytherin classmates came from families steeped in bloodlines and dark allegiances. There were always whispers of family loyalty, cryptic comments about “the war” or “the old ways”.

 

But this was different.

 

Theo had told him his father was gone. That he’d left.

Harry had assumed he meant abandoned them—not locked away in the darkest prison in Britain for serving Voldemort.

 

“I didn’t know…” he murmured, the words catching on his dry tongue.

 

And yet—he should have known, shouldn’t he?

He knew his own parents had served the Dark Lord. Knew they bore the weight of it in every glance thrown their way, every conversation that dropped an octave the moment they entered a room.

 

Still, it hadn’t occurred to him that any of their peers—Theo’s family—had actually paid for it. That someone like Tiberius Nott had been arrested, tried, and sentenced.

 

The only Death Eater Harry had ever really known to go to Azkaban was Sirius. And he had been innocent.

…Well. Innocent of that particular crime, anyway.

 

His gaze flicked to Narcissa, then to Lucius, whose expression hadn’t shifted an inch. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

 

“Did you know?” Harry asked, voice low.

 

Lucius raised an elegant brow, “Tiberius’s sentencing was in the Prophet. Years ago.”

 

“I wasn’t exactly reading the Prophet years ago,” Harry snapped.

 

He felt the sudden urge to get up. To move. To do something.

 

Theo hadn’t told him. Why hadn’t he told him? Was he ashamed? Trying to protect him? Had it even occurred to him that it mattered?

 

Harry shoved his plate an inch too hard across the table, silverware clattering as it slid. His appetite had vanished completely, replaced with a cold, hollow unease gnawing at his insides.

 

“I didn’t know anyone’s parents actually got arrested,” he muttered, voice tight. “I mean—I knew there were Death Eaters, obviously, but—” He exhaled shakily, rubbing at his temple. “I didn’t think they’d really done anything about it.”

 

Across the table, Lucius arched a brow, folding his hands neatly beside his untouched teacup, “Surely, you understood that some of the Dark Lord’s followers were imprisoned after the war,” he said, measured and smooth as always.

 

Harry's stomach twisted, frustration bubbling to the surface, “Considering Sirius was thrown in Azkaban for Death Eater activities and you weren’t, I don’t exactly have a lot of faith in the Ministry’s justice system.”

 

The words dropped like a weight onto the table.

 

The silence that followed was sharp.

 

Harry’s mouth snapped shut a moment too late.

 

Lucius's pale eyes lifted slowly to meet his.

 

Narcissa froze mid-sip of her tea.

 

It wasn’t that what Harry had said was wrong. He knew it wasn’t. He had simply never said it out loud. Not to them. Not in front of Lucius. That unspoken understanding between them—the line that had always held steady between politeness and avoidance—had just been crossed.

 

Lucius tilted his head slightly. “A bold statement,” he said at last, “And not an entirely inaccurate one.”

 

Harry blinked, “You’re not denying it?”

 

“No,” Lucius said coolly, lifting his cup, “Denial would insult your intelligence. And mine.”

 

Narcissa set down her teacup with a soft click, tone carefully neutral, “Castor, love. This article has upset you.”

 

Harry turned to her, but the guilt in his chest was already curling tight. He hadn’t meant to cause a scene—not like this. But Theo’s father. Azkaban. Life sentence. It had felt like a punch to the gut, and the world felt off-kilter in the aftermath.

 

“I just…” he said, quieter now, “I didn’t know. Theo never told me. He said his dad left.”

 

“That’s not untrue,” Lucius murmured, “There are many ways to leave a family.”

 

Harry swallowed, “But why wouldn’t he tell me?”

 

Narcissa’s expression softened, “Perhaps he was trying to protect you. Or perhaps himself. Shame wears many faces, darling.”

 

A beat passed.

 

“I need to write to him,” Harry said abruptly, standing up so quickly his chair scraped against the floor. Neither Narcissa nor Lucius tried to stop him.

 

He retreated to his room, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. The quiet was welcome—soothing, even—after the tension that still clung to him like static.

 

Hedwig hooted softly from her perch, tilting her head as he approached. “Hey, girl,” Harry murmured, gently stroking her feathers. He reached into the drawer of her perch and pulled out a treat for her, which she accepted with a gentle nip of his fingers. “I need your help.”

 

He sat heavily at the desk and stared at the blank sheet of parchment for a long moment, quill in hand but unmoving.

 

The words didn’t come easily.

 

He thought they would—that the moment he sat down, everything would spill out. But instead, all he could hear was the rush of his thoughts, too loud and too tangled to make sense of.

 

How could he even begin?

 

How could Theo even stand to be around him—trust him—when Harry might be the living embodiment of everything that had shattered his family?

 

It was more than guilt—it was a gnawing uncertainty that dug into his chest like thorns.

 

What if Theo’s father had been captured because of him?

 

Because he survived the Killing Curse. Because the Dark Lord fell. Because his name had become a symbol of resistance while others—like the Notts—paid the price.

 

Harry swallowed hard, the nausea creeping up his throat. The idea twisted something sharp in his gut.

 

He hadn’t chosen to survive. He hadn’t asked to become the Boy Who Lived. But what if his very existence had condemned Theo’s father to Azkaban? What if his continued presence at Theo’s side was a reminder of that ruin?

 

Would Theo still want him if he knew the full weight of what Harry might represent?

 

The thought made him feel sick.

 

He pressed the quill to the parchment, hesitated again, then finally began to write—slow, halting lines that scratched uncertainty onto the page:

 

Theo,

 

I saw the article. I don’t even know what to say.

I didn’t know. About your father. I know you said he left, but I didn’t realize… I didn’t think he’d been arrested. And now I can’t stop thinking about everything I might represent to you—how much of your family's pain might trace back to me just existing.

 

I’ve been sitting here trying to put this into words, but they all feel wrong. I’m sorry if I’ve ever made things harder for you. I never meant to. I swear I didn’t.

You’ve always just… seen me. Not the Malfoy twin, not the Boy Who Lived, just—me. And now I’m terrified that I’ve hurt you without realizing it. That I’m a walking reminder of everything your family lost.

 

If you want space, I understand. If this changes anything between us, I get that too. But please know that I care about you, and I’m here—if you want to talk, or yell, or say nothing at all.

Just let me know you’re okay.

 

–Castor

 

Harry folded the letter with trembling hands and tied it carefully to Hedwig’s leg. She gave his hair a reassuring nibble before taking off out the window, a pale streak against the grey afternoon sky.

 

Now all he could do was wait.

 

And hope that Theo would still want to write back.

 

888

 

The Nott family had gathered for a late New Year’s brunch, the kind where conversation drifted lazily between courses and the scent of honeyed ham and charmed citrus lingered in the air. The moment of calm shattered the instant the family owl swept through the tall windows, dropping the Daily Prophet neatly onto the breakfast table.

 

Alban snatched it up, unfolding it with the practiced ease of someone who’d seen his name in print more times than he’d liked. One glance at the front page was enough.

 

“Shite,” he muttered under his breath.

 

Calla shot him a warning look over the rim of her teacup, “Language.”

 

He grunted but didn’t apologize. Instead, he held the paper up so the headline and moving photograph were visible to everyone at the table.

 

Theo barely had to look. He already knew what it was. Still, his eyes followed the looping image of himself and Castor spinning across the Yule Ball dance floor, their expressions unguarded, lit with something far too close to affection for a crowd of gossip-hungry readers.

 

“I knew it,” Alban said, shaking his head, “The moment I saw you two together at the Greengrass gala, I knew they’d find a way to twist it. I just hoped you’d have a bit more time before the storm hit.”

 

Theo leaned over to get a closer look at the article. The headline was as dramatic as expected and beneath that was an entire column penned by none other than Rita Skeeter, dripping with innuendo and veiled accusations. The phrasing was insidious—subtle enough to avoid slander charges, but sharp enough to cast a long shadow. Speculation about manipulation, about the Malfoys using the connection for political gain.

 

Selene sighed, folding her napkin with precise fingers, “They’re going to twist everything, no matter what you do.”

 

“They always have,” murmured Calla, her voice cool but edged with long-harbored bitterness. “Skeeter was relentless during the trials. Like a bloodhound with inked fangs—nipping at every scrap she could twist into scandal.”

 

Theo let out a slow breath and rubbed both hands down his face. The article still lay sprawled on the table beside the remnants of his untouched meal, “I hadn’t told him yet.”

 

That drew a pause. Alban glanced up, his brow arching in quiet surprise, “He doesn’t know? About Tiberius?”

 

Theo shook his head, guilt settling like lead in his stomach. “No. He didn’t grow up in our world,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, “After the Potters died, he was placed with Lily Potter’s Muggle relatives. He… doesn’t talk about it much. But Draco has ranted more than once about how his baby brother was treated—calls it abuse without hesitation. Says they kept him in a cupboard.”

 

Selene’s hand froze on her teacup, her lips parting slightly, “A cupboard?”

 

Theo nodded, jaw tight, “Under the stairs. For years, I think. And even now, Castor doesn’t like to talk about it. But he is constantly taking potions to recover, and I’ve heard the silence when someone asks him about his childhood. He doesn’t know who to trust when it comes to the past. And now this…” He gestured toward the Prophet, “This is going to crush him.”

 

Calla exhaled sharply, “He’s already seen it, I’m sure.”

 

“He’ll think I lied,” Theo said, pressing his fingers to his temple, “That I kept it from him on purpose. And maybe I did. But I wasn’t trying to be deceitful. I just… didn’t want him to look at me differently.”

 

“You weren’t protecting yourself,” Selene said gently, “You were protecting him. But now that choice has been taken from you.”

 

Theo met her gaze, “What if he doesn’t want to see me again?”

 

“He will,” Alban said firmly, folding the Prophet with a sharp snap, “Because if that boy has even half the fire I saw on the dance floor, he cares about you a damn sight more than Skeeter’s drivel.” His voice was low but unwavering, a rare edge of warmth threading through the usual gravel. “He looked at you like the rest of the room didn’t exist.”

 

Theo stayed still for a beat, fingers curling slightly at his sides. His throat felt tight, but he managed a quiet, almost breathless laugh.

 

“I’m crazy about him,” he said finally.

 

The words hung in the air, and the table fell silent—not in judgment, but in understanding. Even Calla’s sharp expression softened.

 

“I know I’m supposed to be clever and guarded and all that,” Theo went on, voice rougher now, as if the truth cost something to admit. “But I lose all of that around him. He makes everything feel... real. Like the world’s still worth trying for. And I didn’t tell him about Father because I didn’t want to poison that. I didn’t want him to flinch when he looked at me.”

 

Selene stood and moved around the table to place a hand gently on her son’s shoulder, “Love isn’t measured by how much you hide to protect it, Theo. It’s in how you show up—especially now.”

 

He gave a stiff nod, jaw tight, emotions threatening to spill over. He could already picture Castor with the paper clenched in his fists, that lost and wounded look in his eyes that only showed when something truly cut deep.

 

“I need to make this right,” Theo murmured, already halfway to the door. “Before he convinces himself it was all a mistake.”

 

Theo’s expression was unreadable for a moment, but then he nodded, straightened his shoulders, and turned on his heel.

 

“I’m going to write to him.”

 

He didn’t wait for an answer this time, disappearing down the hall with the quiet certainty of someone who’d already decided that if this was going to break, it wouldn’t be because he stayed silent.

 

888

 

Theo stared at the parchment far too long, quill in hand but unmoving. Words refused to come.

 

What was he even supposed to say?

 

“Sorry, I forgot to mention my father worked for the man who murdered your adoptive parents.”

 

He scoffed bitterly and set the quill down. It sounded like a joke—except it wasn’t funny. Not even close.

 

There was no gentle way to phrase it, no polished turn of phrase that could soften the reality. He hadn’t meant to lie. He hadn’t even meant to hide it, not exactly. But how did someone go about dropping that kind of truth on the boy who had spent years sleeping in a cupboard? On someone who still flinched at loud voices, who panicked when touched unexpectedly, who sometimes looked at kindness like it was a trap?

 

And worse still—Theo wasn’t even sure where he stood on the matter. He hadn’t renounced the Dark Lord. He hadn’t been raised to. In the quiet parts of his heart, there were still pieces of that ideology embedded, knotted into a complicated tangle of pride, power, and family legacy. His father might have been locked away in Azkaban, but the beliefs didn’t go with him. They lived on in whispers and careful nods at pureblood gatherings. In the way his mother spoke of the old ways. In the way his grandfather never outright disapproved.

 

Theo had always assumed there’d be time. That Castor would know—who he was, who his family was—and that he’d somehow choose him anyway.

 

But now Skeeter had torn the secret out of his hands. She’d taken the fragile hope between them and lit it on fire.

 

How could he ever convince Castor to stay with someone like him?

 

Someone who came from everything Castor should hate?

 

Theo exhaled shakily and ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t deserve Castor’s kindness. He didn’t deserve his warmth, his unwavering loyalty, his fierce belief in second chances. And yet... he wanted him. Desperately.

 

Not because he was beautiful or powerful or rare—but because with Castor, he felt like the boy he could be, not the one he was raised to become.

 

The sharp tap at the window made Theo jump, his elbow knocking the ink pot and nearly sending it flying across his desk. He managed to catch it just in time, but a blot of black spread across the corner of the parchment he'd been staring at blankly for what felt like hours.

 

He looked up, heart pounding, and felt his breath catch in his throat.

 

Hovering just outside the frosted glass was a snowy owl he’d seen more times than he could count. Regal, sharp-eyed, and unmistakably loyal—it was his owl. Castor’s owl. The same one he'd watched nuzzle into Castor's hair during early morning post deliveries in the Great Hall. The same one Castor fed extra scraps from his breakfast, murmuring to her in a voice gentler than he used for almost anyone else.

 

She held out a letter, clutched in her talons, the parchment sealed neatly with green wax.

 

Theo’s stomach dropped like lead.

 

Castor had beaten him to it. While Theo had been sitting here drowning in uncertainty and guilt, Castor had already found the words. Already decided what to say.

 

He swallowed hard.

 

Too late.

 

The realization hit him like cold water. He had missed his chance to be the one to speak first, to explain, to frame things in his own terms. Now all that remained was to see what Castor had decided—to open the letter and read the verdict, passed down in ink and silence.

 

The owl gave another sharp tap.

 

With fingers suddenly numb, Theo stood and crossed to the window, his heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted to escape before the truth landed.

 

He undid the latch and opened it slowly, letting the snowy owl flutter inside with a graceful sweep of her wings. She dropped the letter onto his desk before flying to the back of the chair and perching like a sentry.

 

Theo stared down at the folded parchment.

 

He didn’t reach for it just yet.

 

He wasn’t ready—not really. But ready or not, the decision was here.

 

All he could do now was read.

 

Taking a deep breath under the owl’s insistent, expectant gaze, Theo broke the seal.

 

There was no use stalling—no clever way to delay the truth. However long he stared at the parchment, the words wouldn’t change. Whatever Castor had written was already done, already out of his hands.

 

Still, his fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded the letter.

 

He read it once. Then again, slower.

 

By the third time, the words blurred.

 

Castor didn’t hate him.

 

Castor wasn’t angry. He wasn’t disgusted. He wasn’t even pulling away.

 

Instead, Castor was afraid he had hurt Theo.

 

Theo pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, swallowing down a knot that had lodged in his throat the moment he read the line: “You’ve always just… seen me.”

 

How could someone like Castor exist?

 

Theo had spent the morning preparing for silence, or worse. The kind of clipped, polite detachment that meant goodbye. The way purebloods were taught to end things—with dignity and no room for mess.

 

But this was messy.

 

And honest.

 

And painful in a way that made Theo want to fix it immediately, even though he didn’t know how.

 

The letter shook slightly in his hands as he lowered it. He needed to say something. To someone. Sitting in this room with nothing but the echo of Castor’s voice in ink wasn’t enough.

 

He left his bedroom without even realizing he'd started moving.

 

Down the hall, toward the sitting room, where voices murmured behind the door—his grandparents and mother, probably still discussing the article, or damage control, or something tedious and full of tension.

 

Theo pushed the door open.

 

All three heads turned toward him at once.

 

Alban straightened in his chair, setting aside a half-drained cup of coffee. Selene raised an eyebrow in quiet question. Calla, elegant and unreadable as always, watched him closely.

 

Theo held up the letter in one hand.

 

“He wrote,” he said simply. His voice was rougher than he expected.

 

They didn’t interrupt. They waited.

 

He cleared his throat and stepped further into the room.

 

“He said he didn’t know. About my father. That he never connected what happened to us with… him. With Voldemort. He’s worried he’s been hurting me just by existing. By being who he is.”

 

Alban made a soft, strangled noise—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

 

Theo sank onto the edge of the nearby armchair, still gripping the letter like a lifeline. “He said I’ve always just seen him—not the Malfoy twin, not the Boy Who Lived. Just him. And now he’s terrified that being near me has caused more harm than good.”

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

“He thinks he’s the reminder of everything we lost.”

 

Calla’s lips parted slightly, and for the first time that day, her expression cracked—grief, regret, and something like awe flickering across her face.

 

Theo looked down at the parchment again, “He’s not asking me to explain myself. He’s not even asking for forgiveness. He just wants to know that I’m okay.”

 

“And are you?” Selene asked quietly.

 

Theo nodded once, firmly, “I will be. But I need to write back. I need him to know that I choose him. Even with all the history. Because of who he is, not in spite of it.”

 

He stood again, steadier now.

 

“I’ll be in the library. I’ve got a letter to write.”

 

And this time, the words would come easily.

Chapter 46: Chapter 46

Chapter 46

 

Castor,

 

I should’ve told you about my father. I won’t make excuses. I didn’t hide it because I was ashamed—I just didn’t want it to be the first thing you saw when you looked at me.

 

You’re not a reminder of what my family lost. You’re a reminder that there’s something worth building after it.

 

You didn’t hurt me. You’ve only ever made things clearer.

 

I care about you. That hasn’t changed. It won’t.

 

If you need time, take it. But don’t ever think you need to protect me from your past. I want all of it.

 

Yours,

Theo

 

Harry sat cross-legged on his bed, the letter trembling slightly in his hands.

 

It wasn’t long. It wasn’t elaborate. But it landed with the weight of something real—like everything Theo said carried its own kind of gravity. Like he’d reached straight through the mess of guilt and fear Harry had been drowning in and just… steadied him.

 

Harry exhaled, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The tightness in his chest eased, loosening like the first thaw of spring after a long, bitter winter.

 

His fingers brushed the signature one more time—just Theo—before he folded the parchment with care, tucking it beneath his pillow like something fragile and important.

 

It was Friday evening, and the holidays were rapidly winding down. They would be returning to Hogwarts on Sunday, with classes resuming first thing Monday morning. The looming return to routine felt strange after everything that had happened, but Harry had already made up his mind—he would talk to Theo on the train. They’d chosen to return with the other students rather than Floo directly to the castle, and now Harry was grateful for the decision. The long train ride would give them time—time to talk, to explain, to be face-to-face again.

 

With that settled in his mind, Harry realized how little time he had left at the manor. The holidays, for all their ups and downs, had gone by in a blur. He hadn’t spent much time with his mother over the last few days, and a quiet sort of guilt settled in his chest.

 

He got up and wandered through the manor until he found Narcissa in her sitting room, reclining gracefully with a book in one hand and a delicate teacup in the other.

 

Without a word, Harry crossed the room and sat beside her. She looked up, pleasantly surprised.

 

“I thought you might be off brooding in your room,” she said, setting her book aside with a small smile.

 

“Decided I’d rather have tea,” Harry replied, shrugging one shoulder.

 

Narcissa handed him the cup of tea, her rings glinting in the firelight as she settled back with her own. For a moment, the silence held—a rare, calm pause in an otherwise turbulent holiday. But it didn’t last.

 

“You’ve been quiet since the Prophet,” she said softly, without looking at him. Her tone was careful, but not cold.

 

Harry stared into the steam rising from his cup. The image from the front page was still burned into his brain—him and Theo dancing, smiling, caught mid-spin like they were the only two people in the world. He could almost believe that moment had been safe. Real.

 

“I didn’t know Theo’s father was in Azkaban,” Harry murmured, “He said he left… I didn’t realize it was prison.”

 

Narcissa nodded slowly, her eyes unreadable, “The Prophet has always had a taste for sensationalism. But yes, Tiberius Nott was sentenced after the war.”

 

“I just…” Harry shook his head. “I never thought any of our classmates’ parents had actually been arrested. It’s always talked about like a distant thing. Rumors. Stories.”

 

She studied him carefully, but said nothing.

 

“And then I said something stupid,” he added, voice tight.

 

“Ah.” Narcissa lifted a brow, “You mean what you said to Lucius?”

 

There was a pause. Long enough for Harry to regret bringing it up.

 

“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” he started, “I just… If Theo’s supposed to be judged by his father’s actions, then so should I. I’ve got the same kind of shadow hanging over me.”

 

Narcissa looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable in her gaze. Then she reached out and gently placed her hand over his.

 

“I wasn’t trying to be cruel,” he said, “It just came out wrong. I was angry. Not at him—just at everything.”

 

“I know,” Narcissa said, “But Lucius is not without his own guilt. He is simply not used to hearing it said aloud.”

 

Harry gave a soft, humorless huff, “Well, he’s going to have to get used to it. I’m not good at pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.”

 

Narcissa’s smile was faint, but genuine, “You are your mother’s son in that regard.”

 

He glanced down at his tea, trying to suppress the strange swell of emotion rising in his chest.

 

She set her cup aside and turned to face him more fully, the fire casting a soft, flickering glow across her composed features. When she spoke again, her voice was low but steady—the kind of tone she reserved for when words truly mattered.

 

“Listen to me, Castor,” she began—not with coldness, but with that poised precision of hers that gave every syllable weight, “Lucius and I—yes, we were raised in a world steeped in certain beliefs. Some of them we never questioned. Others, we still debate quietly between ourselves. You may never agree with us on many of those things. And that’s alright.”

 

She reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear with an elegance so habitual it almost made Harry forget who he was now. But then she added, softer still, “But you must know this: whatever battles may be fought outside these walls—political, personal, even moral—you and Draco remain at the center of our world.”

 

Harry blinked, unsure what to say. Narcissa had always been graceful, guarded, but there was something startling in her honesty now.

 

“You both come first,” she said, with quiet finality. “Always. No matter who’s at fault or who throws the first stone. Whether your loyalties split, or you grow into beliefs that challenge ours. Whether the Prophet slanders you or the Ministry fails you. You are ours.”

 

Her eyes shimmered faintly in the firelight, not wet—but full.

 

“This house, for all its history and all its ghosts, is your home. No matter what happens in the future, Castor, you are safe here.”

 

Harry's throat tightened. It wasn't just the words—though they meant more than she probably knew—it was the way she said them. There was no plea for agreement. No subtle manipulation. Just a mother trying, perhaps in her own late way, to protect a son who had been kept from her for far too long.

 

“I… thank you,” Harry managed, his voice low and hoarse.

 

Narcissa gave a small nod, then looked back toward the fire.

 

“There are many things I cannot undo,” she murmured, more to herself now. “And many I might still get wrong. But not this. Not you.”

 

Harry looked down at his tea again, hands warming against the porcelain.

 

888

 

For their final day at the manor before returning to Hogwarts, Narcissa decided to give Castor a glimpse of the world beyond the estate by taking a small family outing to a magical winter market nestled in the rolling countryside of Wiltshire. It was a secret gem, known mostly to pureblood families who lived nearby—an event that drew the old wizarding families together for one last celebration before the new term.

 

At breakfast, Narcissa casually mentioned the plan, watching as Harry’s face lit up with genuine excitement. While he had explored Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade before, the idea of wandering through a magical market set deep in the countryside promised something new, something… enchanting.

 

“There’s something special about these markets,” Narcissa explained, pouring tea with practiced ease. “You’ll find rare magical ingredients, handcrafted charms, and performances by some of the finest enchanted musicians. It’s a place where traditions live and breathe.”

 

Harry eagerly imagined the stalls—glittering displays of shimmering potions, delicate crystal trinkets, and the sweet scent of warm spiced cider mingling with freshly conjured snowflakes. It was a world he had only glimpsed through stories and books, and now it felt within reach.

 

Draco, only half-listening but always alert to anything that might involve status or spectacle, arched a skeptical eyebrow. “So, are we actually meant to buy anything,” he drawled, “or is this just one of Mother’s elaborate schemes for forcing us into another round of family bonding?”

 

Lucius, seated at the head of the table with a copy of the Financial Prophet in hand, gave a low, knowing smirk. “It’s tradition, Draco,” he replied smoothly. “And traditions, like good wine and old magic, tend to be appreciated more with age.”

 

Harry, meanwhile, felt a thrill ripple through him—a curious, warm flutter in his chest that had nothing to do with the eggs on his plate. This wasn’t just a day out. This was something closer to a welcome, a glimpse into a life he had only recently begun to reclaim. It felt like being offered a seat at a table he’d never expected to belong to.

 

Unable to contain the growing excitement bubbling under his skin, Harry gave a small, involuntary bounce where he sat.

 

Draco turned toward him slowly, narrowing his eyes as though Harry had just grown a second head. “What,” he said flatly, clearly bracing himself for whatever madness was about to follow.

 

Harry blinked, then shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I love magic,” he said simply.

 

There was a pause.

 

Lucius’s brow lifted in faint amusement. Narcissa sipped her tea without comment, though her eyes sparkled over the rim of her cup. Draco let out a long-suffering sigh and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, as if already weary.

 

“What?” Harry repeated, grinning. “I only found out magic was real a few years ago. I like seeing new spells and potions and enchanted things. I think it’s brilliant. This is going to be so much fun!”

 

Draco muttered something that sounded suspiciously like Merlin help me, but Harry didn’t care. He was already imagining the snow-dusted stalls and floating lanterns, the tinkling of bells, and the crackle of enchantments in the air.

 

It wasn’t just a winter market—it was magic, and he couldn’t wait. After breakfast, they bundled into their winter cloaks—Draco in sleek Slytherin green trimmed with silver, Lucius in dark charcoal wool with fur-lined cuffs, Narcissa in regal navy and fur-lined boots, and Harry in his newest cloak: deep blue with silver buttons that fastened like runes down one side. Narcissa had gifted it to him a few days earlier, claiming it “brought out his eyes.”

 

Rather than using the Floo or Apparating, Narcissa insisted they walk. “It’s only a short distance through the wood,” she said, fastening her gloves, “And the market is better approached on foot. It builds anticipation.”

 

Draco looked like he had thoughts about trudging through snow for the sake of ambiance, but wisely said nothing.

 

The path behind the Manor led into thin woods dusted in fresh powder, their skeletal branches coated in delicate ice. Harry kept pace beside Narcissa, occasionally glancing up at the shifting light overhead, the quiet crunch of boots in snow beneath them, and the way their breath curled white into the chilled morning air.

 

“How’s it hidden?” he asked after a time, curious, “From Muggles, I mean.”

 

Lucius answered from ahead of them without turning around, “Layered enchantments. Old ones. Wards placed by the founding families—notice-repellents, confusion spells, perimeter disillusionment, and a few wards that… well, don’t concern yourself.” He said it with the casual edge of someone very used to magic protecting their world from curious outsiders.

 

“It simply means,” Narcissa added smoothly, “that only those meant to find it, will.”

 

Just as she said this, they crested a small ridge where the trees abruptly gave way—and Harry stopped walking altogether.

 

The winter market stretched out like something from a dream. Nestled in a natural hollow, dozens of canopied stalls shimmered under floating lights that bobbed like gentle fireflies. Garlands of enchanted snowflakes drifted overhead, never touching the ground. Snow crunched underfoot but the air was laced with the scents of roasted chestnuts, cinnamon-spiced cocoa, and hints of pine and old parchment.

 

Witches and wizards in thick cloaks milled about, laughing, browsing handmade spell trinkets, enchanted ornaments, books that fluttered their pages flirtatiously, and pastries that steamed with warmth even in the open air. A quartet of enchanted violins played softly beside an ice sculpture that moved just slightly whenever Harry wasn’t looking directly at it.

 

He stared, eyes wide.

 

“This is…” he trailed off, nearly breathless. “It’s beautiful.”

 

Draco gave him a look—somewhere between amusement and fond exasperation, “Try not to act like a Muggle-born,” he muttered under his breath.

 

Harry, undeterred, grinned wider, “Too late.”

 

Narcissa leaned in, voice warm, “Come, Castor. Let’s see if we can come across some unusual finds.”

 

Lucius and Draco veered off in the opposite direction toward a stall selling rare broom polish and imported enchanted leather gloves.

 

Narcissa led him through the crowd with quiet confidence, her hand occasionally resting lightly on his arm to steer him away from a drifting cart or a distracted child chasing enchanted snowflakes. She didn’t rush. She walked with purpose, but left enough room for Harry to pause, to marvel. To see.

 

“This way,” she said, nodding toward a row of wooden stalls tucked between a tall evergreen wrapped in floating candles and a steaming fountain charmed to bubble with warm spiced cider. “These are the traditional vendors. Most of them have been selling here for decades.”

 

Harry lingered at one stall, watching a vendor bottle starlight into tiny glass vials sealed with wax and ribbon. They flickered like tiny constellations, “What do people use that for?”

 

“Divination, mostly,” Narcissa replied, “Or dream work. The light burns out in a week unless stored properly, though.” She plucked one of the vials delicately from the display and turned it in the sunlight, watching the glimmer dance across the glass. “When your father and I were newly married, we used to send these to each other whenever we had to be apart.” She smiled faintly. “One of the more romantic traditions in this world, when it’s not being exploited for profit.”

 

Harry blinked, surprised, “You and Lucius?”

 

“Yes, Castor,” she said dryly, “Contrary to popular belief, I married him for reasons beyond political alliance and an excessive collection of hair products.”

 

He let out a short, surprised laugh before he could stop himself, “I just figured you had a thing for aggressively blonde men.”

 

Narcissa arched a perfectly groomed brow, her lips twitching. “Well, I do have a type. Come,” she said, passing the starlight back to the vendor with a graceful nod. “There’s more.”

 

They visited a stall selling spell-stitched scarves that warmed at a whispered command, and another run by a sharp-eyed woman who sold hand-bound books enchanted to change languages with a tap of the wand. At each one, Narcissa explained a detail Harry wouldn’t have noticed or give him fact about the products.

 

“I used to come here with my sisters,” she murmured at one point, almost to herself. “Before everything changed. Bellatrix hated it—called it a waste of time. Andromeda used to save every knut for one perfect purchase. I... liked to watch. To listen.”

 

Harry glanced over at her, “You’re good at that.”

 

She looked down at him, startled for a second—but then her expression softened, “So are you.”

 

They stopped at a small apothecary booth where dried petals glowed softly in charmed glass jars. Narcissa lifted one filled with silver-edged leaves and held it out to him. “Moonbloom. Helps with nerves when brewed properly. Just a pinch.”

 

He hesitated, then accepted the jar. “Thanks.”

 

“I noticed that occasionally your hands tremble slightly,” she said gently, as though explaining the weather.

 

Harry looked down at the jar in his hands, throat tight, “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

 

“I imagine you always do.”

 

It wasn’t pity in her voice. It was understanding. She didn’t press. She didn’t offer hollow reassurances. She simply stood beside him and gave him a bit of control back.

 

They continued on after she paid for it, Harry holding his small jar of Moonbloom like it meant something more.

 

They wandered past stalls of self-heating mittens, enchanted candied apples that floated just out of reach until tapped with a wand, and snow globes that replayed famous wizarding duels in miniature. Harry trailed beside Narcissa, occasionally drifting toward anything that sparkled or ticked with quiet enchantments. She guided him with an almost lazy grace, pausing now and then to point out booths run by old family names or fondly criticize the newer vendors who dared modern aesthetics.

 

Then, they reached a small, shadowed booth tucked between a potioneer’s tent and a cart selling flying marzipan birds. Hanging over the table was a hand-painted sign: “Rare Aquatic Flora – Licensed Potioneers Only”. The air around it smelled faintly of brine and algae.

 

Harry’s eyes locked on the displayed glass jars unmistakably labelled Gillyweed.

 

Narcissa was examining a pale silver kelp variant when Harry spoke—trying for casual, though he heard the edge in his own voice.

 

“Would it be… weird if I got some Gillyweed?” he asked, pretending to admire the labeling on a nearby tincture, “You know. Just to have. In case.”

 

Narcissa turned, lifting a delicate brow, “In case you plan to grow gills and spend a summer in the Black Lake?”

 

Harry gave a tight smile, “Well, it’s… good to be prepared. Gillyweed’s useful, right? Can’t have too much of a good thing.”

 

“Castor, one usually only needs a pinch or two,” she said, bemused. “It’s rather potent.”

 

He glanced toward the vendor, “What if I got… I don’t know. Eight portions?”

 

Narcissa blinked, “Are you expecting to go swimming with the Giant Squid and the entire Quidditch team?”

 

Harry coughed, “I just—think it’s cool. Water magic. Potion ingredients. You never know.”

 

She studied him a moment longer, something skeptical in her eyes but softened by affection, “Very well. But do try not to accidentally mutate yourself. The last thing I need is another scandal before term starts.”

 

Harry quickly passed the vendor a few coins, accepting the carefully wrapped pouch with a small, sheepish grin. As they moved on, he tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat, heart racing.

 

Narcissa slipped her arm through his with practiced elegance, casting him a sideways glance filled with quiet suspicion and maternal fondness, “Whatever it is you’re keeping from me… just promise you’ll be careful.”

 

Harry looked up at her, a small smile tugging at his lips, “I will. And don’t worry—you’ll understand soon enough.”

Chapter 47: Chapter 47

Chapter 47

 

When they returned to the Manor, the cold still clinging to their cloaks, Draco all but dragged Harry to his room with the enthusiasm of someone convinced they’d just out-shopped the entire country.

 

“Alright, prepare to be amazed,” Draco declared, dramatically tossing his purchases onto the bed like a dragon presenting its hoard. “New Quidditch gloves—dragonhide-lined, obviously. Limited release. I had to elbow a guy for the last pair. Totally worth it.”

 

Harry snorted as Draco moved on.

 

“New potions kit—silver-trimmed phials, temperature-stabilized stirring rods, and a collapsible cauldron. Imported. Father says it’s the same kind the Czech potion masters use,” He sounded smug, clearly expecting Harry to be impressed.

 

“And these,” Draco added, holding up a small velvet pouch like it was treasure, “are imported sugar crystals from the Alps. They fizz when you eat them and apparently give you temporary fluency in Troll. Not that I intend to test that.”

 

“Sounds useful if you’re ever trying to buy bridge real estate,” Harry quipped.

 

Draco looked confused but moved on, used to his brother saying strange things, “And you? What did you get? Anything good?”

 

Harry grinned, reaching into his satchel. “I got this.” He pulled out the Moonbloom.

 

Draco blinked, “Moonbloom?”

 

 

“Yup,” Harry said, then started pulling out jars.

 

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

 

Draco's expression shifted from mild curiosity to disbelief.

 

Five.

Six-

 

“Castor—why do you have enough Gillyweed to host a mermaid tea party?!”

 

“I—uh—just really like water plants?” Harry offered, trying to sound casual while shifting to hide the rest of the jars clinking around in his bag.

 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Draco deadpanned, “Are you planning to take up underwater gardening? Form a kelp-based militia?”

 

Harry shrugged innocently, “You never know when you might need to… breathe underwater. For, like, an hour. Several times. In a row.”

 

Draco narrowed his eyes, “You’re up to something.”

 

“I’m always up to something,” Harry grinned, stuffing the jars back into his bag with the smooth guilt of someone very practiced at hiding contraband.

 

Draco groaned dramatically and flopped backwards onto his bed, arms splayed and hands over his face like the world had personally betrayed him, “You are completely mad.”

 

Harry casually leaned on Draco’s desk, arching an eyebrow, “I guess I beat you to it.”

 

Draco let out a muffled, incredulous noise from behind his hands, “Merlin help me, I’ve been out-crazied by a boy who talks to dragons and hoards Gillyweed like a doomsday prepper.”

 

“I prefer the term ‘forward-thinking,’” Harry said smugly, removing a fuzz from his jumper.

 

Draco sat up just enough to glare at him, his hair flopping dramatically over one eye, “If you die doing whatever idiotic, aquatic stunt you’re clearly preparing for, I’m telling Mother and she will hex you back to life just to yell at you.”

 

Harry tried not to laugh, but failed, “You’re very protective for someone who constantly complains about my existence.”

 

“I am selectively protective,” Draco huffed, folding his arms. “You’re mine to be annoyed with. No one else gets to drown you without my express permission.”

 

Harry tilted his head, amused, “That almost sounded like affection.”

 

“Don’t ruin it,” Draco said immediately, turning his nose up, “Now get out of my room before I decide to feed you the Gillyweed all at once and toss you into a lake.”

 

Harry gave a mock bow and backed out the door with a wink, “Don’t worry, I plan to swim before I sink.”

 

“That’s not comforting!” Draco called after him.

 

888

 

The following morning, the Malfoys opted for a more private farewell within the Manor’s grand entrance hall. As ever, they avoided overly emotional displays, preferring meaningful words and quiet gestures over public spectacle—and Harry respected that more than he could say.

 

Narcissa straightened the front of his cloak, smoothing the fabric with care, while Lucius placed a firm, steadying hand on his shoulder. Draco rolled his eyes at the fuss but didn’t resist when their mother kissed his cheek.

 

“Remember,” Narcissa murmured to Harry just before he stepped toward the Floo, “no matter what the castle throws at you—your room will always be waiting.”

 

When they finally arrived at King’s Cross, amidst the usual hustle of students, trunks, and familiars, Harry felt that familiar pull in his chest—equal parts dread and anticipation.

 

He was looking for one person.

 

Theo.

 

His heart thudded a little harder in his chest at the thought. The last few days had been a blur of revelations and tension. Now, as the train hissed in the background, it was time to find out where they stood.

 

It wasn’t Theo that Harry spotted first—it was his grandfather. The older Nott stood tall and austere near the end of the platform, his sharp features unmistakable even amid the bustling crowd. There was a certain gravity to him, the kind of presence that commanded respect without needing to speak a word.

 

Harry’s gaze flicked quickly to the rest of the family, and sure enough, Calla was close by, speaking softly to her husband while occasionally glancing toward the train and Selene spoke with Theo standing slightly apart from them, shoulders squared, eyes focused ahead. He looked calm—too calm, which Harry now recognized as a tell.

 

Still watching them from a distance, Harry murmured a quick final goodbye to Narcissa and Lucius. Narcissa straightened his collar once more with a lingering look, and Lucius gave a nod that was almost imperceptible.

 

“I’ll be alright,” Harry promised softly, then turned and made his way through the crowd toward the Nott family.

 

Selene caught sight of him first. Her painted lips curled into a knowing smile, and she leaned in slightly to murmur something to Theo before tilting her head in Harry’s direction. Theo followed her gesture, and the moment their eyes met, his posture shifted—just barely, but enough that Harry saw it. A flicker of tension, surprise, then the subtle tightening around his eyes as he pulled his expression back into its usual unreadable calm.

 

“Hey, Theo,” Harry said once he was close enough, nerves making his fingers curl slightly at his sides, “I was wondering if you’d… want to sit with me.”

 

Theo’s mouth quirked into a soft, amused smirk, “You don’t have to ask.”

 

That small, familiar response made something tight in Harry’s chest loosen. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders relaxing.

 

Theo added, more quietly, “I was hoping you would.”

 

Before either of them could say more, Selene leaned in with a parting kiss to her son’s cheek and gave Harry a warm, if faintly curious, nod. “Safe travels, boys,” she said.

 

Alban Nott gave Harry a nod as well—sharper, more appraising. He didn’t speak, but the look he gave was not unkind. Just... observant.

 

As the train’s whistle gave a final warning and the crowd on the platform began to thin with hugs, waves, and last-minute shouts, Theo tilted his head slightly and motioned for Harry to follow. They boarded in comfortable silence, weaving through the narrow corridor as the train slowly filled with chattering students.

 

Because fewer students had gone home this year—thanks to the shortened break following the Yule Ball—it didn’t take long to find a compartment that was still empty. Theo slid the door open and stepped aside, letting Harry go in first before following and shutting the glass door behind them.

 

The moment the door clicked shut, Harry let out a breath and flopped into the seat opposite Theo, his shoulder slumping with theatrical exhaustion.

 

Theo arched a brow, already settling into his usual posture—leaning slightly back, arms crossed, gaze sharp but relaxed. “Good break?” he asked dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

 

Harry gave a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Eventful,” he said with a lopsided grin, “You?”

 

Theo gave a slow, deliberate nod, lips curving in an understated smirk, “It was alright. The highlight was these two balls I attended. You might’ve heard of them—bit of dancing, a lot of ridiculous outfits.”

 

Harry snorted, already sensing where this was going, “Oh, really? That sounds incredibly exclusive.”

 

“Very,” Theo replied with mock seriousness, “But I managed to wrangle the perfect date. Charming. Irritating. Has a penchant for finding danger in the most unexpected places.”

 

Harry leaned forward, arms braced on his knees, “Sounds like a lot of work.”

 

“You have no idea,” Theo murmured, his tone flat but his eyes warm with quiet amusement.

 

Harry’s smile shifted into something softer, more thoughtful as he looked at Theo, “You’re really alright? About the article, I mean?”

 

Theo gave a small nod, his expression unreadable for a moment before it settled into calm. “I was more concerned about you,” he said quietly, “I didn’t want you to look at me differently… or worry about my family. About what it might mean for you.”

 

Harry’s brows drew together slightly, and he leaned back, exhaling through his nose, “I mean, if I started judging people by their family members, I’d be a bit of a hypocrite, wouldn’t I?” He glanced out the window briefly before returning his gaze to Theo. “Your father’s in Azkaban. Mine”—he paused, correcting himself—“Lucius should probably be there too.”

 

That earned him a sharp look from Theo, not angry but mildly incredulous.

 

Harry raised his hands, palms out, “I’m not saying it to be rude—well, maybe a little. But I didn’t mean it as an attack. Just… you’re not your father. I know that. And I’d hope people would give me the same courtesy.”

 

Theo’s eyes softened just a little at that, though his voice remained level, “They usually don’t.”

 

“I know,” Harry gave a half-smile, tired but honest, “But I still try.”

 

A comfortable silence stretched between them, filled only by the muted rattle of the train as it carved its way through the frost-touched countryside. Snow blurred past the windows in a gentle smear of white and grey, the world outside soft and distant.

 

Theo’s fingers, loosely laced in his lap, twitched once before stilling. He glanced at Harry—at Castor—watching the way his gaze tracked the scenery, thoughtful and far away.

 

Then, in a quiet voice, deliberate but without hesitation, he spoke.

 

“I like you, Castor. More than I expected to. More than I’ve liked anyone before.”

 

Harry’s gaze snapped back to him, startled, but Theo didn’t look away.

 

“I’d like us to be something real,” Theo continued, his tone steady despite the faint flush rising to his ears. “Not just sneaking around in the Chamber or stolen moments between classes. I’d like you to be mine—properly.”

 

For a beat, Harry just stared at him, mouth parted slightly, as if trying to catch up to the words.

 

Then a smile bloomed across his face—slow, surprised, and unmistakably warm, “You want to go official? Like, you’re my boyfriend?”

 

Theo tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a touch, “Is that so shocking?”

 

“No,” Harry said quickly, laughing under his breath, “It’s just… I didn’t expect you to be the first one to say it.”

 

“I’m full of surprises,” Theo said dryly, though the corner of his mouth lifted.

 

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes shining with something deeper than amusement, “I’d like that too. I mean, I’d like you. Officially.”

 

Outside, the countryside rushed past. Inside the compartment, everything felt still and solid and strangely right.

 

After a few moments, Theo gave Harry a sidelong look. “You realize Draco’s going to have an opinion.”

 

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Harry smirked.

 

888

 

Harry found his way to the Gryffindor table and slipped into a spot beside Neville and Hermione as soon as he arrived back at Hogwarts. Both of them lit up when they saw him, scooting aside to make room.

 

“Tell us everything,” Hermione demanded before he’d even had the chance to serve himself mashed potatoes.

 

Neville chuckled, nudging her with his elbow, “You’ve barely let him sit down.”

 

Harry grinned, “Don’t worry, I was going to tell you anyway. But only if you share your holiday gossip first.”

 

Neville flushed a little but smiled, “Not much to tell, really. I stayed for the rest of the holiday. I did get to see Luna a few times. We’ve, er, gotten closer since the Yule Ball.”

 

Hermione smiled warmly, then added with a sly tilt of her head, “Speaking of closeness… Viktor invited me to visit his home in Bulgaria over the summer. We hung out a lot over the break.”

 

Harry let out an exaggerated gasp, “You kept that quiet!”

 

“I wanted to be sure it wasn’t just a post-Ball thing,” she said, cheeks slightly pink, “But what about you?”

 

Now it was Harry’s turn to blush, “Well… Theo and I made it official.”

 

Neville’s eyebrows shot up, “Seriously?”

 

Hermione beamed, “Harry, that’s wonderful! I had a feeling.”

 

Harry ducked his head but couldn’t hide the grin spreading across his face, “I even met his family.”

 

Neville blinked at him, visibly startled, “Wait—you met Alban Nott?”

 

Harry nodded, trying to play it cool despite the weight of that name, “Yep. In the flesh. And, believe it or not, I think he might like me.”

 

Hermione raised her brows. “I thought Theo’s grandfather was notoriously private.”

 

Harry shrugged, “It was part of the whole New Year’s Ball situation. Theo had me sit at their table.”

 

Neville still looked faintly horrified, but Harry pressed on before either of them could ask too many more questions.

 

“I also got to spend a few days at the dragon reserve. And Merlin, it was incredible,” his face lit up at the memory. “I’ve never felt anything like it. The dragons were—honestly—sweet. Powerful and wild, sure, but also curious and clever. And the ones from the first task remembered me.”

 

“You weren’t scared?” Neville asked.

 

“At first maybe,” Harry admitted. “But mostly? I felt like I belonged there. It just made sense. The smells, the noise, the heat—it was like I could finally breathe properly. I can’t wait to work there full-time someday. I don’t know how to explain it... it just felt like home.”

 

Hermione gave him a warm, proud smile, “That’s amazing, Harry.”

 

“Yeah,” he said softly, still riding the high of the memory. “It really was.”

 

The Great Hall had begun to thin out, students drifting off in pairs or groups toward their common rooms. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the fading winter twilight outside, stars beginning to twinkle in the dusky sky overhead.

 

Harry was just about to ask Hermione if she wanted to stop by the library when the heavy thud of a staff member’s staff echoed through the hall.

 

Mad-Eye Moody’s magical eye was already fixed on him, whirring slightly as it followed Harry’s movements even before the man stopped in front of their table.

 

“Malfoy,” Moody growled, “Up. Dumbledore wants a word.”

 

Harry blinked and glanced quickly at Hermione and Neville, who both looked startled. “Now?”

 

“Now,” Moody confirmed, tone leaving no room for argument, “Bring your things. He doesn’t want to be kept waiting.”

 

Suppressing a groan, Harry stood and slung his bag over his shoulder. “Great,” he muttered, “Only back an hour and already something dramatic is occurring.”

 

Moody let out something that might’ve been a snort of amusement but didn’t comment.

 

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” Harry followed as Moody turned on his heel with surprising speed for someone so grizzled. Harry trailed after him out of the Great Hall, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure what exactly Dumbledore wanted—but he had a sinking feeling it wasn’t just a friendly catch-up chat.

 

As they made their way through the dim, echoing corridors of the castle, Harry finally broke the silence, “He hasn’t spoken to me since the truth came out about who I really am—unless you count that meeting after Ron nearly blew me up.”

 

Moody didn’t slow his pace, “That’s why you’re going now. He needs to catch up with you.”

 

They continued on in heavy silence, each footstep echoing off stone walls lined with ancient suits of armor and flickering torches. When they reached the familiar stone gargoyle, Harry was surprised when it jumped aside without a password, the spiral staircase behind it slowly grinding into motion.

 

Dumbledore was waiting on them.

 

Up they went, Moody’s wooden leg clunking with every step, until they stood before the polished oak door of the Headmaster’s office. Moody rapped once, sharp and deliberate, then pushed the door open without waiting for a response.

 

Inside, Dumbledore sat behind his grand desk, casually signing a few parchments with an elegant peacock-feather quill. His expression brightened with well-practiced warmth as they entered.

 

“Ah, Alastor,” he greeted smoothly, “ever punctual.”

 

His blue eyes shifted to Harry, “Harry, my dear boy, I fear far too much time has passed between us. You’ve endured quite a whirlwind, haven’t you? Please—come in. I thought it time we finally speak.”

 

The words were cordial, but Harry felt no comfort in them. Still, when Dumbledore gestured toward one of the carved wooden chairs in front of the desk, Harry took it silently, trying to ignore the way Moody remained behind him, like some sort of sentry. The weight of the man’s magical eye moving behind his head made Harry glance back more than once.

 

Dumbledore folded his hands and gave him an assessing smile, “First and foremost, congratulations on your performance in the First Task. Taming a dragon—what an extraordinary feat. You must be quite proud.”

 

Harry gave a modest shrug, “If things hadn’t gone the way they did, I wouldn’t have my new job. So I’d say it worked out.”

 

Dumbledore’s smile dimmed slightly, his tone sobering, “Yes… about that. I’ve heard about the special accommodations being made for you on the Dragon Reserve. A portkey, regular contact, a position waiting for you—quite the arrangement for a fourth-year student.”

 

Harry tensed slightly, sensing where this might be going.

 

“It’s not that I doubt your passion, Harry,” Dumbledore continued, leaning forward slightly, “but I must ask… are you absolutely certain this is the path you want to take? Dragon handling is a dangerous career. Combined with your schooling, your responsibilities as a Triwizard Champion, and—well, everything else that’s unfolded—it seems a tremendous amount to take on at once.”

 

There was concern in Dumbledore’s voice—but Harry could sense something layered beneath it. Not just worry. A gentle push. A reminder of where the reins were supposed to be.

 

As if he was drifting a little too far from expectations.

 

“I already spent a few days working at the reserve over the holidays,” Harry replied, forcing a grin. “Honestly, they were some of the best days of my life. If it were up to me, I’d drop out tomorrow and run off to Romania. Live in a tent. Talk to dragons. Never sit another exam again.”

 

He delivered it like a joke—light, flippant—but the gleam in his eyes and the steel beneath the words made it clear: he wasn’t entirely kidding.

 

Dumbledore chuckled softly, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, “Ah, the call of freedom. I remember it well. When I was your age, I had fantasies of living out my days in a quiet corner of the Alps, breeding mooncalves and writing poetry no one would ever read.”

 

Harry raised an eyebrow, “And yet here you are. Still at Hogwarts.”

 

“Well,” Dumbledore said with a warm smile, folding his hands atop his desk, “some of us find that our place in the world has a curious way of pulling us back, even when we think we’ve outgrown it.”

 

There was a beat of silence, the old man’s gaze resting heavily on Harry. Gentle. Inviting. But calculating underneath.

 

“I merely worry, my dear boy, that you might rush too quickly toward adulthood. You carry so much already, and yet… you are still so young. Hogwarts is more than just schoolwork and exams—it is also sanctuary. A place to grow at your own pace.”

 

Harry offered a polite smile, but said nothing. The headmaster’s words were kind—but they were also a leash wrapped in velvet.

 

When Harry didn’t rise to the bait, Dumbledore’s smile faltered—just a flicker—but he moved on gracefully, steepling his fingers as he adjusted in his seat.

 

“Well then,” he said lightly, “if I can’t tempt you away with warnings of overwork and fire-breathing creatures, perhaps I might turn to more traditional concerns.”

 

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion, but Dumbledore’s tone remained airy as he continued, “I heard that you were quite the fixture at both the Yule Ball and a New Year’s celebration. Two events, two dates… the same date, if I’m not mistaken.”

 

Harry blinked, “You're keeping track of my social calendar?”

 

“Only when it becomes a matter of great interest,” Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye. “It’s not often students attend both balls with someone from a house so historically… distant from their own. And certainly not the son of a prominent family like the Notts.”

 

Harry folded his arms, shoulders tensing, “I didn’t realize going to a ball with someone was a diplomatic event.”

 

Dumbledore chuckled, the sound low and pleasant, “You’d be surprised how much can hinge on something as simple as who you choose to waltz with. Affection is never just affection in certain circles—it’s politics in dress robes.”

 

Harry stared at him for a moment, unsure if that was a warning or a compliment, “Theo's not a political move.”

 

“Of course not,” Dumbledore said easily, but with a tone that left the meaning hanging. “Though it does raise a number of… possibilities. Allegiances. Shifts in perception.”

 

Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his voice dipping into something softer, more deliberate. “I only bring it up, my boy, because I want to ensure you are not being swept along by currents you may not yet perceive. Even the smallest ripple can become a tide, if you’re not careful.”

 

Harry met his gaze squarely, unflinching, “I’m not being swept anywhere, Professor. I chose to date Theo because I find him interesting. He listens. He doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile or famous or broken.”

 

Dumbledore raised a faint, knowing brow.

 

Harry continued, firmer now, “We had a great time at the Yule Ball, and when we both ended up at the New Year’s Ball, we naturally gravitated toward each other. It wasn’t a scheme or a statement. We just… fit. And now, yes—he’s officially my boyfriend.”

 

A flicker of something unreadable passed through Dumbledore’s expression—surprise, perhaps, or calculation—but it vanished just as quickly as it came.

 

“I see,” he said gently, folding his hands atop his desk, “Young love can be quite powerful. Comforting, even. But it can also be... complicated.”

 

Harry’s brow furrowed, “Is there a point to all of this, or are you just trying to make me second-guess my relationship?”

 

“Not at all,” Dumbledore said, the grandfatherly smile returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Merely… urging caution. The Nott family has long been entwined with a particular brand of ideology—one I suspect Theo himself may not subscribe to, but it is worth remembering where others’ loyalties might still lie. Yours included.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“I’d like to think I know where my loyalties lie,” Harry said coolly.

 

“Indeed,” Dumbledore replied, leaning back. “But identities can be... fluid things, particularly when one discovers their past is not what they once believed it to be. I only hope that you continue to navigate yours with clarity and care.”

 

Harry crossed his arms, a stubborn line forming between his brows. “I’ve had enough people trying to tell me who I am lately. I think I’ll stick with figuring it out myself.”

 

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, as if conceding the point. “Of course, Harry.”

 

A beat passed.

 

Then, with a lightness that rang just a bit too carefully placed, Dumbledore asked, “And does young Mr. Nott know everything about you, then? About your origins… and all that entails?”

 

Harry didn’t flinch, “I don’t keep secrets from Theo. Not on purpose, anyway. If I’ve missed anything, it’s only because I’m still figuring it out myself or it just has yet to come up.”

 

He sat a little straighter, gaze steady, “But I plan to learn everything I can about him—and let him see exactly who I am in return. That’s sort of the whole point of dating someone, isn’t it?”

 

 

Dumbledore’s expression softened, his hands folding loosely atop his desk, “Forgive me, Harry. I fear I may sound more suspicious than I intend. My questions come from care, not criticism. I have always tried to guide you, even when the path ahead was murky.”

 

Harry didn’t reply right away. He wasn’t sure what guidance looked like when it came wrapped in secrets.

 

“You’ve grown quickly,” Dumbledore continued, “and with that comes the burden of choices most your age never have to consider. All I ask is that you let yourself be helped, when it matters.”

 

Dumbledore let the silence linger just long enough to seem thoughtful.

Then, with a gentler tone:

 

“Very well, Castor. I shall take you at your word—for now. But I would be remiss if I didn’t ask after the upcoming Task.”

 

Harry blinked, “The second one?”

 

“Yes.” Dumbledore leaned back slightly, fingers steepled. “I trust you’ve been preparing?”

 

Harry offered a neutral shrug. “As much as I can. The Tournament isn’t exactly generous with instructions.”

 

“Mmm. No, it rarely is.” Dumbledore smiled faintly. “But it’s a curious thing—one would think the champion who so gracefully rode a dragon would now be brimming with confidence.”

 

“I wouldn’t say brimming,” Harry replied carefully. “But I’m not panicking either.”

 

Dumbledore’s eyes glinted, just for a moment, the warm twinkle replaced by something more calculating, “You’ve always had a... distinctive approach to challenges, Harry. Unconventional, but effective.”

 

Harry offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “And I fully intend to keep that streak alive, Professor.”

 

There was a beat of silence between them, heavy with things unspoken. Dumbledore gave a slow nod, settling back into his chair.

 

“Very well. That will be all for now. Thank you for your time.”

 

Harry stood, giving a polite nod.

 

“Of course. Always a pleasure.”

 

Moody gave a grunt from the corner, one that might’ve been amusement or warning—it was always hard to tell with him—and motioned for Harry to follow.

 

As the office door clicked shut behind him, Harry let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

 

As they descended the spiraling staircase in silence, the soft grind of stone the only sound, Moody finally let out a gravelly chuckle, “You handled yourself well in there. Didn’t let him box you in.”

 

Harry glanced up at him, brow raised.

 

“Didn’t realize I was supposed to be dodging punches.”

 

Moody’s magical eye swiveled in its socket while the normal one stayed fixed ahead.

 

“With Dumbledore? Always. He’s not trying to hurt you, boy—but he is always trying to shape you. Just make sure the shape still looks like you when he’s done.”

 

Harry slowed a little, frowning.

 

“That a warning?”

 

Moody shrugged, a movement that shifted his cloak like a great bird settling its wings.

 

“Just advice. You’ve got more pieces on the board than you know. And some of them… well, they play for themselves.”

 

He stopped at the landing and gave Harry a hard look, the kind that didn’t ask for understanding—just attention.

 

“You keep your wits about you. Trust your instincts. And whatever you’re planning for the next Task… don’t let anyone talk you out of it.”

 

Harry nodded, sharper this time.

 

“I won’t.”

 

Moody grunted again and limped off down the corridor, staff clicking with each step.

 

“Good. Now get some rest, Malfoy. You’re going to need it.”

Chapter 48: Chapter 48

Chapter 48

 

Harry made his way to the Room of Requirement after the meeting, Dumbledore and Moody’s words still turning over in his mind. He’d been told Moody was Dumbledore’s man, fiercely loyal. So why had he sounded like he was warning Harry about the Headmaster? That note of caution, almost buried beneath the growl of his usual gruffness, had lodged itself in Harry’s chest.

 

He shook the thought off—for now—as the familiar door appeared before him. Once inside, he unpacked the small bag he'd brought along, setting aside the jars of Gillyweed and a few of the Christmas presents he had been given over the holidays. He placed them in his trunk, which was tucked neatly in the corner of the room, right where it had always been.

 

Climbing down into the magically-expanded space inside the trunk, Harry realized how little time he’d actually spent here since moving into the Room. He had cleaned up the mess left by the blasting curse—carefully restoring the furniture, reordering the books—but since then, it had gone mostly untouched. That didn’t feel right. The trunk had been a gift from his Mum—something lovingly chosen, thoughtful and deeply personal. He didn’t want it to feel forgotten.

 

So, he stayed.

 

He settled into the comfortable chair inside the trunk and reached for a book, just as he used to on those early nights when everything had felt new and uncertain. His fingers hovered, then landed on one he hadn’t expected to choose: Frameworks of Magic: The Architecture of Spell Creation. One of the more daunting titles Lucius had given him. The others had been interesting—dense but manageable—but even Lucius had warned that this one might be “a bit ambitious.”

 

Still… Harry was getting used to surprising people. Including himself.

 

Lately, he’d been ahead in his classes for the first time in his life, and he wasn’t eager to fall behind again. He cracked open the book, feeling the crisp weight of the pages, and began to read—ready to stretch a little further.

 

888

 

It didn’t take long for the rhythm of Hogwarts life to settle around him again like a familiar cloak. Classes filled his mornings, afternoons often led him back down into the Chamber of Secrets with Theo, and evenings were spent in the library or sharing quiet meals with his friends. The calm routine helped, but beneath it all, Harry's focus had shifted. The second task loomed ever closer, and he had begun dedicating much of his spare time to researching the creatures that might be lurking in the Black Lake.

 

Hermione, ever dependable, had found him a water-stained tome cataloguing aquatic beings found in the lake. Harry had poured over its contents with a highlighter and growing concern, scribbling down notes in the margins and compiling a separate list of anything that sounded remotely threatening.

 

He had just reached the G’s—his quill already halfway through a line about Grindylows—when he turned the page and froze. Staring back at him in the faded photograph was a familiar sight: the massive, tentacled form of the Giant Squid. It looked strangely at peace in the image, drifting near the surface of the water like some ancient, floating guardian. A faint smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s mouth. At least that one wouldn’t be a threat. Probably.

 

Giant Squid

One of the most noteworthy creatures of the Black Lake would be the Giant Squid. Unlike its deep-sea counterparts, the Hogwarts squid is semi-domesticated and remarkably docile for its size, often surfacing to observe students or bask in the sun near the shore.

 

Estimated to be over sixty feet in length, the squid is considered a guardian presence by many at the school, particularly among students who frequent the lakeside. While not officially classified as a magical creature under current Ministry guidelines, its behavior and intelligence suggest more than just biological curiosity.

 

The squid’s diet consists mainly of crustaceans, freshwater fish, and, somewhat unusually, toast—a fondness first observed by Hogwarts staff decades ago.

 

Despite its intimidating appearance, the Giant Squid poses no threat and has even been known to assist students who fall into the lake or lose belongings to the shallows. As such, it is regarded with fondness and fascination by the Hogwarts community.

 

"Toast?" Harry blinked down at the page, his brow furrowing in disbelief. Of all the things a giant squid might prefer to eat, toast seemed absurdly out of place. He couldn’t help the incredulous smile that tugged at his lips. How on earth did a creature that size even get toast? And more importantly, why would it want it?

 

The idea of a massive, tentacled beast rising from the depths for a slice of buttered bread was so ridiculous that Harry briefly considered sneaking some down to the edge of the lake just to see if it was true. Would it pluck the toast from his hand with one long, slimy tentacle like a bizarre breakfast ritual? Did someone—maybe Hagrid—actually feed it that on purpose?

 

He shook his head with a small laugh, underlining the note and scribbled a large question mark beside it. Creatures truly never failed to surprise him.

 

888

 

Harry and Theo were nearly finished with the final stage of harvesting the basilisk. What had once felt like an overwhelming, even grotesque task had become oddly satisfying—almost meditative. Over the weeks they’d spent in the Chamber, Harry had picked up countless skills from Theo. It was strange, sometimes, to remember they were the same age. Theo moved with a quiet confidence born of experience, his knowledge deep and methodical, passed down from generations of ingredient collectors.

 

Today, they were carefully cleaning the basilisk’s massive bones—rinsing them with charm-cleansed water and labeling each piece with neat handwriting so they could be reassembled or catalogued later.

 

“We should be able to summon Grandfather next week to collect everything,” Theo said, holding up a curved rib bone to inspect it for lingering venom traces.

 

Harry brightened immediately, “I can’t wait to see his face.”

 

Theo chuckled, the sound low and pleased, “Me too. They were all guessing over the holidays. Completely convinced it was an Acromantula—like Grandfather’s big find. Apparently, someone heard rumors there’s a nest in the Forbidden Forest.”

 

Harry wrinkled his nose, “There are. Aragog is one of Hagrid’s… friends.”

 

Theo blinked, “Seriously? You’ve met one?”

 

“Met a lot of them, actually. Let’s just say it wasn’t the best day of my life,” Harry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

Theo gave him a look, amused and incredulous, “How many near-death experiences do you average per school year?”

 

“Too many,” Harry replied dryly. “But this—” He gestured at the collection of neatly organized basilisk remains, “—this might actually be one of the few worth it.”

 

They worked in silence for a few minutes more, the steady rhythm of cleaning and labeling comforting in the vast echo of the chamber. The air smelled faintly of stone, water, and dragon-hide gloves.

 

Then Theo said, quieter this time, “You’ve done well, you know.”

 

Harry looked up.

 

“You’ve kept pace. Better than I expected.”

 

Harry glanced up from the vertebra he’d been carefully cleaning, surprise flickering across his face. Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded like an offhand remark. But from Theo—who rarely offered praise without meaning it—it felt heavier. Real.

 

A slow, genuine smile tugged at Harry’s lips before he could stop it. He looked back down at his work, pretending to focus on the ridges of bone even as something warm settled in his chest. “Thanks,” he murmured.

 

The corners of Theo’s mouth twitched, just barely.

 

Harry’s fingers paused in their careful motions. “You don’t say things like that unless you mean them,” he said quietly, not a question, just an observation.

 

Theo gave a noncommittal hum, rinsing another bone segment in a silver basin of rune-treated water, “I don’t see the point in wasting words.”

 

That much was true—and maybe that’s why the compliment meant so much. Harry couldn't quite explain why it mattered, but it did. Having Theo sound proud of him, even just a little, made the long hours of work, the grime, the occasional misstep… worth it.

 

“I’ve learned a lot from you,” Harry said after a moment, not looking up, “More than I expected.”

 

Theo didn’t reply right away. He was drying his hands with a conjured towel, face unreadable.

 

“You pick things up fast,” Theo said finally, voice quieter than usual. “And you don’t flinch. Not many people could handle this, even if they wanted to.”

 

Harry swallowed hard, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Well,” he said, voice a little rougher than he meant it to be, “I’ve had a good teacher.”

 

The look Theo gave him was unreadable, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, and Harry had to glance away before his face went full Weasley-red. Wanting—needing—a distraction, he cleared his throat and shifted gears.

 

“Anyway,” he said quickly, brushing imaginary dust from his robes as if that could wipe the awkwardness from the air. “I’ve been thinking about transport. There’s no way I’m going to be able to fly all this out on my broom. Even if I made a hundred trips, some of the larger bones and the hide are far too heavy. The basilisk’s skin alone could flatten me if I tried to strap it across my Firebolt.”

 

He gestured toward the bundled lengths of scale-treated hide near the wall, neatly rolled and reinforced with preservation charms. “I mean, we’ve got crates of teeth, sacks of venom, bundled ribs, vertebrae longer than I am tall—and don’t even get me started on the skull.”

 

Theo nodded slowly, surveying their organized chaos like a seasoned general assessing the aftermath of a successful campaign. Bundled hides, cleaned and labeled bones, crates of venom vials, jars of scales, and neatly stacked fangs—all arrayed in a corner of the Chamber like some macabre treasure hoard.

 

“It’s… impressive,” he said finally, voice low with a touch of reluctant admiration, “More than I expected we’d manage, honestly. But you’re right—no broom in existence could carry all this. And Grandfather isn’t going to be thrilled about the idea of straddling a broom and flying down into a centuries-old death trap hidden in the plumbing of a girls’ lavatory.”

 

Harry snorted, folding his arms, “Yeah, he doesn’t really strike me as the type for midnight sewer rides.”

 

Theo raised a brow, “Not unless you promised him it was lined in Galleons.”

 

Harry cracked a grin, then tilted his head thoughtfully, “What about… house-elves?”

 

Without hesitation, he called out, “Mipsy!”

 

There was a soft pop and a flash of magic, and Mipsy appeared, her wide eyes sparkled with delight. “Yes, Master Castor?” she asked, voice high and eager.

 

Harry smiled at her, “I was wondering… When Theo’s family comes to collect all this, would you be able to translocate it to a more accessible spot upstairs? Sort of like how the Hogwarts elves make the food appear on the tables? You know—snap your fingers and it’s just… there?”

 

Mipsy’s ears gave a delighted twitch, “Mipsy can do that, Master Castor. House-elves is very good at putting things exactly where they’s supposed to go—especially for the families we serve.”

 

“Brilliant,” Harry said with a smile. “I’ll call for you when Theo’s family arrives. Once we’ve spoken with his grandfather, we can decide the best place to send it.”

 

“The rest,” Theo added with a nod, “Grandfather will handle from there.”

 

888

 

Grandfather,

The entry is complete.

 

I would appreciate it if you could arrange to collect the materials at some point this weekend. If that timing is inconvenient, a reply indicating when you are able to acquire it would be helpful for coordination.

 

A word of advice: prepare for a sizable transport. I’m aware the current theory involves an Acromantula, but you’re thinking too small. The actual yield is significantly larger than expected—though fully processed for ease of handling.

 

Regards,

Theodore

 

888

 

Theo couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his lips when he spotted his boyfriend waiting just outside the entrance to the girls’ lavatory, Firebolt slung casually over one shoulder. It might be the last time they descended into the Chamber together, and there was something almost nostalgic about it. Today’s task was simple: a final sweep to confirm everything was accounted for, properly sorted, and labeled.

 

They were marking each item with one of their names, along with any specific instructions for Theo’s grandfather. Castor had mentioned wanting to send a piece of basilisk leather as a gift to Valentin Noirveil, and Theo, ever efficient, had assured him that if he tagged the piece accordingly, his grandfather would see to its safe delivery.

 

That was the first thing he did—carefully selecting a supple piece of the gleaming leather and attaching a note to it, written on crisp parchment in his neatest handwriting. In the letter, he explained to Valentin Noirveil that the material had come from a basilisk—yes, a basilisk—that he and his boyfriend had personally harvested. And, for extra flair, that he had killed the creature himself when he was twelve years old. Harry had no doubt the dramatic designer would absolutely lose his mind over the theatrical absurdity of it all.

 

After that, Harry found he didn’t really care what happened to the rest of the basilisk remains. If Theo had wanted to claim every last bone, scale, and tooth, he would’ve let him. But Theo had insisted they divide it fairly, even though Harry hadn’t been keeping track of how much he'd contributed. They often worked side by side, handling pieces together, and it had long since stopped mattering who had harvested what.

 

He lingered nearby, watching as Theo methodically sorted and levitated each categorized item into its designated pile, hands moving with practiced precision. But Harry’s eyes eventually drifted to a familiar stain on the stone floor—a dark blotch of dried ink. There, nestled within it, lay a single basilisk fang. The one that pierced his own arm.

 

“Hey, Theo?” Harry asked quietly. “Do you have another box?”

 

Theo, who hadn’t yet taken his special toolkit back upstairs, simply nodded. He grabbed a spare box, along with a pair of gloves and a set of tongs, and handed them over without a word.

 

Harry knelt, gingerly lifting the fang from the ink-stained floor. He set it in the lined box with care, shutting the lid slowly as if sealing away something significant.

 

“I… I don’t think I want this one to be sold,” Harry said, voice softer now. “I think I want to keep it.”

 

Theo didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to. “If you’d like,” he said in that calm, steady tone of his, “I can have Grandfather store it in the family’s private vault for now. Better than just keeping a fang rattling around in your trunk.”

 

Harry nodded, grateful for Theo’s understanding. It did not feel right for anyone else to have that piece. It was his blood on it after all.

 

888

 

Saturday morning arrived, and to Harry’s surprise, Theo was uncharacteristically quick to his side. Harry had been having breakfast with Neville, Fleur, and Hermione when Theo practically sprinted over, eyes bright with excitement.

 

“They’re here!” Theo exclaimed.

 

“Already?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Grandfather must be eager,” Theo replied, catching his breath. “Professor Snape told me they received word about my entry and that they’d be coming up from Hogsmeade. They plan to meet us at the Great Hall after breakfast to get started. I even spotted them through the window on my way here. Mother and Grandmother came along too.”

 

Hermione looked up, curious, “What exactly are you two talking about?”

 

Harry shrugged, brushing it off casually, “It’s Theo’s entry for the family business. Just a project we’ve been working on together. Today’s the big day—Theo gets to present it to his grandfather. If he’s impressed, Theo will become the youngest person ever to officially join the family trade. His grandfather’s held that record up until now.”

 

“Oh—well, congratulations, Theo,” Neville said warmly, clearly aware of the prestige surrounding the Nott family’s trade. “Even just having something ready to present at your age is impressive. That alone is bound to get people talking.”

 

“It will be accepted,” Theo said with quiet certainty.

 

“In that case,” Hermione added with a smile, “even more congratulations are in order.”

 

Just then, the Nott family entered the Great Hall, immediately drawing attention. Dozens of curious eyes turned toward the unfamiliar figures making their way inside with the kind of composed elegance that marked old blood and deep-rooted tradition. Snape trailed just behind them, likely having waited to escort them in.

 

Harry glanced instinctively toward the head table. His eyes found Dumbledore, and for a moment, he recalled their recent conversation in the headmaster’s office—particularly the way Dumbledore had spoken of the Notts with suspicion. Harry doubted this sort of visit was anticipated by the headmaster. A formal appearance by nearly all of Theo’s unincarcerated relatives was bound to rattle expectations.

 

As expected, Dumbledore rose and began making his way around the high table, his expression tight despite the pleasantness in his voice.

 

“Ah! Alban Nott,” he called out, his tone warm enough to sound courteous but just short of genuine. “It’s been quite some time. What brings you to Hogwarts today? I trust there’s no issue with your grandson?”

 

Alban inclined his head with the crisp precision of a man long accustomed to commanding attention in every room he entered. “Albus,” he greeted, voice polite but cool. “We’re here on family business. Young Theodore believes he has produced something of sufficient merit to formally earn his place within our trade.”

 

Dumbledore’s brows drew together, the corners of his mouth twitching in a flicker of puzzled disapproval. “While still at school?” he asked, clearly thrown by the timing.

 

“Yes,” Alban replied smoothly, “So if you’ll excuse us, we have matters to attend to. Come along, boys.”

 

Harry had only just started to rise from the bench when Dumbledore’s voice cut across the space again—measured, but unmistakably firm. He might not have had grounds to interfere with Theo’s rite of passage, but he wasn’t about to let Harry walk off alone with a gathering of Notts.

 

“Perhaps you’d consider presenting your work here, Mr. Nott,” the headmaster suggested, eyes settling on Theo. “I’m sure your classmates would find it educational, and Hogwarts has always supported entrepreneurial spirit.”

 

Alban’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, “Unless Theodore managed to shrink it, I doubt his entry is in his pocket,” he said, “He indicated it was… sizable. I believe we’ll need to retrieve it first.”

 

Before the tension could sharpen further, Harry stepped forward with diplomatic ease, his tone neutral, “We’re happy to present it anywhere that’s large enough, sir. Though depending on the crowd, it might be a tight fit.”

 

Dumbledore gave a thin smile, clearly not pleased but unwilling to push harder. He swept a hand toward the front of the hall, “Then perhaps the podium will suffice, for the moment. Plenty of space, and an excellent view for all.”

 

Theo and Harry ascended the steps to the front of the Great Hall, their footsteps echoing in the sudden hush that fell over the room. Students craned their necks to get a better view, whispering behind cupped hands as they speculated what the notoriously private Slytherin might be about to unveil.

 

Harry leaned slightly toward Theo, keeping his voice low. “I suppose there’s just enough room,” he murmured, eyes scanning the raised platform, “If Mipsy puts your pile on the left side of the podium and mine on the right...”

 

There was no sound, no flash of magic, no pop to announce anything—but the shift in the air was unmistakable. One moment, the stage was empty. The next, it was full.

 

Crates stacked with precision, polished and labeled. Tightly coiled rolls of basilisk hide gleaming under the enchanted ceiling light like dark silk. Smaller boxes marked with runes and Theo’s careful handwriting. And towering above it all, impossible to miss, was the enormous skull of the basilisk.

 

Gasps echoed across the hall. Some students actually rose from their benches for a better look.

 

Near the Slytherin table, Pansy Parkinson whispered something that made Daphne Greengrass slap her arm in disbelief. Seamus Finnigan had stopped mid-chew. And even the ever-stoic Professor Snape'sgaze fixed sharply on the display.

 

Harry caught sight of Alban Nott’s reaction just as it began. The man had been calm and collected upon entering, carrying the quiet intensity of a war general inspecting a minor skirmish—but now, his brows lifted the barest fraction. For anyone else, it would have been imperceptible. For Alban, it was the equivalent of a startled gasp.

 

His eyes locked on the skull. His lips pressed into a line—not displeased, not amused. Calculating. Weighing.

 

Beside him, Calla Nott—tall, pale, and regal in layered peacock-colored robes—exhaled softly, like she’d just caught the scent of something rare. Her hand, gloved in suede, rose to brush thoughtfully over the brooch at her collar.

 

“Well,” she murmured in a smooth mezzo-soprano, “that’s a rather dramatic interpretation of ‘entry-level.’”

 

Selene Nott said nothing at first. Her gaze had landed on Theo the moment he took the stage and hadn’t left him since. She was beautiful in a wintery way, her hair braided back with subtle silver clasps, and her expression unreadable. But her fingers twitched faintly at her side—a minute gesture Harry might not have noticed had he not seen it mirrored in Theo once or twice. When she finally spoke, her voice was cool but laced with quiet pride.

 

“You didn’t tell us how big it was,” she said.

 

“You wouldn’t have believed me,” Theo replied simply, not looking away from the display.

 

“True,” she conceded.

 

At the head of the family, Alban stepped forward. His eyes swept the arrangement again, lingering on the labels, the precision of the preservation, the clear separation between Theo’s and Castor’s shares. Finally, his gaze returned to his grandson.

 

“You extracted and processed it yourselves?”

 

Theo said, “Castor assisted in harvesting. I oversaw preservation, labeling, and storage standards. We shared responsibility for documentation.”

 

“And the kill?” Alban asked. He was still studying the skull.

 

Harry stepped in with a calm voice, “I killed the basilisk back in second year—down in the Chamber of Secrets. When Theo told me you got into the family business by harvesting a dead Acromantula, I was like ‘I know where a dead basilisk is.’ We’ve been harvesting it from the Chamber ever since.”

 

Alban turned toward Harry, giving him a long, assessing look. He gave the smallest of nods—a gesture not of approval, but of acknowledgment.

 

“This was not what I was expecting,” he said at last, tone sharp with honest appraisal.

 

“No,” Calla added, now eyeing the pieces with open interest, “This is not just an entry. It’s a statement.”

 

Selene tilted her head slightly, a small, knowing smile on her lips, “The youngest Nott to ever present a successful entry. And perhaps the most unforgettable one.”

 

Alban let out a low breath through his nose, “Let’s begin the assessment. If the quality matches the spectacle, this may set a precedent.”

 

Calla leaned toward him and said quietly—but not too quietly— “The French dealers will salivate.”

 

At the head table, Dumbledore had gone completely still. Only the faintest narrowing of his eyes betrayed any reaction at all.

 

Harry cast a glance toward him but didn’t linger. Instead, he took half a step back to let Theo speak to his grandfather.

 

Theo motioned smoothly toward the array of crates and bundles, “Everything’s been sorted—hide, venom, fangs, bone. The materials are also divided between my share and Castor’s. He’s labeled a few pieces for gifting, and some are marked for storage rather than sale.”

 

Alban gave a satisfied nod and stepped forward. From the pocket of his coat, he retrieved a small, silver disc etched with runes. He placed it on the floor, and with a flick of his wand, the disc rapidly expanded until it resembled a wide, woven rug.

 

Harry blinked at the transformation, visibly puzzled.

 

Theo leaned toward him and offered a quiet explanation, “It’s a transportation disc—enchanted to link directly to our family’s storage vault. Grandfather will examine everything first, then send it through to be sorted and stored properly.”

 

Harry offered a polite smile, “That’s clever magic. Is there anything we can do to help, sir?”

 

Alban gave him a brief but approving glance, already crouching beside one of the opened crates, “Just stand by in case I have questions. Your labels appear thorough, but I like to confirm provenance myself.”

 

Harry dipped his head in acknowledgment and turned back toward the Gryffindor table, gesturing for Theo and his mother and grandmother to join him. “Might as well wait somewhere comfortable,” he said lightly. “Breakfast isn't over yet.”

 

Theo followed without hesitation, though Selene and Calla exchanged a subtle glance before accepting the invitation. They moved with the composed elegance expected of their station, but even so, their posture was stiff as they sat among the red-and-gold-clad students. It wasn’t open hostility they faced—more the wary curiosity that always followed the Nott name.

 

Several younger Gryffindors instinctively shifted away, whispering among themselves and throwing uncertain looks at the newcomers. But Neville offered a polite smile as he scooted over to make room, and Hermione gave Selene a courteous nod, clearly curious but determined to be gracious. Fleur, elegant as ever, greeted them in a tone as smooth as silk, “Madame Nott. Lady Nott. A pleasure.”

 

Calla gave a faint smile in return, tilting her head just enough to be respectful, “Likewise.”

 

Selene glanced across the table at Harry, then at Theo. “So this is the famous Gryffindor table,” she murmured, almost as if it were an anthropological curiosity.

 

“We don’t bite,” Harry said with a grin.

 

“Most of them, anyway,” Theo added dryly, earning a quiet laugh from Hermione.

 

Harry leaned forward on his elbows, “So, how long does your grandfather usually take with inspections?”

 

Theo tilted his head slightly in thought, “Hard to say. It depends on how complex the material is and how much magic is involved in the preservation. But this is an entry evaluation, not a market prep, so he’ll be thorough. Probably a couple hours to look over everything.”

 

Selene helped herself to a cup of tea and sipped it with quiet dignity, “He will be slow because he is impressed. He prefers not to show his hand until every box has been opened, every charm tested, and every possibility accounted for.”

 

“And he enjoys making people wait,” Calla said with dry amusement. “Especially when he knows they’re eager for his opinion.”

 

Theo didn’t deny it, “He likes to hold court. He’s not just testing the materials—he’s measuring our composure.”

 

“Lovely,” Harry muttered under his breath, though he was clearly amused, “A test on a test.”

 

“Welcome to the family,” Theo murmured with a small smirk.

 

The group sat in relative peace, an odd bubble of calm amid the usual noise of the Great Hall, as Alban Nott continued his slow, deliberate circuit of the crates—his movements exacting, his wand occasionally pulsing with magic as he tested wards, measurements, and structural integrity. Every so often, his eyes would flick toward the boys at the table. Watching. Judging. Calculating.

 

Harry met one of those glances with a cool, polite expression—and reached for a slice of toast.

Chapter 49: Chapter 49

Chapter 49

 

Draco burst into the Great Hall with an uncharacteristic lack of poise—his usually immaculate hair slightly tousled, his robes uneven, and his expression caught somewhere between confusion and indignation. He halted abruptly in the aisle as his eyes locked on the massive basilisk skull displayed near the podium, its size impossible to miss.

 

His gaze then snapped to the Gryffindor table, where Castor sat calmly between Theo and several members of the Nott family, as if this were an entirely normal morning. Draco’s mouth opened slightly, then shut with a visible clench of his jaw before he marched over.

 

“What in Merlin’s name is going on?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “I sleep in once—once—on a Saturday, and suddenly Blaise is shaking me awake saying my brother and his boyfriend are doing something mad in the Great Hall!”

 

Harry looked up at him with a serene smile, utterly unbothered, “Good morning to you too, Draco. And no, it was not mad. It was a calculated, perfectly legal business presentation.”

 

Draco’s brows rose as he glanced again at the towering skull, “That is not normal.”

 

“Maybe not for you,” Harry said, still smiling, “but for Theo? Apparently it’s a family tradition. This is his formal entry into the Nott family trade. And since we harvested the basilisk together—”

 

“You what?” Draco practically choked.

 

“—since we harvested it together,” Harry went on, unfazed, “I get a share of the materials, plus a whole range of new skills I didn’t have before. It’s been quite the productive year. Win-win.”

 

Draco gaped, “Where did you even find a bloody basilisk?!”

 

“The Chamber of Secrets,” Harry said casually, “Didn’t Lucius ever mention it?”

 

“Father knows you were doing this?!”

 

“No,” Harry admitted, “but he knows I killed one in second year. I figured he might’ve brought it up at some point. I wonder if Mum knows…”

 

Calla, sipping her tea beside Theo with an air of polite amusement, tilted her head toward Draco. “Is this the twin?” she asked mildly.

 

Selene tilted her head as she observed Draco’s reaction, “He certainly has the Malfoy sense of drama.”

 

Draco ignored them, still staring between the skull, the crates, and the brothers, “How—how long have you two been doing this?!”

 

“We started just after the First Task,” Theo said coolly, folding his hands on the table. “The project was conducted under the school’s radar for safety and discretion. My grandfather is currently reviewing our work.”

 

“You’ve been disappearing for weeks,” Draco muttered, narrowing his eyes at Castor. “I thought you were preparing for the next task! You were going down to the Chamber of Secrets to cut up a bloody basilisk?”

 

Harry blinked, “I did say I’d been busy.”

 

Draco dragged a hand down his face and muttered something about “utter lunacy” before looking at Theo again, “And you thought this was safe?”

 

Theo raised a brow, “He killed it when he was twelve. It was quite dead. We were very careful.”

 

Draco gave him a look that said he found no comfort in that statement.

 

“Do sit down, dear,” Selene said lightly, gesturing toward an empty space at the table. “You’re drawing attention.”

 

“I’m drawing attention?” Draco sputtered.

 

Harry tugged his brother’s sleeve, “Come on, you’re making a scene. Sit. Breathe. I’ll explain everything. Or better yet, Theo can, since he actually knows all the potion and preservation terms for what we’ve been doing.”

 

Draco allowed himself to be pulled down, though he did so stiffly, still eyeing the skull like it might spring to life and eat someone, “You’re both completely mental,” he muttered.

 

“Maybe,” Harry said with a grin. “But we’re also brilliant.” He reached under the table to take Theo’s hand and felt a quiet, steady squeeze in return.

 

888

 

Alban truly took his time examining everything, inspecting each crate and labeled item with the practiced eye of a man who had built a legacy out of precision. No detail escaped his attention, and Harry had to admire the thoroughness, even if it felt like it was dragging on forever.

 

Eventually, Alban made his way toward them again, holding a small, lined box in one hand. Inside lay a single basilisk fang, darker than the rest—its surface still streaked faintly with dried ink and a trace of brownish red.

 

“I see this one is marked for storage, Castor,” Alban said, his tone neutral but expectant. “Was it meant to be left uncleaned, or was this simply overlooked?”

 

Harry leaned over to peer into the box and felt his chest tighten. He recognized it instantly.

 

“No… That one wasn’t missed,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with it yet. It felt wrong to let anyone else have it.”

 

“Why?” Draco asked, narrowing his eyes. “You’re selling the rest, aren’t you?”

 

Harry nodded, but didn’t look away from the fang, “That’s the one that bit me.”

 

“What?” Draco’s voice rose sharply. “It bit you?!”

 

Harry gave a half-shrug, lips twitching, “Well. I stabbed it through the roof of the mouth first. It got in one last bite before it died.”

 

Calla made a soft, impressed sound from behind her teacup, “Surviving a basilisk bite at twelve… That does explain a lot about your disposition, dear.”

 

“I would have died,” Harry said, entirely too casually. “But Fawkes cried on the wound. Phoenix tears are handy like that.”

 

Selene Nott arched a finely shaped brow, “You didn’t think to mention that when we arrived?”

 

Harry shrugged, “Didn’t seem overly important information at the moment.”

 

Alban gave him a thoughtful glance, “I understand the sentiment now. We’ll mark it as a personal item, to remain untouched.” He paused. “Though I’d suggest eventually cleaning it—blood corrodes over time.”

 

“I’ll think about it,” Harry said, quieter this time.

 

Theo’s hand gave his a reassuring squeeze.

 

“Only you,” Draco muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, “would be sentimental about a fang that almost killed you.”

 

Harry grinned, “I didn’t say it made sense.”

 

It didn’t take much longer for Alban to finish his careful inspection. One by one, the remaining crates vanished in flashes of silent magic as the transporter disc hummed beneath them, sending the contents away to the Nott family’s secure storage.

 

Once the last crate disappeared, Alban stood and dusted off his gloves with methodical calm before striding back to the group. Theo had already risen to his feet, standing straight and composed—but even Harry could see the slight tension in his shoulders. He’d done everything right. Still, the weight of family legacy made every verdict feel heavier.

 

Alban stopped in front of him, eyes assessing his grandson in silence for a long, drawn-out moment. The air felt still around them.

 

Then, finally, with a subtle nod, “Well done.”

 

Theo’s jaw twitched slightly, the only outward sign of the broad smile he was clearly suppressing. Instead, he settled for a composed smirk, “Thank you, Grandfather.”

 

Harry blinked. “That’s it?” he asked, incredulous.

 

Alban’s lips twitched again—this time unmistakably with amusement—but the man was clearly fighting to maintain his usual air of gravitas.

 

“You were expecting fireworks?” he asked dryly.

 

Harry raised his brows, “Something! A medal? A ceremonial dagger? Maybe a dragon-shaped paperweight?”

 

Theo let out a soft breath of laughter, and Alban finally allowed a more obvious smile to surface.

 

“Well done to you as well, Castor,” Alban added with a touch of warmth—well, as warm as his voice seemed capable of.

 

“Wow, thanks,” Harry replied with a grin. “You say it with such… enthusiasm. I’m overwhelmed.”

 

Calla gave a soft, musical chuckle. “Oh dear. I rather like him,” she said to Theo. “He’s refreshing.”

 

Selene, still sipping her tea, gave a more measured nod, “Sharp tongue, steady hands, and a useful skillset. It’s no wonder Theo took to him.”

 

Theo, to his credit, didn’t deny it.

 

Alban glanced back at Theo, “You’ve done well. The materials will be catalogued and appraised over the next few days. I’ll have the full report to you both by next week. After that, you’ll be brought in on the business records officially, Theo.”

 

Theo inclined his head, composed again, “Yes, sir.”

 

“We shall take our leave. Plenty of work to do.”

 

The ladies rose from there seats, Selene putting a hand on Theo’s shoulder as a subtle sign of approval.

 

As Alban turned, he paused to glance back at Harry, “If you ever wish to pursue work in the trade formally, Castor… my door is open.”

 

Then, without waiting for a response, he strode off, long robes trailing.

 

Harry blinked after him, “Did… did he just offer me a job?”

 

Theo shrugged, but he was smiling, “That’s basically a contract in Nott speak.”

 

“I may become the most employed fourteen-year-old in history,” he joked.

 

888

 

After the Notts departed, conversation at the table slowly returned to normal. Harry, still smiling faintly, stood.

 

“I’m going to slip away for a bit,” he said casually.

 

Draco arched a brow, “Where to now? Don’t tell me you’re about to dig up a second basilisk.”

 

Theo, more curious than skeptical, asked, “What are you up to?”

 

Harry grinned, just a bit mischievous, “Off to work on my next project.”

 

Theo tilted his head, clearly intrigued, and Draco groaned something under his breath about “unsupervised Gryffindors.”

 

But before Theo could press further, Harry’s expression softened. He didn’t want Theo to think this meant retreating back into secrecy or shutting him out now that the basilisk business was done.

 

“Can I have supper with you this evening?” he asked, quiet but sincere.

 

Theo’s lips curved into one of his rare, gentle smiles, “You don’t have to ask. Always.”

 

Harry felt warmth bloom in his chest at the answer, familiar now but no less reassuring. With a nod, he turned and made his way to the Room of Requirement, its door appearing without hesitation.

 

The hours that followed passed in a blur of focus. He spent the time studying and practising warming charms and spells that he believed would come in handy. He also revisited everything he knew about underwater environments. He reread his notes on magical aquatic creatures and Gillyweed’s effects until the ink nearly blurred on the page. He wasn’t just studying. He was preparing.

 

Before dinner, he carefully packed his rucksack: Valentin’s fitted swimwear, two jars of Gillyweed, the Marauder’s Map, and his invisibility cloak all tucked neatly between his notes and a few emergency supplies. It wasn’t quite a plan yet, but the pieces were aligning.

 

When he returned to the Great Hall, bag still over his shoulder, he found Theo already seated and waiting. The sight of him—calm, patient, entirely steady—settled something in Harry’s chest.

 

He sat down beside him, brushing their knees together under the table in greeting.

 

Theo glanced at the bag, then at him, “Make any more history today?”

 

Harry chuckled, “No, just heavy on the research today. I’m still in the planning and prep phase.”

 

Theo’s gaze lingered on him, warm and faintly amused. “Well, if there’s anything I can help with, I’d have no problem following you into yet another mad scheme.” He paused, then added with quiet conviction, “After all, I’ve seen enough of them to know you’re more than competent.”

 

Harry blinked, his heart giving a small, almost startled thump at the compliment—simple, sincere, and from Theo that meant everything.

 

“Well,” he murmured, nudging Theo gently, “I’ll keep that in mind. We do make a good team.”

 

888

 

Since Hermione was still the only one who knew where Harry was truly living, it was easy enough to slip away, after supper, unnoticed. Cloaked in invisibility, he moved silently through the corridors, the soft padding of his footsteps swallowed by the stone. It technically wasn’t against the rules—curfew was still a good while off—but Harry wasn’t in the mood to answer questions about where he was going or what he was carrying. Not tonight.

 

The sky had already begun to shift from gold to dusky lavender, shadows stretching long across the grounds as the sun dipped toward the horizon. A chill clung to the air, and most students were wisely tucked inside, far from the biting wind and the frozen lawns.

 

Harry made his way down toward the lake, hugging the tree line as he moved. The still surface of the water shimmered faintly in the dying light, quiet and undisturbed, just as he’d hoped. He kept going, circling wide around the familiar shoreline, putting as much distance between himself and the castle as he could. Eventually, he reached a secluded curve of the bank partially sheltered by overhanging trees and a cluster of jagged rocks.

 

Here, no windows from the castle could catch a glimpse of him. No wandering students would stumble across him by chance. It was quiet, private—just the way he needed it.

 

Letting out a slow breath, Harry pulled back the invisibility cloak and slipped it off his shoulders, folding it carefully and tucking it into his bag. He stood still for a moment, the cold air prickling against his skin, and looked out over the dark water.

 

This was it.

 

Harry had made up his mind: the safest way to navigate the lake would be slowly, carefully, and thoroughly. The actual task would demand speed, but tonight wasn’t about haste—it was about preparation. If he rushed blindly through the water on the day itself, he'd risk swimming straight into a Grindylow nest or getting turned around. No, tonight was for mapping out the terrain in his mind, familiarizing himself with landmarks, currents, and hidden dangers long before the clock began to tick.

 

Hidden beneath the shelter of a gnarled old tree, he quickly stripped down and tugged on the sleek  wetsuit Valentin had sent him. It fit snugly, locking in warmth, but Harry didn’t take any chances. He murmured a handful of heating and resistance charms under his breath, layering the protective magic until he felt comfortably shielded from the biting cold.

 

The first jar of Gillyweed sat nestled beside his rucksack. He popped the seal with a soft pop, the briny scent of lake-plant hitting him almost immediately. Holding the slimy substance in one hand, he trudged down the bank and waded slowly into the dark water.

 

The chill was immediate despite his charms, a full-body shiver rushing up his spine as the cold lapped against his legs, then his waist. He paused there, standing still in the waist-deep water, and drew in a long, steadying breath.

 

You’ve done worse, he told himself. Basilisks. Dragons. This is just cold water and ugly seaweed.

 

Then, without letting himself think too long, he shoved the Gillyweed into his mouth.

 

The texture was every bit as awful as he imagined—slimy, rubbery, like trying to chew a handful of kelp soaked in stale pond water. He gagged reflexively but forced himself to swallow it down, resisting the urge to spit it out. The moment it hit his stomach, he felt it start to take effect—gills sprouting along his neck, webbing between his fingers and toes, his chest tightening before adjusting to the new rhythm of underwater breathing.

 

With one last glance at the tree line, Harry slipped fully beneath the surface of the lake.

 

The transformation was immediate.

 

The coolness that had seeped into his bones a moment ago dulled, muted by the magic coursing through his veins. His ears popped and then quieted, replaced by a deep, steady hum that echoed in the water around him. With a few strong kicks of his now-webbed feet, Harry propelled himself forward, adjusting quickly to the strange rhythm of underwater movement. Breathing through the new gills felt foreign but not painful—just different, like learning to walk again.

 

The lake was murky but not blind-dark. The last light of sunset filtered through in scattered shafts, painting the world in shifting greens and silvers. Tiny fish darted past him in tight, shimmering schools, disturbed by the intruder in their territory. Strands of underwater weeds floated like ghostly fingers in the current, brushing his arms and legs as he swam deeper.

 

Harry stayed near the rocky lakebed at first, following the slope downward as it dropped into darker water. He moved slowly, just as he’d planned—eyes sharp, hand occasionally brushing the hilt of his wand where it was strapped to his thigh, ready at a moment’s notice.

 

There were signs of magical life even this close to the shore. A small cluster of Grindylows clung to the base of a mossy rock, their long fingers twitching in the water. Harry veered wide, careful not to disturb them. He made a mental note of their nest and the rock’s shape—it could serve as both a warning and a landmark later.

 

As he swam on, the landscape grew more eerie. Pale tree branches jutted from the silt like skeletal fingers, remnants of a forest that had once stood before the lake expanded. Schools of pale eelpout and lake trout swirled through the roots, hiding in the tangles.

 

The further Harry swam, the more the water grew cold and dark. He activated the faint light at the tip of his wand, casting an eerie glow ahead of him. Off to the side, he thought he saw movement—just a flicker. A silver tail, vanishing into shadow. He tensed, heart thudding against his ribs, but didn’t pursue. He wasn’t here to confront the merfolk—not yet.

 

After what a tempus charm revealed to be forty-five minutes, he surfaced in a pocket of reeds, checking his position. The castle was far behind him, its windows faint specks in the distance. He made a slow arc back toward his starting point, repeating much of the route to test if he could navigate it in reverse under pressure.

 

When his lungs began to ache and his fingers trembled from magic use, Harry finally waded back to shore, pulling himself from the water under cover of darkness. The chill struck him like a slap now that the Gillyweed had worn off. Shivering, he stripped quickly and wrapped himself in his cloak, wand out to cast drying and warming charms.

 

He took one last glance at the rippling surface of the lake before he disappeared into the night.

 

For now he’d rest. But the next night he’d be back. Mapping, marking, mastering.

 

Because when the time came, he wouldn’t just swim. He would own the water.

Chapter 50: Chapter 50

Notes:

This is one of those chapters that I feel people will either really love or not be sure about. I had the same feeling back with Chapter 24 — when Castor rode the dragon — so if you enjoyed that one, I’m hoping this will land well too. Either way, I had a lot of fun writing it.

Chapter 50

 

By the time Harry returned to the Room of Requirement, his limbs ached with the deep, bone-heavy fatigue that came from prolonged magical exertion—and unfamiliar muscles strained from swimming. The room, ever-attuned to his needs, had already provided a steaming bath, enchanted to stay perfectly warm and soothing no matter how long he lingered. He slipped into it gratefully, sinking until the water reached his chin, letting the heat unwind the tension in his shoulders and ease the sting in his fingers.

 

The silence was a comfort. No questions, no expectations—just the gentle lapping of the water and the crackle of a conjured fire in the corner. He closed his eyes for a long while, breathing in the soft scent of pine and herbs the room had thoughtfully included.

 

Swimming, it turned out, demanded far more stamina than he’d expected. He’d never been taught properly, of course. The Dursleys had never paid for lessons—had barely let him near water deeper than a bath. But he’d waded in the Black Lake with Ron and Hermione one spring afternoon, laughing and splashing in the shallows, content with the moment. Tonight, though, had been entirely different. Serious. Strategic. Hard. Yet somehow… enjoyable?

 

Eventually, when the heat began to lull him too far toward sleep, he forced himself out of the tub and into soft, magically-warmed pyjamas. The bed welcomed him like an old friend, thick quilts wrapping around him the moment he lay down.

 

His eyes closed before he even pulled the covers up properly. The last thing he registered was the dull, pleasant soreness in his arms and the faint memory of drifting weightless through green-tinted water.

 

888

 

“My Lord, the boy—every day brings some new spectacle,” drawled the now-familiar voice of the man named Barty, standing before the baby-like figure that was Lord Voldemort.

 

Voldemort did not rise to the bait with anger. Instead, his lips curled in faint amusement, eyes glittering red in the firelight. “What has he done this time?” he asked, as if inquiring about a favorite performer in an ongoing play.

 

Barty inclined his head slightly, his tone tinged with disbelief. “He is officially courting the Nott heir now. And not only that—he aided young Theodore in completing his family’s rite of passage. They entered the Chamber of Secrets together to harvest the corpse of the basilisk. The very one the boy claims to have killed years ago.”

 

Even in his frail, unnatural form, Voldemort’s surprise was unmistakable. His head lifted slightly. “The Chamber… and the basilisk…” he murmured, voice thin. “The boy is a Parselmouth, then?”

 

“He is,” Barty confirmed with a tight nod. “He spoke to me of slaying the creature before, but I dismissed it as dramatics. Until now. He and the Nott boy presented the remains—fangs, hide, and all—to Alban, right in front of the entire Great Hall. There was no denying it.”

 

A silence followed, thick and contemplative.

 

Voldemort's boney fingers drummed slowly against the armrest of his chair, “How curious. A child raised by Dumbledore, gifted in Parseltongue, wielding my snake’s corpse as a tool of advancement… What else?”

 

Barty smiled thinly, eyes flickering with dark pride, “Dumbledore summoned him to a private meeting after the holidays. He was questioning the boy's growing closeness to the Notts, and tried—unsuccessfully, I might add—to dissuade him from continuing his work at the dragon reserve. The boy began that job over the break and now holds a portkey charm to return at will.”

At that, Voldemort chuckled—a brittle, rasping sound that scraped from his throat like dry leaves over stone. “Dragons, Parseltongue, and a pureblood courtship,” he mused, almost fondly. “He’s practically rewriting the archetype.”

 

Barty inclined his head. “Dumbledore is... not pleased, to put it mildly. He’s losing control of the narrative. And with the basilisk harvesting now paraded about so publicly, it’s only a matter of time before the story reaches the press. I even saw a little Gryffindor snapping photographs. Dumbledore knows there will be backlash from this as he had never come forward with this information and merely told the public that the Chamber of Secrets had been dealt with.”

 

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed red in the dim firelight, “He’s afraid. Not of the boy, perhaps, but of what the boy represents.”

 

“Precisely,” Barty said. “A symbol of defiance. A child raised under his nose, who’s done more to disrupt his plans and ruin his reputation than any Ministry official has in years. And now, by befriending the Notts and parading about with Parselmouth abilities and dragon blood on his boots, the boy is walking a path that Dumbledore cannot shape.”

 

He rose from his chair with effort, his movements skeletal but purposeful. “Keep a close eye on him. If he continues on this path… he may prove either an asset worth recruiting—or a threat worth removing.”

 

Barty bowed low, but dared a question, “And if he begins to look too much like you, my Lord?”

 

Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed, “Then we shall see whether he is a worthy heir… or just another false prophet walking my shadow.”

 

Harry jolted awake with a sharp gasp, his body flailing sideways off the bed. He hit the floor with a thud—but instead of cold stone, he landed on a thick, cushioned mat the Room of Requirement had conjured for him, as if it anticipated the fall.

 

He sat up, chest heaving. “What the fuck?!”

 

Heir?

 

The word echoed in his mind like a curse.

 

Voldemort thinks I could be an heir? He stared blankly ahead, pulse thundering in his ears. The same lunatic who tried to kill me more times than I can count? Now he wants to pass me a crown?

 

Harry’s thoughts scrambled, racing to keep up with the fragments of the dream—no, not a dream. A vision. A real conversation between Barty Crouch Jr. and Voldemort, as vivid and detailed as any memory.

 

He could still hear the twisted admiration in Voldemort’s voice, still feel the chill that settled over him at the word heir.

 

But then something else clicked into place, something that twisted his stomach with dread.

 

Voldemort knew about my meeting with Dumbledore.

 

His eyes narrowed. That conversation took place in the Headmaster’s office. Behind closed doors. The only other person there was—

 

“Mad-Eye,” Harry muttered.

 

The realization struck like lightning. He scrambled to his feet, darting to the battered trunk in the corner. Yanking it open, he pulled out the Marauder’s Map and dropped onto the sofa, wand already in hand.

 

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

 

Ink bled across the parchment, revealing the shifting layout of the castle. Names flickered into place one by one—students sleeping in their dorms, the occasional prefect doing rounds, and a few professors wandering the halls.

 

Harry’s eyes darted across the map, zeroing in on the Defense Against the Dark Arts quarters. Empty.

 

His stomach flipped. He scanned again, more urgently this time. Finally, he found the name: Alastor Moody, hovering within his office.

 

“He’s still in the castle,” Harry muttered grimly.

 

He stared at the map, knuckles white around the edges of the parchment.

 

“What the hell is happening?” he whispered to the dark.

 

Everything felt like it was slipping. Dumbledore was hiding things. Voldemort was watching. And now, even the man who was supposed to protect them—Mad-Eye Moody—might not be what he claimed to be.

 

888

 

The next day, Harry couldn’t stop watching Mad-Eye Moody.

 

He tried to be subtle about it—glancing over his goblet at breakfast, pretending to look past the staff table at lunch—but his eyes kept drifting back to the scarred, grizzled man with the magical eye that spun lazily in its socket. There was something wrong.

 

The dream—or vision, whatever it had been—still clung to Harry’s mind like cobwebs. Voldemort knew about the conversation in Dumbledore’s office. Only Mad-Eye was there. Coincidence? Or a crack in the façade?

 

Harry didn’t want to tip his hand just yet. If Moody was compromised—if he wasn’t who he claimed to be—Harry needed more than suspicion and a gut feeling. He needed proof.

 

So, instead of confronting the man or continuing to stare and risk drawing attention, Harry forced himself to focus on what he could control: preparing for the Second Task. After all, the lake wasn’t going to let him slack off. He needed to be prepared. After lunch, he left the Great Hall and headed for the library, where Hermione had promised to meet him.

 

She had leaned across the table at lunch, her voice low, eyes dancing with excitement, “I found something. It’s an advanced charm—intended for underwater search-and-capture operations. When cast, it sends out a pulse of magical electricity in a short radius ahead of the wand. It’s non-lethal, meant to incapacitate or drive off aggressive creatures without harming the caster. Sort of like… magical sonar meets a stun spell.”

 

Harry had latched onto the idea immediately. It was practical, defensive, and—most importantly—it didn’t require him to fight something tooth and claw.

 

Now, seated at a quiet corner table in the library with stacks of books around him, he flipped open the volume Hermione had flagged for him: Aquatic Magical Defense and Submersion Spells. The incantation was tricky—Fulgeris Mare—and the wand movement delicate, but it was exactly the sort of thing he needed. The text even mentioned that trained magizoologists used it to ward off Grindylows and territorial mercreatures when navigating deep waters.

 

Hermione arrived shortly after, her bag bulging with more books and notes. She slid into the seat across from him, setting down a fresh parchment already scribbled with practice notes and diagrams. “You’re going to want to practice it in the Room,” she said. “It can provide a tub deep enough to give you a feel for how it works underwater, and you can enchant the bubbles to simulate movement.”

 

Harry blinked, “You want me to electrocute bubbles?”

 

She grinned, “Safely. It’s called controlled experimentation, Harry.”

 

Harry chuckled under his breath, unable to help himself. The absurdity of his life never failed to catch him off guard.

 

Once he felt confident with the theory behind the spell—and after getting a head start on the week's class readings—he made his way to the Room of Requirement, just as Hermione had suggested. He had a feeling she’d quiz him the next morning anyway.

 

The Room responded instantly to his needs, shaping itself into a steamy, cavernous space with a wide pool of enchanted water. The current ebbed and flowed realistically, creating subtle waves and swirling eddies. Bubbles drifted lazily in clusters, glimmering like glass beads in the warm light.

 

It was perfect.

 

Harry spent hours there. His body moved through the water with growing ease as he cast Fulminas Unda again and again, watching sparks ripple ahead of him. At first, he only managed to burst a single bubble, but as the practice wore on, he began to stun two, sometimes even three at once. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress.

 

Still, he wasn’t ready—not by a long shot. Not for whatever the Task could throw at him. But time was short, and there was only so much he could do in a day.

 

Reluctantly, he dried off, changed clothes, and made his way to the Great Hall to meet Theo for supper.

 

Afterwards, with the sun still high but beginning to sink, Harry slipped out of the castle again, under his cloak as he made his way toward the lake. This time, he arrived earlier than the night before, eager to make the most of the fading light.

 

The cold wind tugged at his cloak as he settled on the same flat stone near the lakebed where he’d perched before. His eyes scanned the water’s surface, tinted gold and orange by the sinking sun. It was peaceful here—too peaceful, sometimes. It gave his mind too much room to think.

 

He sat in silence for a moment, letting his thoughts drift with the rippling waves, until something caught his eye.

 

A single, thick tentacle slowly breached the surface of the water and then dipped again.

 

Harry blinked, startled, then grinned.

 

The Giant Squid. Of course.

 

In the spring, students often played with the creature. He’d watched Fred and George mock-battle its tentacles more than once, laughing as they tried to wrestle them like overeager pirates. The squid had always seemed playful, if a little peculiar.

 

Then something clicked in Harry’s mind—a line from the book he’d read on the lake.

 

Fondness for toast.

 

He grinned wider. “Mipsy,” he called softly.

 

With a pop, the elf appeared by his side, wringing her hands eagerly, “Master Castor is needing Mipsy?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Could you bring me a few slices of toast?”

 

Mipsy nodded without hesitation, ears flapping, “Right away, sir!”

 

She vanished and returned only moments later, balancing a plate stacked with three golden slices of toast, still warm.

 

Harry took the food straight from the plate, grinning, “Thanks, Mipsy.”

 

She bowed and popped away again.

 

Holding the first slice in hand, he stepped down toward the water’s edge, hesitating just briefly before wading in up to his ankles. How do you get a squid’s attention, anyway?

 

As the tentacles began slipping back beneath the water, Harry took a breath and yelled into the twilight, “TOAST!”

 

He waved the piece over his head like a madman.

 

It was the sort of moment that made Harry fully understand why people thought he was becoming unhinged—alone, ankle-deep in freezing water, yelling about toast to a lake.

 

But to his delight, it worked.

 

A slick, massive tentacle reappeared and drifted closer, curling delicately around the slice before plucking it from his hand.

 

Harry blinked. “Well, I’ll be…”

 

He raised another. “TOAST!”

 

Pluck.

 

“TOAST!”

 

Pluck.

 

The final slice vanished just as easily as the others.

 

Harry laughed, a real, full sound that echoed off the lake. “You really do love toast, don’t you?”

 

He stepped back, brushing off his damp hands. How random—and yet, oddly comforting. For all the chaos of his life, this—feeding toast to a squid—was somehow the most grounded he’d felt in days.

 

He sat back down on the stone, eyes on the water, and whispered to no one in particular, “Maybe I’m not the only strange one around here.”

 

Still chuckling from his bizarre toast offering, Harry pried open the small jar of Gillyweed. The slimy mass inside sloshed against the glass, and he wrinkled his nose before forcing it down in two large gulps. It tasted like low tide and stale lettuce.

 

The transformation was almost immediate—his skin prickled, gills unfurling at his neck, fingers webbing slightly as the cold lake water wrapped around him. He took a deep breath and dove beneath the surface, heading in the direction the mermaid had disappeared the night before.

 

The clue from the egg had been in Mermish—probably—and that could only mean one thing: whatever was taken, whatever he needed to retrieve for the Task, would be hidden deep in the merpeople’s territory.

 

The water grew darker as he swam, filtered sunlight giving way to shadow. Long tendrils of lakeweed drifted from the rocky floor, brushing against his legs as he passed. Small silver fish darted through the gloom, and for a moment, Harry thought he saw something moving between the reeds.

 

He stilled, squinting.

 

Nothing. Just fish. He exhaled slowly and kicked forward again.

 

Then, without warning, a powerful current surged around him, nearly knocking him off course. The water swirled violently, tugging at him like invisible hands. Instinctively, he spun around—and froze.

 

Something was coming.

 

Through the murky distance, a massive shape moved—slow but deliberate, a blur of shadow and muscle. Harry's heart pounded in his throat as the water around him seemed to grow colder.

 

And then, out of the gloom, he saw it.

 

The Giant Squid.

 

Its size was staggering, far more intimidating underwater than it ever appeared from the shore. One enormous eye turned toward him, pale and ancient and unblinking.

 

Harry’s breath caught, and he involuntarily gulped a mouthful of lake water. Even with the Gillyweed, it sent a shudder through him.

 

It sees me.

 

He floated there, completely still, watching the creature draw closer with a grace that was at odds with its size. Tentacles drifted lazily at its sides, but each was longer than the entire Gryffindor common room.

 

Don’t run, he told himself. Don’t fight it. It knows you.

 

Hopefully.

 

Harry raised a hand slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, and held it steady in the water—half a greeting, half a silent show of peace.

 

The squid hovered, its massive eye fixed on him. For a long, breathless moment, the water seemed unnaturally still, as if the entire lake was watching too.

 

Then—impossibly—a single tentacle lifted, curling in the same motion Harry had made. It wasn’t exact, but it was close enough to feel intentional.

 

Harry blinked in disbelief, a laugh bubbling up in his throat despite the lingering tension. “Hi,” he said, voice muffled by the water but clear in intent.

 

He felt ridiculous—more absurd than the time he’d spoken to a Hungarian Horntail. At least dragons understood him. Parseltongue didn’t help down here. But somehow, this felt... mutual. Like the creature wasn’t just observing him, but listening.

 

“I’m glad you liked the toast,” he added in a soft, steady tone, unsure if the words mattered, but saying them anyway.

 

The giant eye seemed to widen slightly at the word toast, its pupil contracting in what Harry swore looked like recognition.

 

Encouraged, he offered a small smile, “Do you mind if I keep swimming? I’ve only got about half an hour before I need to head back.”

 

The squid didn’t move. Didn’t lunge or retreat. Just watched.

 

Taking that as some kind of permission, Harry slowly resumed his swim. He kept his strokes smooth and unhurried, wary of startling the creature—but after a few meters, he sensed movement behind him. He glanced back and nearly laughed again.

 

The squid was following him.

 

It drifted along in slow, curious silence, trailing at a distance like an enormous, rubbery puppy hoping for another snack.

 

This is utterly mad, Harry thought, heart still racing. I’m being shadowed by the squid like I’m its new best friend.

 

But mad as it was, it felt… good. Safe, even. The creature made no move to threaten him. If anything, it seemed content simply to accompany him.

 

Maybe it’ll keep the grindylows away, Harry mused. Or merfolk, if they’re not feeling friendly.

 

With a small, amused huff, he decided then and there: the Giant Squid was getting toast. Lots of toast. Every time he came to the lake. And not just toast—he’d talk to it, too. Like he did with Hedwig. Both were intelligent creatures, after all. And loyal.

 

“I think I’ll call you…” he hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at the creature that continued to hover behind him, tentacles drifting lazily. “—Kraken. It feels dramatic enough.”

 

The squid blinked slowly.

 

“Alright, Kraken,” Harry said, turning forward again, “let’s go see what the merpeople are hiding.”

 

But as he descended deeper into the lake, the water grew colder, darker, and denser. The plants thinned, replaced by pale stones and craggy outcroppings. The lakebed here looked less traveled, more ancient.

 

And far ahead—just at the edge of visibility—shadows flickered in the murk. Shapes moving with deliberate grace.

 

Harry slowed, and even the squid behind him seemed to pause.

 

Merfolk.

 

They hadn’t noticed him yet.

 

Harry reached down and felt for the wand holstered against his thigh.

 

Just in case.

 

Harry remained still, half-concealed among the swaying lakeweed, eyes fixed on the creatures ahead. He crept forward slowly, letting the plant life obscure his form as he moved, careful not to disturb the water too much. The murky current shifted around him as he slunk lower, drawing ever closer to the figures moving just beyond the rocky outcrop.

 

Kraken, on the other hand, showed no such stealth. The massive squid glided beside him in full view, tentacles drifting lazily, utterly unbothered by the presence of the merfolk. Harry had a hunch the merpeople were used to the squid’s company. If they noticed him, they gave no indication—no sudden alert, no sharp glances in their direction. They simply continued on with their tasks.

 

As he got closer, the scene unfolded in greater detail—an entire village nestled into the craggy lakebed. Stone huts with domed, seaweed-crowned roofs clustered together like underwater beehives. Strange, bioluminescent plants lined their narrow pathways, casting an eerie green glow through the water. Merpeople swam in small groups, their movements smooth and deliberate, with spears in hand and sharp eyes scanning the gloom—not for Harry, it seemed, but for something else.

 

It was mesmerizing. Quiet. Almost sacred.

 

He didn’t dare move closer.

 

After several minutes of quiet observation, Harry slowly began to back away, careful not to disturb the aquatic hush around him. He cast one last glance at the village before turning toward the surface, kicking upwards through the water.

 

But he had lingered too long.

 

A tightening sensation crawled up his chest. His gills began to retract. Panic flared in his stomach as he realized the Gillyweed was wearing off—too soon.

 

He kicked harder, the shimmering surface above still a good distance away. His chest burned, lungs instinctively trying to inhale where there was no air. The pressure built rapidly, panic making his limbs sluggish.

 

And then—something wrapped around his middle.

 

Harry flailed, startled, fearing for one wild second that one of the merfolk had noticed him after all and was dragging him back down—

 

But instead, he was rising.

 

Fast.

 

Water rushed past him as Kraken broke the surface in one smooth, powerful motion, lifting Harry high into the air. The tentacle holding him curled protectively around his chest, mindful not to squeeze. With a soft whump, the creature deposited him gently onto the damp sand of the shoreline.

 

Harry lay there for a moment, gasping, soaked, and wide-eyed.

 

Then he burst out laughing.

 

It was breathless and a little wild, but genuine. Of course the squid had understood. Of course it had saved him.

 

Still grinning, he pushed himself to his feet, wand already out to dry his clothes with a quick charm. “Thanks, Kraken,” he said between chuckles, patting one of the retreating tentacles as it slid back into the water.

 

Feeling lighter than he had in days, Harry called, “Mipsy!”

 

With a pop, the elf appeared, cheerful as ever, “Master Castor is calling for Mipsy?”

 

“Yes, please. Could you bring some more toast?”

 

Her ears flapped with glee. “Right away, sir!”

 

She vanished, and Harry turned back to the lake, watching the ripples where Kraken had disappeared, already plotting his next visit.

Notes:

Chapter 50!!
I’ve written so much this past month, and the ideas just keep coming! Honestly, some of the comments have sparked even more inspiration, and with the best comment section I could ask for, staying motivated has been easy. So thank you all — truly!

Chapter 51

Chapter 51

 

After giving Kraken one final piece of toast—plucked delicately from his hand with surprising gentleness—Harry waved farewell to the lake and began the walk back to the castle. The sky was now streaked with the deep purples and oranges of approaching nightfall, and the chill in the air bit a little sharper now that he was damp.

 

He made his way to the seventh floor, eyes scanning the corridor until the familiar stretch of blank wall revealed itself. He paced in front of it three times, focusing on what he needed: a place to clean up, to think, to rest…

 

The door appeared, and Harry slipped inside.

 

The Room of Requirement had transformed once again, this time returning to the tranquil bathing chamber—a deep, tiled tub steaming gently in the center, lined with fluffy towels and enchanted lanterns casting warm, flickering light.

 

Harry stripped off his damp clothes and slid into the water with a sigh. Muscles he hadn’t realized were sore eased as the warmth soaked into his skin. For a moment, he simply floated, arms drifting at his sides, eyes half-lidded.

 

But his mind, as always, refused to stay quiet for long.

 

He thought back to the lake. To the pressure in his chest when the Gillyweed wore off. To the cold panic that had taken hold of him just before Kraken had appeared. If the squid hadn’t intervened…

 

I could’ve drowned.

 

The thought settled over him like a weight. He clenched his jaw.

 

He had to get better at swimming. He couldn’t afford to rely on magic—or friendly lake monsters—every time he was underwater. Not if he wanted to survive the Second Task.

 

Maybe if I practiced… he thought. Got stronger, faster, I could swim farther without help. Or at least buy myself more time if something went wrong.

 

As if responding to his thoughts, the water around him began to shift.

 

The once-still surface rippled. The calm warmth of the bath receded slightly as the tub stretched outward, deepening and expanding until it resembled a training pool more than a bath. A soft current stirred the surface—gentle at first, then stronger.

 

Before Harry could fully react, the current surged, nudging him from behind. He kicked against it instinctively, only to find himself pushed right into the far wall.

 

He blinked, then narrowed his eyes.

 

Oh, he realized, lips quirking into a grin. I get it.

 

The Room had created something like a magical water treadmill—the current pushing against him would force him to swim in place if he tried to move forward. It was training. Resistance. Practice.

 

Perfect.

 

Rolling his shoulders, Harry kicked off from the edge and began to swim into the current. The water resisted him immediately, pushing back with surprising strength. Every stroke was a struggle, every kick an effort, but that was the point.

 

He swam hard, muscles burning in a way they hadn’t before—not painful, but awakening. The water dragged at his arms, pulled at his legs, and still he fought through it.

 

He wasn’t the strongest swimmer, not yet. But if the Room believed he could train, then he would.

 

He would earn his survival.

 

After twenty exhausting minutes, he finally let the current push him back to the tiled edge, panting, water dripping from his hair into his eyes. He clung to the ledge and let his breath return to normal, a tired but determined smile on his face.

 

Better every day, he thought. I have to be.

 

888

 

Harry found himself absently stirring his porridge, though he wasn’t actually hungry. His thoughts had drifted somewhere far deeper—quite literally—to the bottom of the Black Lake. He couldn’t stop thinking about Kraken.

 

There was something oddly peaceful about being down there. The muffled silence. The lazy sway of weeds. The way the Giant Squid had followed him around like a curious guardian. It was the first time Harry could remember feeling safe somewhere so alien.

 

He still had six jars of Gillyweed left, but he was already wondering if that would be enough. Not for the Second Task—though it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have extra—but because… he wanted to go back. For fun. For quiet. For the feeling of drifting through cool, dark water beside a creature that made others run for the hills.

 

Would it be weird to write his mum and ask for more? It wasn’t that expensive, really. But Draco had already given him a look when he’d bought the amount he had.

 

But Draco wouldn’t understand. No one really did. The experience reminded him of the feeling he had on the reserve with his girls. Harry hadn’t just been swimming—he’d escaped. For a little while, it had been just him and Kraken and the silence. It had been freedom.

 

He was still mulling over how to phrase the potential letter when Neville appeared across from him in the Great Hall. His arm was slung gently around Luna Lovegood’s shoulder, and the two of them sat down like they’d been a pair forever.

 

“Morning, Castor,” Luna said dreamily, her pale eyes full of quiet warmth.

 

Harry smiled, “Morning, Luna. Neville. It’s nice to see you two together—I knew you’d get along.”

 

“Neville has been very kind,” Luna said softly, tilting her head toward him, “And Trevor has a wonderful singing voice.”

 

Neville turned bright red, “He doesn’t sing, he just... sort of croaks off key.”

 

Harry chuckled, “Well, I’m sure Trevor’s doing his best.”

 

Neville gave a sheepish grin, and Harry decided not to tease him any further. He turned back to Luna with a more serious expression.

 

“I don’t think I ever properly thanked you,” he said, “For the dragons. If you hadn’t told me... I wouldn’t have been able to talk to them before the First Task. And I probably wouldn’t have earned my job on the reserve. That’s something I never even thought was possible.”

 

Luna tilted her head, serene as ever, “It was the right thing to do. Dragons remember people who treat them kindly. So do friends.”

 

Harry’s heart gave a small, unexpected lurch at her words. He opened his mouth to respond—to tell her how much it meant, how much she meant—but he never got the chance.

 

With a rush of white feathers and a gust of wind, Hedwig swooped into the Great Hall, drawing the attention of several nearby students. She landed gracefully on the table in front of him, one talon gripping the morning's Daily Prophet and the other bearing a sealed envelope tied with a navy ribbon.

 

“Show off,” Harry muttered fondly, untying both loads. Hedwig clicked her beak and nudged the back of his hand affectionately before taking off again, sailing toward the owlery.

 

Harry set the letter aside for the moment—he didn’t recognize the handwriting, and something about the seal seemed vaguely official—but his breath caught as he unfolded the Prophet and caught sight of the front page.

 

There, moving in enchanted black and white, was a photo of himself and Theo standing at the front of the Great Hall. Behind them, the massive length of the Basilisk’s preserved corpse gleamed under torchlight. Theo’s expression was its usual unreadable mask, but even in motion, there was pride in the way he stood just behind Harry, one hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial blade they'd used to demonstrate the creature’s fangs.

 

And then came the headline:

 

CASTOR MALFOY KILLS BASILISK AT TWELVE

By Rita Skeeter

Photos and Insider Information Provided by Prophet’s New Intern: Colin Creevey

 

Harry groaned aloud, causing Neville to glance over with alarm, “Uh… everything all right?”

 

“No,” Harry muttered, “Rita Skeeter and Colin Creevey had formed an alliance to photograph me at all times.”

 

He kept reading, dread rising with every line.

 

In a shocking display of cunning, courage, and sheer magical audacity, Castor Malfoy—formerly known to many as Harry Potter—successfully assisted in the neutralization and retrieval of a full-grown Basilisk from the fabled Chamber of Secrets located beneath Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. What’s more, sources have confirmed the young Malfoy was only twelve at the time of the kill, making him one of the youngest wizard in known history to survive such a feat.

 

But the question that now has the wizarding world buzzing is: why was there a Basilisk beneath the school in the first place? More to the point—why did Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, long considered one of the most powerful and knowledgeable wizards alive, never disclose the creature’s existence? Why did it fall to a student—a child—to discover, confront, and ultimately slay the beast?

 

This revelation has sparked debate about the safety of Hogwarts and the judgment of those in charge. Was Dumbledore aware of the monster lurking in the shadows? And if so, how long had he known? One can’t help but wonder if this is yet another example of the Headmaster's famously cryptic leadership style placing students at risk.

 

When pressed for comment on why the existence of the Basilisk had never been publicly disclosed, Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall gave a carefully measured response:

 

“Certain matters involving the safety of our students are handled discreetly, especially when young lives are at risk. Mr. Malfoy acted with exceptional bravery and initiative in a time of crisis. While I cannot speak to the Headmaster’s decisions at the time, I can assure the public that Hogwarts takes the welfare of its students very seriously.”

 

Of course, one might wonder just how seriously that welfare is taken, if a Parselmouth child had to take up arms—figuratively and literally—against a monster hidden beneath students’ feet. And while Professor McGonagall’s faith in Castor Malfoy’s actions is evident, her silence on Dumbledore’s knowledge or accountability speaks volumes.

 

More curiously still, no formal announcement was ever made to the student body about the Basilisk’s presence or demise, leaving some parents to question what else might be slithering in Hogwarts’ shadows…

 

Meanwhile, Castor was not alone. By his side was none other than Theodore Nott—heir to the Nott alchemical dynasty—who not only aided in the operation but officially completed the Nott family rite of passage in record time. According to family historians, Theo Nott is now the youngest in several centuries to claim full Nott status, solidifying his place as heir and sealing his reputation as a rising star among the elite.

 

Together, they have quickly become what many are calling the next magical "power couple"—a fusion of ancient bloodlines, prodigious magical talent, and undeniable flair. With Castor’s ties to dragons and Theo’s lineage of alchemical mastery, this pair might just be shaping the future of wizarding prestige.

 

Harry stared, stunned into silence.

 

“Power couple?” he echoed faintly. “Is she serious?”

 

Neville looked like he might choke on his pumpkin juice. Luna, however, peered over his shoulder at the article with mild interest.

 

“Colin got Theo’s best angle,” she said. “He looks very handsome in this one. Like a duelist who’s just finished cursing someone’s shoes off.”

 

“I don’t even know how she got this picture,” Harry muttered, flipping the paper around. “I don’t remember Colin being there.”

 

“I do,” Neville said, “He’s small and sneaky. He was hanging out by the staff table, said he was working on his ‘Photojournalism Portfolio.’ I guess now we know who hired him.”

 

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned, “Mum is going to kill me. Or worse—she’s going to frame this and hang it over the mantel.”

 

A sudden flash lit up the table, and Harry jerked in surprise, blinking spots from his vision.

 

“I already framed the original! But I can make your mum a copy if you want!” came an all-too-familiar, over-eager voice.

 

Speak of the menace.

 

Colin Creevey was practically vibrating with excitement, his camera still warm in his hands and a smug little smile on his face, “You have no idea how grateful I am, Castor! At your first task, Ms. Skeeter saw me taking pictures and asked about my portfolio. I showed her my best shots—mostly of you, of course—and she told me that if I could get a scoop on one of the Champions, she’d take me on as an intern!”

 

He bounced on the balls of his feet, clearly far too awake for this hour, “And I did it! She published my photos and gave me credit in the byline! I’m going to learn so much—real journalism! Ms. Skeeter says if I keep proving myself, I might even be allowed to start writing pieces in a few years. She says I need to be a bit older before I’ve got a proper voice, whatever that means, but this is it, Castor. This is the beginning of my dream career!”

 

Harry opened his mouth—unsure whether he was about to thank Colin or throttle him—but Creevey was already charging ahead, words tumbling out like an avalanche.

 

“Oh! And the best part is, I get paid for every photo they publish! And I’ve been granted official press access for the next two tasks! That means I might get a seat with the judges—or even a chance to sneak backstage for behind-the-scenes shots! Isn’t that amazing?”

 

Harry slowly turned to Neville, expression utterly flat, “Look at me. I make dreams come true.”

 

Neville snorted into his pumpkin juice while Luna just smiled serenely, as if Harry really was some kind of wish-granting magical creature.

 

Sighing, Harry looked back at Colin, who was still practically bouncing in place. He rubbed his temples before fixing the younger boy with a firm stare. “Alright. If you're going to keep publishing pictures of me—and let’s be honest, you are—then there’s one condition. One that will keep me from completely losing my mind and throwing your camera into the lake.”

 

Colin immediately stood straighter, his excitement now tinged with nervous energy, “Wh-what condition?”

 

Harry held up the paper, tapping the photo with one finger, “Only publish the good ones. This? This photo? Not bad. I look composed. Theo looks mysterious and intense, like some kind of potion-slinging Bond villain. We come across as fashionable—at least I think we do—and vaguely competent. That kind of image leads to kinder articles.”

 

He lowered the paper, giving Colin a meaningful look, “So, if I ever see a photo of me mid-sneeze or with something in my teeth, I’m going to hunt you down.”

 

Colin blinked, swallowed hard, then nodded so fast it was a wonder his head didn’t come loose, “Absolutely! Only the best shots, I promise! I’ve already started sorting my photos into folders—one for dramatic lighting, one for heroic angles, and one I’ve titled Brooding but Brilliant.”

 

Harry gave him a flat look but didn’t argue, “Fine. And I’ll take two copies of that photo. I’m assuming Mrs. Nott will want one as well.”

 

Colin gave him a thumbs up and scampered off, probably to tell his brother about his budding career in journalism.

 

Before Harry could even pick up his letter, another owl swooped in and landed neatly in front of him, holding out a scroll sealed with a wax imprint of a dragon mid-flight. He recognized the seal instantly and gently untied the letter, feeling a flutter of excitement in his chest.

 

As he unfolded the parchment, Colin’s chatter faded into the background and the Great Hall seemed to quiet around him.

 

Castor,

 

I’ve missed having you around the reserve—though I won’t lie, having the entire big tent to myself has its perks. That said, the dragons clearly miss you too. It’s not just the handlers saying it. Since your visit, the whole atmosphere has shifted. Feeding times have gone from bloody chaos to near serenity. We’ve actually been able to lengthen the chains on the enclosures, and it’s been going better than expected.

 

They’re still secured within the reserve boundaries, but they’ve got more room to stretch their wings now. Even better, some of them have started flying close to each other’s enclosures—visiting like neighbors instead of snapping at anything that moves.

 

It’s not perfect, but it’s progress. And not a single injury since the changes.

 

On a more exciting note—both the Swedish Short-Snout and the Welsh Green clutches have hatched. All healthy. The Short-Snout had three—two girls and one little firecracker of a boy. The Welsh Green produced five: four boys and one girl. They’re all thriving. Just waiting on the Fireball. They should be coming this week if our calculations are correct.

 

I know you would’ve loved to be here for it. Honestly, I think they would’ve liked it too. But even in your absence, they stayed calm. Trusted me enough to check the hatchlings—no roaring, no fireballs, not even a singed eyebrow.

 

You made an impression, Castor. On all of us.

 

Looking forward to your next visit.

 

—Charlie

 

Harry felt a sting behind his eyes as he read the last lines of Charlie’s letter. His throat tightened, and he blinked hard, trying to chase the emotion away. The reserve. His dragons. His babies. Just thinking about them—all those hatchlings he hadn’t met yet—made something warm and achy settle in his chest. He couldn’t wait to see them. Especially his girls’ children. He wondered if any of them would remember his voice.

 

“Something wrong, Castor?” Neville asked gently, glancing over at him with concern.

 

Harry wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his robe and gave a small, almost bashful smile. “No, nothing bad. Just got a letter from the reserve. My dragons are doing well. Really well, actually. I’ve already managed to help improve their quality of life, and... it feels good. Like I’m actually making a difference.”

 

Neville nodded with quiet understanding, and Luna gave Harry a dreamy little smile, as if she could see the dragons herself in her mind’s eye.

 

Setting Charlie’s letter aside with reverent care, Harry finally turned his attention to the other letter Hedwig had delivered—this one sealed with elegant silver wax and addressed in a handwriting that was unmistakably sharp and stylish.

 

Valentin Noirveil.

 

Of course.

 

He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, bracing himself for whatever dramatic flair the designer had surely infused into his words.

 

My Dearest and Most Delightfully Dangerous Castor,

 

I could scream. In fact, I did scream. Three times. Loud enough that I startled a House-elf into dropping an entire tray of éclairs.

 

Castor, darling, do you have any idea what you’ve done?

 

You sent me BASILISK SKIN. Real, honest-to-Merlin, death-glances-included, ancient-and-exotic Basilisk. Do you understand how rare this is? Do you understand how mad the fashion world is going to be when they find out I’ve got access to it? Do you understand how perfect you are?

 

The texture. The strength. The sheen! It’s exquisite. I could cry. I will cry. This material is alive with potential, and I will craft for you garments that even the French Ministry's High Enchanter of Attire would weep to see.

 

Expect nothing short of a masterpiece. No—several masterpieces. I’m already sketching ideas for an ensemble worthy of a dragon whisperer and basilisk slayer: cloak, gloves, boots, wand holster—maybe a tailored jacket lined with protective runes. Nothing garish, of course. We’ll keep it dignified with a tasteful edge of menace. You’re not a hero in shining armor, Castor. You’re something older, darker, more compelling. And I intend to dress you like it.

 

More soon. I'm clearing my schedule to devote myself to this project. If anyone tries to interrupt me, I shall hex them into last year’s robes.

 

Yours in dramatic devotion,

Valentin Noirveil

 

PS: I saw the paper your owl had. Theodore in that article? Stunning. You’re an unfairly photogenic pair. If you break up I shall die.

Notes:

So glad everyone loved Kraken! I had that idea ever since I my second playthrough of Hogwarts Legacy where I played as a Slytherin. (I played Hufflepuff first for house pride). If you did not know, Toast loving Giant Squid is actually canon.

Chapter 52: Chapter 52

Chapter 52

 

During Care of Magical Creatures, just as the rest of the class was beginning to gather around a pair of sleepy-looking Bowtruckles, Hagrid caught sight of Harry and immediately strode toward him, beaming.

 

“Castor!” he boomed, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder with enough force to nearly knock the breath out of him. “I heard yer workin’ with dragons now? Real dragons! Blimey, why didn’t yeh tell me sooner?”

 

Harry laughed, rubbing his shoulder where Hagrid’s enthusiastic greeting had landed, “Sorry, Hagrid. I’ve been meaning to come see you, really, but everything’s been so hectic since we got back. The Tournament, classes, the reserve... it’s been nonstop.”

 

Hagrid’s eyes were practically shining, “A dragon reserve, over the holidays! Merlin’s beard, I’m proud of yeh! Bet yeh had the time of yer life, didn’t yeh?”

 

“I really did,” Harry said with a smile that stretched wide and warm across his face. “It was incredible, Hagrid. The dragons—getting to know them, working with the handlers—it was like finding the place I was always meant to be.”

 

He launched into a full retelling, his voice animated with excitement. He told Hagrid about the morning rounds and feeding routines, the way some dragons remembered him after only a day, how they watched him when he spoke Parseltongue. He recounted Ashara’s hatching night with wonder still clinging to his voice. And of course, he told him all about Norberta.

 

“She’s brilliant, Hagrid. She remembered me. Honestly. She caught a chunk of meat midair like it was nothing. Big and healthy—and a bit smug, honestly.”

 

Hagrid looked utterly misty-eyed, dabbing at his cheeks with a large red handkerchief he produced from inside his coat. “That’s my girl,” he sniffled proudly, “Raised her meself, I did. Knew she’d do well.”

 

Harry nodded, “She’s one of the stars of the reserve, honestly. They respect her. And... I sort of thanked her for biting Ron.”

 

Hagrid let out a wheezy laugh, “Well, he did deserve it, didn’t he?”

 

The two of them grinned, sharing a brief moment of camaraderie that felt untouched by the chaos of school and competitions. Just two people who loved magical creatures—especially the big, winged, fire-breathing kind.

 

“Yeh’ll have to tell me everything,” Hagrid said, lowering his voice conspiratorially as the class began to drift closer. “Come by after supper, eh? We’ll have tea, an’ yeh can show me some sketches or somethin’.”

 

“Definitely,” Harry said with a nod. “I’ve got loads to tell you.”

 

After classes ended for the day, Harry made good on his promise. He slipped away after supper with Theo, bundled in his cloak against the cold, and made the familiar walk down to Hagrid’s hut. Smoke curled from the crooked chimney, casting soft spirals into the evening sky, and the windows glowed warm and golden against the encroaching dark.

 

Hagrid opened the door before Harry could knock, as though he’d been waiting.

 

“There y’are!” he said, ushering Harry inside, “Kettle’s just boiled. Got some rock cakes too—but don’t worry, I’ve let ’em cool this time.”

 

Harry laughed as he stepped into the cozy, slightly chaotic space. Fang lumbered over for a greeting, nearly knocking him into the doorframe with his affection.

 

Hagrid busied himself with the tea while Harry settled in the oversized chair by the fire, his bag beside him. He pulled out a handful of photos Jo had sent him—shots she’d taken of Ashara with her hatchlings, of Norberta sunbathing on a rocky ledge, of Harry perched on an overturned feed bucket, laughing with dragon soot on his nose.

 

Hagrid returned with two steaming mugs and a plate of dense-looking rock cakes. He took one look at the photos and let out a reverent sigh, “Look at that... just look at her. Norberta’s grown into a proper queen, hasn’t she? An’ those babies—Ashara’s, yeh said? Five of ’em?”

 

Harry nodded, passing the picture of Ashara nuzzling one of the hatchlings, “The last one took a while to break through. I helped it get free of the shell. She was the smallest one of the lot.”

 

Hagrid’s eyes went wide, “Blimey and her Mummy let yeh?”

 

Harry nodded and they sipped their tea in silence for a moment, the fire crackling softly.

 

“You really love it, don’t yeh?” Hagrid asked at last, “Workin’ with dragons.”

 

“I do,” Harry said quietly, “It just... makes sense. Like I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not. They don’t care what name I go by or where I came from. They just see me.”

 

Hagrid nodded, deeply moved, “Well, they’ve got good instincts. Better than most folk, I’d say.”

 

Harry smiled into his mug, “They want me to come back. The handlers. Dane gave me a portkey necklace. Said they’d send a Patronus when I’m needed.”

 

“That’s wonderful,” Hagrid said, beaming, “An’ when yeh do go back—don’t forget to bring me updates, yeah? I want to know everything.”

 

“I will,” Harry promised, “You’ll get every detail.”

 

888

Before heading back up to the Room of Requirement, Harry made a quick detour by the lake. Kraken surfaced the moment he approached, as if sensing him from below, and Harry grinned as he gave the massive creature a snack, curtesy of Mipsy. The squid's tentacles curled around the treat with something that looked suspiciously like gratitude before disappearing back beneath the surface in a ripple of dark water.

 

Back in the quiet safety of the Room of Requirement, Harry set down his bag and pulled out the parcel Colin had passed him during dessert. Inside were two framed photographs. Unlike the ones printed in The Daily Prophet, these were in vivid, enchanted color, the scene sharper and far more alive.

 

The basilisk skull gleamed—every crack and curve catching the light in dramatic contrast, a testament to the meticulous cleaning job they’d done. In the background, the Great Hall looked more like a theatre stage than a school. You could make out the professors clearly this time, Dumbledore among them, standing slightly off to the side. His gaudy robes made him stand out like a peacock in mourning, and the expression on his face—tight-lipped and faintly disapproving—was unmistakable.

 

Harry snorted softly. Mum is going to love this.

 

He sat down at his desk, still smiling, and penned a short letter in his neatest handwriting. It simply said that he hoped she’d enjoy the gift and—oh, by the way—if she happened to have access to more Gillyweed, he would be grateful. (He carefully did not say it was for the Second Task. She worried enough already.)

 

After wrapping both photo frames in protective brown paper, he tied the letter to the one addressed to Narcissa with a bit of twine. He’d bring them down to Hedwig in the morning. One copy for his mother—who would surely have it displayed by breakfast—and one for Theo to send off to his.

 

Satisfied, Harry leaned back, already plotting the rest of his evening. First: swim training. He needed to push his time underwater. Then, a round of focused study. If he was going to survive this Tournament and keep up in class, he needed to lock in a proper routine.

 

888

The next day, Harry's freshly established routine was already shattered.

 

Potions had been relatively quiet, all things considered. The usual simmering cauldrons, the scratch of quills against parchment, and the low hum of Professor Snape’s pacing footsteps filled the dungeon. The only real disturbance came when Lavender shrieked at Ron for tossing in a powdered root at the wrong time, sending their potion into a bubbling, foul-smelling mess that curdled into sludge.

 

Harry had barely reacted to the minor chaos. He was focused, calm. Or at least he had been.

 

Until the air shimmered above his desk, and a translucent gecko Patronus burst into the room in a streak of pale firelight. It landed squarely in front of him, blinking once before Jo’s voice echoed clear and urgent through the dungeon:

 

“Castor, please. It’s the Fireball. She needs you.”

 

Harry’s heart lurched into his throat. He shot up from his stool, knocking over ground lacewing flies.

 

His wide eyes flicked first to Draco—who looked just as startled—and then to Snape.

 

“Go,” Snape said, his voice low but firm. “Now.”

 

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted from the dungeon, his bag forgotten, his legs already pumping before the door had even swung shut behind him.

 

He sprinted through the halls, taking corners too fast and nearly colliding with a group of second-years near the library. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Fireball. Something was wrong with Fireball—his sweet, temperamental, russet-scaled girl.

 

By the time he reached the edge of the wards, he was already gripping his portkey necklace, breath sharp in his lungs. He barely muttered the activation word before he was pulled through the air in a rush of wind and color, landing hard on the gravel path outside the reserve’s central tent.

 

Jo was already waiting when Harry landed, her dragonhide leathers half-buckled, her windswept hair tied back hastily. Her face was drawn with tension, pale beneath the sun, and her eyes flicked toward the southern ridge even as she turned to face him.

 

Harry stumbled slightly on the landing, catching himself with a hand on his knee as he tried to catch his breath.

 

“What happened?” he gasped, already fearing the worst.

 

Jo hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering, “Her eggs hatched. Two of them broke through just fine… but the other two…” Her voice trailed off, heavy with something deeper than worry.

 

Harry straightened, his brow furrowing, “Are they stuck? Like the Horntail’s smallest? I can help—”

 

She shook her head, slowly, regretfully, “No, Castor. They’re not stuck. They’re… not viable. Duds. There’s nothing in them.”

 

The words hit like stones, heavy and sharp.

 

“She laid four… and only two lived,” Jo said gently, eyes glassy with unshed tears, “She’s grieving. She won’t leave the nest. She’s confused. Agitated. She keeps nudging the shells, like she’s trying to wake them up.”

 

Harry’s breath caught.

 

His girl. His fierce, fire-hearted girl. And her first clutch had been cut in half before it even had a chance.

 

“Damn it,” he whispered, blinking hard.

 

“She keeps looking around for you,” Jo added, her voice soft but insistent, “You’re the only one who might be able to get through to her right now.”

 

Harry nodded, jaw tight, throat burning.

 

“Then let’s go,” he said, “She shouldn’t have to mourn alone.”

 

Harry didn’t waste another word. He followed Jo at a brisk pace, heart pounding with a painful mix of dread and urgency. As they crested the last ridge overlooking the Fireball’s nesting grounds, Harry slowed to a walk, then a near-crawl. He could see her—his girl—curled tightly around her nest, wings hunched low, neck curved protectively. Smoke drifted from her nostrils in slow, sad bursts. There was no fire, only grief.

 

She looked smaller like this. Less like a monster and more like a mother mourning something no one else could truly understand.

 

Harry approached slowly, careful not to startle her. “Hey, love,” he called gently, his voice raw with emotion.

 

The Fireball lifted her head, eyes meeting his with a haunting mixture of hope and despair. She let out a low, mournful trill, a sound that made Harry’s chest ache.

 

“I know,” he whispered. “I heard. I came as soon as I could.”

 

She shifted slightly, revealing two tiny hatchlings nestled safely under one of her wings. The other side of the nest remained still—cold, two unbroken eggs lying there, lifeless. She nudged one of them again with her snout, almost tenderly, and gave a confused huff when it didn’t move.

 

Harry moved closer, slowly dropping to one knee just outside the edge of the nest.

 

“They’re gone,” he said quietly. “I’m so sorry. But look at your babies, love. Look how strong they are. You still did something amazing.”

 

The Fireball made a keening sound, lowering her head so it rested near his feet. He reached out slowly, brushing his fingers along the side of her scaled jaw.

 

“You’re not alone,” he whispered. “You never were. And I’m not going anywhere, alright? Not today.”

 

For a while, neither of them moved. The sun rose higher, casting golden light over the clearing, and the two surviving hatchlings stirred slightly under their mother’s wing. The Fireball let out a long, low sigh, a sound that seemed to release some of the tension in her muscles.

 

Harry gently laid a hand against her face. “You’re still a brilliant mum.”

 

She huffed softly, almost a purr, and nudged her snout against his shoulder.

 

Behind them, most of the handlers stood, both keeping a respectful distance, watching with quiet awe.

 

Eventually, Harry shifted to sit cross-legged beside the nest, his hand never leaving her. He told her stories in a soft voice—of Norberta, of the Horntail’s tiny runt, of how proud he was of her. He stayed even after she dozed, unwilling to leave until he knew she truly believed what he had said.

 

She wasn’t alone.

 

Not now. Not ever.

 

Harry finally stepped away from the nest, his movements slow and reverent, careful not to disturb the dozing Fireball or her hatchlings. His legs ached from crouching, and his eyes burned with fatigue, but he felt calmer now—grounded. The Fireball’s grief still lingered in the air like ash, but it wasn’t all-consuming anymore. She had her living babies. She had him.

 

888

 

Harry did not make it back to Hogwarts for dinner.

 

Instead, he joined Charlie and Dane for the supper rounds, walking the familiar trails between enclosures as the sky burned gold with the setting sun. He was quiet, exhaustion tugging at his limbs, but he pushed through it. The dragons needed to see him. After the emotional upheaval with the Fireball, it was more important than ever to maintain that connection—to remind them that he hadn’t vanished, that he was still theirs.

 

Charlie didn’t press him to talk, sensing the toll the day had taken, but he stayed nearby, tossing meat into enclosures and occasionally making quiet notes about appetite or behavior. Dane offered Harry an approving nod here and there but kept his usual distance, observing more than participating.

 

Harry called greetings to each dragon, using their names, speaking in soft tones. A few rumbled back, some huffed warm air in his direction, and one nuzzled the fencepost when he passed. They knew him. They trusted him. And despite the ache behind his eyes and the weight in his chest, Harry knew he owed them this small routine.

 

He saved the Fireball for last.

 

The nesting enclosure was dim now, bathed in twilight and heavy with silence. She didn’t stir at first when he arrived, but one of the hatchlings gave a sharp little chirp that made her lift her head. Her eyes glinted in the dark, catching the flicker of the floating lantern Charlie had sent hovering behind him.

 

“I brought dinner,” Harry said gently, holding out the fresh meat.

 

She made a low sound in her throat—not quite a growl, more like a sigh—and allowed him to step closer. He placed the food near the nest’s edge, careful not to cross the invisible line he’d learned she set. One of the hatchlings stumbled toward the meat with a soft squeak, and Harry felt a quiet pride settle in his chest.

 

“They’re strong,” he murmured. “And so are you.”

 

The Fireball let out a warm puff of smoke and lowered her head once more, curling tighter around her little ones.

 

Harry watched for another minute, then turned and made his way back toward the handler's path, dragging his boots slightly in the dirt.

 

Charlie was waiting with a hand on his hip, “You good?”

 

Harry gave a tired nod, “Yeah. Just… drained.”

 

“I get it,” Charlie said, “That was a tough day. But you handled it like a pro.”

 

Harry gave a faint smile, “I don’t feel like a pro.”

 

“You will. Days like this make one.”

 

As they started back toward the handler tents, the stars breaking through the dusk above them, Harry cast one last glance over his shoulder at the Fireball’s enclosure. He knew it wouldn’t be the last time he was called on like this—not with a reserve full of creatures who trusted him.

 

888

 

Lucius had arranged for Dane to have a personalized Portkey that would bring Castor directly to Malfoy Manor anytime Castor was summoned to the dragon reserve. On the surface, it was a practical convenience—Castor could use the Floo to return to Hogwarts through Severus’s office. But in truth, it also served another purpose: it allowed Lucius and Narcissa to monitor just how frequently their son was being called away for work.

 

So when the faint chime of the portkey wards echoed through the Manor, both parents exchanged a glance and immediately made their way to the arrival point.

 

They didn’t expect what they found.

 

Castor was still dressed in his Gryffindor robes—though they were crumpled, dirtied, and scorched in places as if he’d barely escaped something dangerous. His hair stuck up in every direction, caked with what might have been ash or soot or possibly potion ingredients. Strange smears patterned his sleeves. Rings under his eyes.

 

He looked like death.

 

Narcissa gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, “Oh, Castor! What happened?”

 

Before he could say a word, Harry stumbled forward and wrapped his arms tightly around his mother, burying his face in her shoulder. He was exhausted, his breath trembling from fatigue or emotion—maybe both. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His entire body sagged into the embrace like someone who had used up the last of their strength just getting home.

 

Narcissa’s arms came around him in an instant, hands moving over his back in slow, grounding motions. She didn’t ask again—not yet. She simply held him, eyes sharp as they rose to meet her husband's.

 

Lucius didn’t question the moment. But his expression darkened as he took in every detail—his son’s condition, the way he clung to Narcissa.

 

Whatever had happened at the Reserve this time… it hadn’t been routine.

Chapter 53: Chapter 53

Chapter 53

 

Eventually, Harry pulled back from his mother’s embrace, scrubbing a sleeve across his face to wipe away the tears he hadn’t meant to shed. “Sorry,” he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes.

 

Narcissa cupped his cheek gently, her expression soft but resolute. “You never need to apologize for needing comfort, Castor. Not with me. Not with us.” She paused, letting her thumb brush lightly over the smudge of soot near his temple, “Can you tell us what happened?”

 

Harry exhaled shakily, his voice hoarse from exhaustion and grief, “It was Jasmin… the Fireball. Her eggs hatched today. Two of them were perfect—strong, healthy—but the other two…” He swallowed hard. “They didn’t make it. They never even tried to break through the shell. Jo said they were duds.”

 

He blinked rapidly, looking down at his hands, which were still streaked with dried yolk and powdery ash from the nest, “She lost half her litter, and she knew it. You could see it in her. She just—she cried out like something inside her broke.”

 

Lucius’s brows drew together, not in disapproval but in deep, measured concern, “And you stayed with her?”

 

Harry nodded, “All day. I couldn’t just… leave. She needed someone. She kept nosing the duds like she was trying to wake them up. I—I tried to help. We all did.”

 

Narcissa took his hand in hers, “You did everything you could. And she knows that. You staying with her… that meant something.”

 

Harry didn’t answer, but he nodded faintly. His gaze was distant, still somewhere in that nesting den, watching Jasmin grieve.

 

Lucius crossed the room, pouring a small glass of something amber and smooth and placing it in front of Harry, “A sip of this. Then bath, food, and rest. In that order.”

 

Harry huffed something like a laugh and picked up the glass, “Thanks.”

 

888

 

Harry flooed back to Professor Snape’s office the next morning, his upset by the events of the previous day. Sleep had been elusive—his thoughts too tangled, his body too keyed up from adrenaline and exhaustion. It wasn’t until the early hours, when his mother had climbed into bed beside him, gently combing her fingers through his hair, that he’d finally drifted off.

 

Now, as the familiar green flames faded behind him, he stepped into the quiet, empty office. No sign of Snape. Judging by the time, he figured the man had already gone to breakfast, likely along with the rest of the staff and students. Harry wasn’t particularly hungry—Narcissa had insisted on feeding him before he left, and he hadn’t had the heart to refuse her.

 

Instead of joining the others in the Great Hall, Harry headed straight for the Room of Requirement. A quick shower, a change into fresh robes, and he felt somewhat more like himself again. He gathered his Charms textbook and parchment before making his way to class, his steps slower than usual but steady.

 

The Charms classroom was empty when he arrived, save for the soft rustling of papers. Professor Flitwick sat at his desk, hunched over a stack of essays, tiny spectacles perched low on his nose. When he heard the door creak open, he looked up and beamed.

 

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy! You’re quite early—how industrious of you. Eager for class, are we?” Flitwick said, setting down his quill, “I take it you’re looking forward to the Banishing Charm? Perhaps hoping for the same success you had with the Summoning one?”

 

Harry blinked. He’d forgotten that was today.

 

Harry offered a faint smile and nodded, making his way to his usual seat near the front. “It seems easier than the Summoning Charm,” he admitted, settling into the chair with a soft thump. “Less... temperamental.”

 

Professor Flitwick gave a knowing chuckle, eyes crinkling with amusement as he glanced down at the parchment in front of him. “That it is, Mr. Malfoy. Summoning requires a great deal of focused intent—Banishing is often more instinctive. I daresay you’ll find this lesson rather straightforward. In fact,” he added with a wink, “I suspect I’ll be setting you to independent study again today.”

 

And true to his word, once the class had arrived and the lesson was underway, Harry demonstrated the Banishing Charm with ease. His cushion soared cleanly across the room, landing perfectly inside the target circle on the far wall.

 

To Harry’s mild surprise, Hermione matched him on the very first try. Her cushion flew just as smoothly, and her aim was dead-on. Clearly, she had practiced in advance.

 

Professor Flitwick, always eager to challenge his brightest students, conjured a series of small platforms at varying distances and heights, each one marked with a glowing sigil, “Let’s put your precision to the test,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s see how well you can aim.”

 

Harry and Hermione took turns casting the charm again, adjusting power and angle as they worked. Their cushions hit the targets again and again—sometimes with quiet grace, other times with a satisfying bounce. Once both had succeeded in landing their marks consistently, Flitwick clapped his hands together in delight.

 

“Excellent! Truly excellent work, both of you. You’ve mastered the technique and the control. You’re free to continue independent study for the remainder of the lesson.”

 

Hermione gave Harry a quick grin as she gathered her books and quill, “Come on, let’s grab the back table.”

 

Harry followed, the familiar rhythm of learning settling in like a balm after the chaos of the day before.

 

“So what happened yesterday? When did you get back?” Hermione asked quietly, glancing at Harry over the top of her Charms book.

 

“Just before class,” Harry said, his voice low and tired. He gave her a brief summary of what had happened on the reserve—how one of the dragons had been distraught after losing her unhatched eggs, how he’d done his best to comfort her, and how helpless it had left him feeling.

 

Hermione’s expression softened with sympathy. “That’s awful. Poor creature. It must’ve been heartbreaking.”

 

Harry gave a slight nod, but didn’t say more. There wasn’t much more to say.

 

The rest of the Charms lesson passed in a quiet rhythm. He and Hermione sat together at their table in the back, their quills scratching softly as they studied in companionable silence. For all the noise elsewhere in the castle, here it felt calm. Steadying.

 

After class, Theo slipped Harry a neatly folded parchment, “Missed potions assignment,” he said simply.

 

Harry murmured a tired thanks, then joined Hermione and Neville in the library to work on the assignment. He managed to stay focused long enough to finish it, but the effort left him feeling more drained than ever. The whole day, he moved like someone half-awake—his limbs heavy, thoughts dulled at the edges. He was still emotionally wrung out from the day before, and sleep had done little to restore him.

 

By the time dinner rolled around, he was more than ready to disappear back to the Room and collapse. But just as he pushed the food around on his plate, half-listening to Neville talk about magical composting techniques, a shadow fell across the Gryffindor table.

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” came Dumbledore’s unmistakable voice, mild and measured. “I was hoping you might join me for a short walk.”

 

Harry’s stomach sank. That was the absolute last thing he wanted. He didn’t want riddles or lectures or cryptic advice. He didn’t want to pretend everything was fine. He just wanted to sleep.

 

But he could feel the eyes of several nearby students turn toward them. With a quiet sigh of resignation, Harry pushed back his bench and stood.

 

“Of course, Professor,” he said, voice flat. “Lead the way.”

 

They drew even more curious stares as Harry trailed after Dumbledore, the two of them exiting the castle and making their way toward the Viaduct Courtyard. The evening was cool and misty, a gentle breeze tugging at the hem of Harry’s robes as the Headmaster wandered with no apparent destination. It was a strangely aimless stroll for someone usually so calculating.

 

For a time, neither of them spoke. Then, as they passed beneath the shadow of an archway, Dumbledore finally broke the silence.

 

“You seem to have had quite the eventful day yesterday,” he said casually, as though discussing the weather, “I was informed that you had to leave in the middle of Potions.”

 

Harry nodded stiffly, hands shoved in his pockets, “Yes, sir. But I’ve already made up the work. Professor Snape was understanding enough.”

 

“I’m sure he was,” Dumbledore replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Your professors have had nothing but praise for your progress this year. Professor Flitwick, in particular, seems thoroughly impressed. He went so far as to say you may be something of a natural in Charms—much like your mother.”

 

Harry blinked, taken off guard. “My—” But he caught himself too late.

 

Dumbledore, of course, meant Lily.

 

The realization sank in like a stone. No one had called Lily his mother since the truth had come out—at least, not aloud. Not where he could hear it. And while Harry still honored her memory, still respected the woman who had died to protect him, it felt strange—disorienting—to hear the Headmaster speak of her that way. As if nothing had changed.

 

“Lily,” Dumbledore continued, either oblivious to Harry’s discomfort or simply ignoring it, “was the only student Filius Flitwick ever seriously considered apprenticing. After her death, he never entertained the idea again. Not once.”

 

Harry’s steps slowed. There was a long pause before he said quietly, “I didn’t know that.”

 

“Yes. A terrible loss.” Dumbledore’s voice was soft, regretful—but still strangely distant. “She was an exceptional witch.”

 

Harry didn’t respond. His throat felt tight, and his mind was buzzing with too many conflicting thoughts—memories of Lily’s smile, flashes of Narcissa’s quiet warmth, the ache of everything in between. It was easier not to say anything at all.

 

When the silence stretched on too long, Dumbledore moved on as though nothing had happened.

 

“No, I’m not concerned about your academics,” he said, more briskly now. “You’ve always had a… unique capacity to rise to a challenge. What does concern me, Harry, is you. You looked thoroughly worn out today—hollow-eyed, distracted. You’re clearly carrying far more than most students your age. I worry that your time on the reserve may be too great a strain.”

 

Harry tensed at that, lifting his gaze to meet the Headmaster’s. “The reserve is the one place I actually feel useful,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “It doesn’t drain me. It helps.”

 

Dumbledore gave a small nod, as though he’d expected that answer, “And yet, caring for creatures as powerful—and dangerous—as dragons comes with its own kind of weight. Emotional burdens are still burdens, Harry.”

 

“I can handle it,” Harry said flatly.

 

“I do not doubt that you can,” Dumbledore replied. “But should you have to?”

 

Harry looked away, jaw clenched. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not with him.

 

“Forgive me,” Dumbledore continued, quieter now. “I only ask because I’ve seen what can happen when a young person is asked to carry too much, too soon. And I’ve seen it more than once.”

 

There was a long pause. The breeze stirred again, ruffling Dumbledore’s long silver beard and tugging at Harry’s sleeves. Finally, the old man spoke again—this time gently.

 

“Is there anything you need from me, Harry? Anything at all?”

 

Harry hesitated. Part of him wanted to say yes. But he couldn’t bring himself to trust Dumbledore—not completely. Not after everything.

 

So instead, he shook his head, “No, sir.”

 

Dumbledore studied him for a moment, then gave a slow nod, “Very well. But if that changes… my door remains open.”

 

Harry didn’t respond. He simply turned when Dumbledore did, following him back toward the castle, quiet and heavy-limbed with thoughts he didn’t want to unpack just yet.

 

888

 

The moment Castor stepped out of the Great Hall at Dumbledore’s side, Draco’s eyes snapped to Theo with uncharacteristic urgency.

 

“I need to write to Father,” he said at once, voice low but firm.

 

Theo nodded without hesitation, his expression as tight as Draco’s, “Whatever Dumbledore’s playing at, I don’t trust it. And I don’t want Castor caught in the middle of it.”

 

Draco’s jaw tightened as he glanced toward the doors where his twin had just vanished. There was something in the Headmaster’s manner that unsettled him—too calm, too casual, like a chess player moving a piece he’d already decided to sacrifice.

 

He lifted his gaze to the staff table, seeking confirmation for the unease churning in his gut. Sure enough, Professor Snape’s black eyes were locked on the same exit, his expression carefully blank but his posture rigid. A flicker of something unreadable passed across the man’s face—contempt, perhaps, or suspicion—but it was clear he, too, was not comforted by the Headmaster’s sudden interest.

 

Draco leaned closer to Theo, lowering his voice. “He waits until Castor looks like he hasn’t slept in days, then whisks him off for some cryptic little walk? No. Not happening. He’s not using my brother for whatever scheme he’s dreaming up.”

 

Theo’s mouth curled into the faintest hint of a smirk, but his eyes were cold, “Then let’s make sure he knows Castor’s not alone.”

 

Draco gave a single nod and pushed his plate away. He’d lost his appetite entirely.

 

888

 

Narcissa was overseeing one of the house-elves as it carefully hung the new photograph Castor had sent when Lucius stepped into the sitting room, a letter in hand and a shadow in his expression.

 

She caught the look instantly and arched a questioning brow, “Something troubling?”

 

Lucius held up the parchment, “Has Castor mentioned any... meddling from Dumbledore recently?”

 

Narcissa’s face immediately tightened, her calm demeanor giving way to concern, “No. Why do you ask? Has something happened?”

 

Lucius glanced down at the letter again, his mouth tightening, “A message from Draco. He says Dumbledore pulled Castor away from the Gryffindor table during supper last night. He didn’t return.”

 

Narcissa’s hands clenched slightly, and she moved to sit on the edge of a nearby chaise. “I don’t like either of them being at that school,” she murmured, voice tense. “Draco understands how the game is played—he knows when to keep his head down, when to push back. But Castor…”

 

“Is soft?” Lucius offered coolly, one brow arching.

 

Her eyes narrowed sharply. “No,” she said firmly. “I wouldn’t call him that. He’s capable of being dangerous when he needs to be—he killed a basilisk, for Merlin’s sake.” She motioned toward the newly hung photo, where Castor stood with Theo at his side, the massive serpent’s gleaming skull behind them. “But he’s... open-hearted. He feels things more deeply than he lets on.”

 

Lucius folded his arms, glancing at the image. “A heart that open is a liability.”

 

Narcissa shook her head, her tone clipped. “It’s not uncommon, even among our kind. Loyalty and love have always mattered in Slytherin circles. Family above all else.” Her gaze softened slightly. “The difference is that Castor didn’t grow up with a family. He’s had to build his own—piece by piece—and that loyalty of his? It’s fierce. Unshakeable. But only for those he deems worthy.”

 

Lucius’s eyes darkened. “And if he decides Dumbledore is worthy?”

 

Narcissa was silent for a long moment. Then, her voice came quiet but steel-edged. “Then we need to show him he isn’t—before it's too late.”

 

Troubled and restless, Lucius found himself walking not to his study, as was his habit in moments like this, but to the library instead. There was something gnawing at him—something he couldn’t push aside with paperwork or political distractions. It had everything to do with his youngest son.

 

His steps were brisk and purposeful as he made his way through the grand room lined with centuries of knowledge, heading straight toward a discreet section near the far wall. Pausing before an unassuming panel of wood, he murmured, “Paon.”

 

At once, the hidden alcove revealed itself, the wards flickering faintly as they parted. This was not part of the publicly catalogued Malfoy collection. This was a space reserved for the older, more obscure tomes—the ones filled with magic that had long fallen out of favor or had never been considered respectable in the first place.

 

Lucius moved toward the darkest stretch of shelving, where the bindings were cracked with age and the air hung heavy with the scent of ancient ink and secrecy. His mind churned with recent revelations.

 

Castor had said—almost in passing—that he was a Parselmouth because the Dark Lord had transferred magic into him during that infamous attack. Accidentally, of course. It narrowed the possibilities.

 

But even accidental magic transfers were rare. They required extreme circumstances, overwhelming magical force… or the destabilization of one’s magical core. And there was the heart of it: only a magical core under catastrophic strain could splinter enough to allow a portion of itself to latch onto another being. It wasn’t meant to happen—not without intention, not without ritual.

 

And yet it had.

 

There was still no clear accounting for how Castor had survived the Killing Curse. No one had. Not before him. That alone had shattered long-standing magical theory.

 

Lucius’s fingers brushed over the spines of old volumes on magical trauma, dark inheritance, soul magic, and parasitic bonds. He drew one down and opened it, brow furrowing.

 

If his son bore a fragment of another's magic inside him—especially his magic—then it wasn’t just Parseltongue they needed to worry about.

 

They needed to understand what, exactly, had been left behind.

 

888

 

“Hey, Theo?” Harry said quietly over breakfast, leaning in a little closer across the table.

 

The other boy glanced up, curious but still buttering a slice of toast.

 

Harry reached into his bag and carefully pulled out a small, neatly wrapped package, “I meant to give this to you earlier—before I got called away to the reserve—but I haven’t really had the chance since. I was hoping you could give this to your mum for me.”

 

He offered it over with a hopeful expression, almost sheepish, like he wasn’t sure if the gesture was too much—or not enough.

 

Theo set down his toast and looked at him properly now, eyes flicking to the package and then back to Harry’s face, “You have something… for my mother?”

 

Harry nodded, trying to play it cool, “Yeah. I thought she might like it. It’s nothing big, just a little thank-you for being nice to me.”

 

The wrapping was precise, the paper crisp and tied off with a dark green ribbon, clearly done with care. Harry didn’t say it aloud, but he’d agonized over whether the presentation would be up to the standards of someone like Lady Nott.

 

Theo blinked at him, expression unreadable for a moment. Then—just barely—his lips curved into something warm and genuine.

 

A few seats down, Blaise snorted into his pumpkin juice, “Merlin help us—Theo just fell in love.”

 

Pansy arched a brow, smirking as she reached for a croissant, “Please. He’s been in love since Castor showed him a basilisk corpse.”

 

The table broke into soft laughter, and even Theo looked faintly amused, though his attention never really left Harry.

 

“Thank you,” Theo said simply, taking the package like it was far more valuable than it looked, “She’ll appreciate it. Truly.”

 

Harry smiled, trying not to let his relief show too much—but his ears were a bit pink the rest of breakfast.

 

“Do you have plans this evening?” Harry asked, his voice soft but purposeful as he leaned a little closer across the table.

 

Theo slightly raised one brow in curiosity. “Nothing pressing,” he said, tone as neutral as ever but laced with interest.

 

Harry hesitated just a second, then offered a small, hopeful smile, “Would you… like to take a walk with me? Around the lake? After dinner?”

 

For a heartbeat, Theo didn’t respond—he just looked at Harry with a sort of quiet intensity, like he was cataloging the moment, searching for meaning in every word.

 

Then his expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting into something that wasn’t quite a smile but far more private. “Of course, Castor,” he murmured, voice low and certain.

 

Harry’s grin widened, the nervousness in his shoulders easing, “Great. I—yeah. I’ll meet you after dinner?”

 

Theo nodded once, “I’ll be there.”

 

Their eyes lingered on one another just a moment longer before they both turned back to their meals, hearts a little lighter, something unspoken settling between them like a promise.

 

That evening, the two boys left the Great Hall together, fingers intertwined in quiet defiance of the stares that followed them. Dumbledore’s disapproving gaze lingered on their backs, but Harry didn’t look back—and Theo didn’t care. Their steps were slow and deliberate as they made their way down the stone steps and onto the grounds, the cool evening air brushing against their skin like a whispered promise of peace.

 

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Theo glanced sideways at him. “You seem a bit more like yourself today,” he said softly. “Lighter. Happier.” He paused, choosing his words with care, “You don’t have to talk about what happened the other day… but if you want to, I’m here to listen.”

 

Harry let out a breath, something between a sigh and a tired laugh, and leaned a little closer into Theo as they walked. “It was Jasmin,” he said after a moment, his voice low. “The Fireball. Two of her eggs didn’t make it. She lost half her clutch.” He swallowed, his throat tightening, “She was… devastated. I’ve never seen a dragon mourn like that.”

 

Theo didn’t interrupt or ask questions. He simply listened, his gaze on the path ahead, quiet in his support.

 

Harry’s voice wavered as he continued, “She kept nudging the eggs, like she couldn’t accept they were gone. I—I tried to comfort her, but it felt like nothing was enough—”

 

His words broke off as his throat closed. His hand trembled slightly in Theo’s, and without a word, Theo let go only long enough to drape his arm around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him in close. Harry leaned into the embrace, letting his head rest lightly against Theo’s temple as they continued walking in silence.

 

Eventually, they reached a quiet clearing near the lake, moonlight shimmering faintly on the water. The path was empty, peaceful.

 

He stopped walking and turned to face Theo fully. “You’re too good to me,” he murmured, his green eyes searching the grey ones before him.

 

Theo didn’t smile, but there was a softness in his expression as he brushed a bit of windblown hair away from Harry’s forehead. “No,” he said simply, “I’m exactly what you deserve.”

 

Harry blinked at Theo’s words, his breath catching just slightly. Exactly what you deserve. No one had ever said that to him before. Not like that. Not and meant it.

 

His heart beat a little faster—not in panic, but something warmer, gentler. Nervous, maybe. Hopeful.

 

Theo didn’t look away. His hand lingered just barely against Harry’s cheek, fingertips brushing over skin like he was afraid to press too hard, like Harry might shatter if handled wrong. But Harry didn’t pull back. If anything, he leaned closer.

 

“I’ve never—” Harry started, then stopped, biting the inside of his cheek. But he didn’t need to finish. Theo nodded just slightly, understanding lighting his eyes.

 

“I know,” he said softly.

 

And then, with that same careful stillness he always had, Theo leaned in. There was no rush. No dramatic sweep. Just warmth. Breath. Proximity.

 

Harry’s eyes fluttered shut just as their lips touched.

 

The kiss was gentle—more a question than a statement. A promise that didn’t need words. Theo didn’t push, didn’t demand. He just waited, letting Harry answer in kind.

 

And Harry did. His hand found Theo’s chest, fingers curling lightly in the front of his robes, grounding himself in the steady beat of his heart. It was soft. It was quiet.

 

But in that moment, it was everything.

 

They lingered in each other’s space, eyes still searching and soft, until a cold splash of water dropped from above and landed squarely on Harry’s head. He yelped, startled, and looked up—just in time for another fat droplet to hit him on the nose.

 

Theo followed his gaze—and jumped back with a stifled noise of alarm.

 

Above them, half-coiled through the branches of a lakeside tree, was a massive, glistening tentacle, curling lazily as if preparing to pluck one of them up like a particularly interesting snack.

 

“Kraken!” Harry gasped, but not in fear. Instead, he sounded almost… sheepish.

 

Before Theo could ask what was going on, Harry stepped forward, addressing the enormous appendage with the casual guilt of someone who had just stood up a friend for lunch.

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Kraken! We were coming to visit you—I even brought Theo because I thought you'd like to meet him, but, um…” He glanced back at Theo with a lopsided smile, cheeks a little pink. “We got a bit distracted.”

 

Theo stared, blinking rapidly, unsure whether to be alarmed or impressed. Likely both.

 

At that moment, Harry’s ever-loyal house-elf popped into existence with a crack, holding an enormous silver platter piled high with toast—golden brown, buttered, and still steaming.

 

“Perfect timing,” Harry said cheerfully, accepting the tray. “He really likes the crusty bits.”

 

Without hesitation, he tossed a slice of toast skyward, and the tentacle snatched it with surprising delicacy, curling around the bread before drawing it out of sight. A low bloop of satisfaction echoed from the water.

 

Harry turned, extending the tray toward Theo, “Go on—grab some toast. He’ll like you more if you feed him too.”

 

Theo stared at the platter. Then at Harry. Then back at the massive, semi-visible creature currently residing in the trees above them.

 

“You… you bribed the Giant Squid with toast.”

 

Harry grinned, “It wasn’t a bribe. It’s a gift. Kraken is my friend. He’s a very discerning cephalopod.”

 

Theo took a slice slowly, shaking his head in disbelief, but he was smiling.

 

Only Castor Malfoy, he thought fondly, could turn a first kiss into a picnic with the giant squid.

 

And somehow… it was perfect.

Notes:

So I had a panic attack at work and ended up quitting the job I’ve had for seven years… probably not the most conventional life choice, but here we are. On the bright side, that does mean I’ll have more time to write in August, since work will be pretty light. Silver linings, right?

Chapter 54: Chapter 54

Chapter 54

 

The days slipped by in a steady rhythm. Harry remained diligent with his classes, keeping up with his assignments and even getting slightly ahead in a few subjects. In addition to academics, he had thrown himself into a strict physical routine. Every evening, he used the Room of Requirement to swim and build his stamina, and on weekend evenings, he braved the icy waters of the Black Lake itself.

 

Thankfully, Narcissa had sent him more Gillyweed—quite a generous amount, actually—which meant Harry could spend extended time underwater without worry. He used the opportunity to practice navigating to the mermaid village from various starting points around the lake. Since he had no idea where the Second Task would begin, he wanted to be prepared for every possibility.

 

As he swam, he was rarely alone.

 

Kraken, the ever-curious giant squid, had taken to shadowing him during his sessions, gliding through the cold depths like a massive, watchful guardian. Harry found himself wondering just how involved the squid would be during the actual event. Could he use Kraken to his advantage? He’d managed to earn the dragons’ respect—or at least tolerance—by the First Task. And Kraken was far more attached to him than the dragons had been, at least in the beginning.

 

After all, Harry had been visiting and feeding the creature for weeks now, sometimes chatting to it as he swam alongside. And as far as he could tell, no one else had paid Kraken the slightest bit of attention during the winter months. In the spring, the squid had more company—students dangling their legs off docks or daring each other into the shallows—but now? With the cold and ice keeping most students indoors, Harry seemed to be its only consistent visitor.

 

He couldn't help but think the squid might be getting just as fond of him as he was of it. And if that fondness translated into help during the task… well, Harry wasn’t above accepting assistance from an oversized, toast-loving aquatic friend.

 

So the next time Harry ventured down to the Black Lake, his new plan forming more solidly in his mind, he decided to start training Kraken.

 

The giant squid couldn’t speak Parseltongue like the dragons, but Harry had a hunch that wouldn’t be a problem. Kraken had been listening to students chatter around the lake for decades—he understood a fair amount of English. More importantly, he was extremely food-motivated.

 

Harry remembered Aunt Marge once bragging about how easy it had been to train her nasty bulldog, Ripper. According to her, the key had been a combination of intelligence and a healthy obsession with treats. Kraken, Harry thought with no small amount of pride, was leagues smarter than that cruel, slobbering beast.

 

To test his theory, Harry asked Mipsy to bring him a large plate of toast, freshly buttered and charmed to stay warm. Kraken’s favorite, of course. As the squid surfaced, tentacles curling out of the water in greeting, Harry tossed him a few slices to start. Then, after taking a deep breath, he tapped his chest and said clearly, “Pick me up.”

 

One of Kraken’s long, slick tentacles paused in midair. Then, slowly but deliberately, it reached down and lifted Harry several feet into the air.

 

Harry grinned, “Put me down.”

 

Obediently, Kraken lowered him back onto the rocky bank.

 

Harry laughed, delighted. “Good boy!” he said, holding out another piece of toast. Kraken accepted it with a soft splash and what Harry swore was a pleased gurgle.

 

It was a simple beginning—but it was a beginning nonetheless. And with food, patience, and a bit of creativity, Harry thought he just might have the most unlikely ally in the Second Task.

 

Kraken was strong, clever, and—most importantly—on his side.

 

888

 

Harry had spent far longer than he’d planned training Kraken—teaching the squid to recognize simple commands, testing out signals, and rewarding every success with toast. By the time he realized how late it had gotten, the sky above the lake was inky black and the castle windows glowed with soft golden light.

 

Cursing under his breath, he tugged on his invisibility cloak and pulled out the Marauder’s Map. He was well past curfew, and there was one particular professor he definitely didn’t want to run into.

 

Mad-Eye Moody.

 

That bloody magical eye of his still unnerved Harry—he wasn’t entirely convinced it couldn’t see through the cloak. Not wanting to test the theory, he scanned the map for Moody’s location and found his dot—thankfully stationary—in his office. Harry exhaled in relief. But as his eyes drifted toward the Defense professor’s private quarters, his stomach twisted. There was a name in there.

 

Bartemius Crouch.

 

Harry stared, blinking hard, sure he’d misread it. Bartemius Crouch? Why in Merlin’s name would Barty Crouch be in Moody’s personal quarters? That didn’t make any sense. A hundred questions started spinning in his mind, none of them with answers he liked.

 

Even worse, something about that name tugged at a memory buried just under the surface. A sickening one.

 

Harry took a few careful steps, slipping back into the shadows of the corridor. He could still remember the dream—or vision, or whatever it had been—during the summer. The man speaking to Voldemort had been called Barty. He had spoken like he had inside information. Like he was Mad-Eye Moody.

 

But that wasn’t possible.

 

Harry had met Barty Crouch. He was an older man, stiff and proper and nothing like the cold, eager voice that had haunted Harry’s dreams. Which meant…

 

His blood ran cold.

 

Picking up his pace, Harry raced toward the Room of Requirement, heart pounding in his ears. Once inside, he flicked his wand to light the nearest candle and unrolled the Map again with shaking hands. The warm flicker of firelight made the names stand out clearly—and sure enough, Bartemius Crouch remained in Moody’s quarters.

 

That couldn’t be a coincidence.

 

Harry sank onto the edge of the bed, clutching the map tightly. His thoughts raced.

 

Pureblood families had a long-standing habit of recycling names—ancestral pride disguised as tradition. Draco’s middle name was Lucius, after his father. His name had once been James, before his world turned upside down.

 

It wasn’t hard to believe, then, that Bartemius Crouch might have named a son after himself. The real question was—how could he be certain?

 

With a soft plop, the Room of Requirement answered.

 

A book materialized on the bed, its spine thick and worn, the title embossed in tarnished silver:

 

Dark Marks Behind Bars: Inside Azkaban with the Death Eaters

An investigative look into the lives, crimes, and punishments of Voldemort’s most loyal followers.

 

Harry hesitated only a moment before picking it up. The cover felt cold in his hands.

 

Flipping through the pages, he skimmed past scathing commentary and grim photographs. A mug shot caught his eye—Avery, Gaspar—thin, wild-eyed, draped in Azkaban-standard grey. The next page made his chest tighten: Black, Sirius.

 

Harry’s gaze flickered over the photo, but he didn’t linger. He wasn’t ready. Not now.

 

He turned to the C’s.

 

There.

 

Crouch, Bartemius Jr.

The text confirmed it—imprisoned for crimes against Muggles and Aurors, convicted by his own father. The black-and-white photo showed the same pale, hollow-eyed young man Harry had seen in his vision. No doubt remained.

 

Except…

 

According to the book, Barty Crouch Jr. was dead.

Death by natural causes in Azkaban and buried at sea by Dementors.

 

Harry stared at the line. Dead.

 

Harry knew that wasn’t right. The book claimed Barty Crouch Jr. was dead—but he had seen him. Felt his presence. Heard his voice. That kind of detail didn’t come from imagination.

 

A chill crept up his spine as the implications settled in.

 

There was a follower of Voldemort inside the castle. Again.

 

He was sleeping in the same corridors, eating in the same hall, sharing air with someone with a Death Eater—and it wasn’t even the first time. It was never the first time.

 

Quirrell. Pettigrew.

 

Lucius.

 

Harry’s stomach twisted.

 

Lucius was a Death Eater too. Or had been. An insider.

 

Hadn’t he said he’d protect him?

 

Harry wanted to believe him. Needed to. It was obvious Barty Crouch Jr. was alive—somehow—and had entered him into the tournament on Voldemort’s orders. That wasn’t just unsettling; it was terrifying.

 

He couldn’t deal with this on his own.

 

Not this.

 

He needed someone who understood how things worked behind the curtains—someone who knew what was going on.

 

Lucius Malfoy was the obvious choice.

 

But trusting him? That was the risk. That was the gamble that could either save Harry… or ruin everything.

 

If he put his faith in the wrong person now, it could all blow up in his face.

 

He couldn’t turn to Sirius anymore.

 

Dumbledore had been acting shady as hell.

 

McGonagall, bless her, would run straight to the Headmaster. So would Hermione, probably—but out of worry, not betrayal.

 

And there was no universe in which Harry volunteered to have a heart-to-heart with Snape.

 

Unfortunately, getting to Lucius meant dealing with exactly that.

 

Grimacing, Harry scanned the Marauder’s Map.

 

Snape was still awake, seated at his desk in his office. Probably grading essays, judging by the occasional flick of his wand across the parchment pile. Harry pulled on the Invisibility Cloak and slipped through the halls, taking every shortcut he knew to get there fast.

 

He didn’t bother knocking.

 

Snape shot to his feet, wand halfway raised at the sudden disturbance, but froze mid-motion when Harry tore off the cloak.

 

“Castor,” he snapped, eyes narrowed, “you better have a very good reason—”

 

“I need to speak to Lucius,” Harry interrupted, breath short, “It’s important.”

 

Snape exhaled through his nose and slowly lowered his wand, “Are you in immediate danger?”

 

“Yes. And no.”

 

His professor arched a brow, “Clarify.”

 

“I’m not being chased down the corridor or anything,” Harry said quickly. “But there’s something wrong. Something bad. And if I don’t deal with it soon, it could become dangerous. I think… I think Lucius is the only one who can help me with it.”

 

Snape stared at him for a moment, calculating. Then, with a long sigh, he turned toward the fireplace.

 

The moment Harry stepped through the Floo, the Manor’s wards responded with a soft shimmer of silver—an after-hours alert triggered only by trusted, pre-approved connections. It hadn’t been a casual arrival, and everyone in the house would know it.

 

From the second floor, rapid footsteps echoed.

 

“Castor?” Narcissa’s voice rang out, tight with concern. She appeared at the top of the staircase a moment later, wand in hand and wrapped in a deep green dressing gown, “Did you just Floo in? What’s wrong?”

 

Before she could descend in full alarm, Harry crossed the entryway and pulled her into a hug. “I’m fine, Mum,” he said softly, trying to calm the tension in her shoulders. “Really.”

 

She held him for a long moment, not entirely convinced, but grateful he was in one piece. When he pulled away, her eyes searched his face.

 

“I came because I need to talk to Lucius,” Harry said, more serious now.

 

Her brows drew together, confusion flickering behind her poised expression. Harry couldn’t blame her—he wasn’t exactly known for seeking Lucius out. Their relationship was cautious at best, shaped more by wary truce than warmth.

 

From the hallway behind Narcissa, he appeared, already fully dressed in tailored robes, as if he’d been expecting Harry all along, though Harry suspected he Transfigured it or something.

 

“Come,” Lucius said simply. “We’ll speak in my study.”

 

Narcissa glanced between them, clearly surprised, but said nothing. Instead, she gave Harry’s arm a final squeeze and let him go.

 

Harry followed Lucius through the quiet halls of Malfoy Manor, nerves coiled tight in his gut. He’d told the man once, after they discussed the disaster that was second year, that he would try to give him the chance to make things right.

 

Lucius sat behind his ornate desk and with a subtle motion, he gestured to the chair across from him, “Please.”

 

Harry sat down stiffly, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. The quiet tick of the clock on the wall made the silence feel heavier than it should have.

 

Lucius steepled his fingers beneath his chin, his expression unreadable, “Let us dispense with pleasantries. You wouldn’t have come here at this hour unless something urgent was troubling you. Does this concern the Second Task?”

 

Harry blinked, caught off guard, “No. That’s… actually under control. I came because I found out who put my name in the Goblet.”

 

Lucius stilled. For months, he’d been searching for the answer—pulling strings, chasing rumors, interrogating known Death Eaters. The only suspect within Hogwarts had been Karkaroff, and Lucius had already squeezed that man for every answer he could offer.

 

“Who was it?” he asked, voice low and focused.

 

“Bartemius Crouch Junior,” Harry answered.

 

Lucius froze. His usually impassive face flickered with shock before smoothing back into guarded disbelief.

 

“Castor,” he said carefully, “I believe you are mistaken. Barty Crouch Jr. died in Azkaban. It was confirmed by the Ministry.”

 

Harry shook his head with quiet conviction, “No. He’s alive. And he’s sleeping in Moody’s quarters.”

 

Lucius’s brow creased, “That doesn’t make sense. Moody would never—could never—ally himself with a Death Eater, especially Barty.”

 

“Then maybe he’s under the Imperius Curse,” Harry shot back, frustration creeping into his voice.

 

Lucius gave a slow shake of his head, “Alastor Moody is many things—paranoid chief among them—but he can throw off the Imperius Curse. It’s one of the reasons he survived as long as he has.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes, “I’m not even going to ask how you know that…”

 

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly restraining a sigh, “Then what evidence do you have? Castor, this is a very serious accusation. If you're wrong—”

 

“I’m not wrong.” Harry leaned forward, his voice low. “My scar… I can do more than just speak to snakes because of it. I can… see things. Sometimes. I don’t control it—it’s like nightmares, only they’re real. Visions.”

 

He reached into his cloak and pulled out the worn book—Dark Marks Behind Bars—wrapped in the shimmer of the invisibility cloak. Opening it carefully, he flipped to the page he had marked, then turned it toward Lucius.

 

“Here. This is him. The face from my visions. And I’ve seen him with Pettigrew, helping what’s left of Voldemort. They’re trying to bring him back. And somehow… I’m part of it.”

 

Lucius studied the page, his eyes scanning the familiar mug shot, the official record that declared Barty Crouch Jr. dead and body thrown to sea.

 

He stood abruptly and began to pace, one hand behind his back, the other stroking his chin in deep thought.

 

“And how is Moody involved?” he asked, turning sharply.

 

Harry hesitated, then said, “I’ve had a few private conversations with him. Things that I didn’t share with anyone else. Then suddenly, in one of the visions, I hear Barty telling Voldemort exactly what Moody and I discussed. No one else could’ve known. It was just me, Dumbledore, and Moody in the room. And I think we can safely rule out the headmaster.”

 

Lucius gave a slow, deliberate nod, his expression unreadable, “Agreed.”

 

Harry hesitated, then bit his lip and reached into his robes again. “There’s something else,” he admitted.

 

From beneath the folds, he pulled out the parchment—still unfolded, still active.

 

“This is the Marauders Map,” he said, setting it on the desk between them. “It shows everyone in Hogwarts. Every room, every corridor, every person—if they’re on school grounds, they show up.”

 

Lucius arched a brow as he leaned in slightly to study the swirling ink. “An impressive enchantment,” he remarked, tone neutral, “And against the rules, I assume.”

 

Harry grimaced, “Probably. But I don’t use it for anything dodgy—I swear. Mostly I use it to avoid… certain people. It’s a defense tool.”

 

That sounded weak even to his own ears, but Lucius made no move to confiscate it. He was still watching the map.

 

“I was trying to make sure Moody wasn’t nearby,” Harry continued quickly, “because lately he’s been giving me a very bad feeling. He watches me too closely. As if he’s looking through me. So I checked the map to be safe, and there he was, in his office.”

 

Harry pointed to the little ink-dot labeled Alastor Moody.

 

“But then I saw his quarters,” he said, voice dropping, “and that’s where I found the name Barty Crouch.”

 

Lucius's eyes narrowed.

 

“In his rooms. Not just passing through. He’s there. Still there. I think he is sleeping there. He hasn’t moved. Neither have and the map never lies.”

 

Lucius didn’t speak immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the map, now clearly reevaluating everything he thought he knew.

 

Harry watched him anxiously, wondering if he’d just made a mistake in showing it.

 

“I thought I was going mad,” Harry added in a lower voice, “But then I remembered the visions, and… everything lined up. Too well to ignore.”

 

Lucius finally looked up, and his voice was quieter, colder, “And you’re certain this map cannot be fooled?”

 

“Yes,” Harry said, his voice gaining confidence. “Though it used to show me as Harry Potter. I think the map identifies people based on how they see themselves, not just their legal name.”

 

Lucius tilted his head, intrigued.

 

“It sees through glamours and disguises,” Harry added. “Even Animagi. That’s how I discovered Pettigrew was alive during third year—he was hiding as Ron’s rat, but the map showed Peter Pettigrew.”

 

That made Lucius go very still. He straightened, the tension around his mouth sharpening, eyes narrowing as the implications sank in.

 

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and resolute, “Then I shall take care of it. You—focus on school. On your work. On the Tournament. Let me deal with Bartemius.”

 

Harry wasn’t entirely sure he liked the sound of that. “Deal with” could mean any number of things, and very few of them were comforting when spoken by Lucius Malfoy. But he’d made a choice by coming here, and now he had to follow through.

 

He gave a small nod, “All right.”

 

For better or worse, Harry was placing his trust in the very man who, not so long ago, would have delivered him straight to Voldemort without hesitation.

 

The silence between them lingered for a moment—heavy, but not uncomfortable.

 

“Thank you,” Lucius said at last, his tone surprisingly sincere. “For trusting me… and for not charging into this like a reckless Gryffindor, determined to shoulder it alone.”

 

“I told you I would let you earn it.”

Chapter 55: Chapter 55

Notes:

I'm not sure if this one flows right but I've been rereading it long. Let me know if any changes are needed.

Chapter 55

 

Harry didn’t know what to do with himself during Defense the next day.

 

Lucius had said he’d handle it but Harry wasn’t entirely sure what handling it meant. Arrest? Confrontation? Something quieter, darker? He’d walked out of Malfoy Manor with the beginnings of a plan in motion, but no sense of where it might end.

 

And he still didn’t understand how any of this had come to be in the first place.

 

Why would an Auror like Moody—Mad-Eye Moody, of all people—be helping an Azkaban escapee?

 

It made him wonder how many people had truly escaped Azkaban. Everyone had always said Sirius was the first—but maybe he had only been the first they noticed. How many others had slipped through the cracks?

 

Harry sat rigid in his seat, doing his best to keep his eyes down and his mind on the textbook, but it was impossible to focus. Every time Moody paced past his desk, Harry could feel the magical eye tracking him. Watching. Weighing.

 

He didn’t dare look up. Didn’t want to give anything away.

 

But that didn’t help when the lesson ended and Moody growled, “Castor Malfoy, stay behind.”

 

Harry’s stomach dropped. The others filed out, sparing him brief glances—some curious, others concerned—but no one lingered.

 

When the door shut, Moody turned toward him with a calculating look.

 

“The second task is coming up fast,” he said.

 

Harry nodded, careful to keep his expression neutral, “Yes, sir.”

 

“Do you have a plan?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Good,” Moody muttered, nodding to himself. “Good. You’ve got a leg up—the only one who managed to get the egg. The others will have to improvise.”

 

Harry hesitated, then said, “I… told them the clue, actually. About the egg. Valentin even made swimwear for all of us.”

 

For a split second, the surprise on Moody’s face cracked through his usual scowl. He clearly hadn’t expected that answer.

 

That flicker of genuine surprise on Moody’s face did something to the tight knot in Harry’s chest—it didn’t unravel entirely, but it loosened. Just a bit. He didn’t let the reaction show, keeping his face calm and unreadable, but inside he held onto it like a lifeline.

 

He was throwing Moody off-balance.

 

It didn’t matter if it was intentional or not—every time Harry acted unpredictably, it made it harder for the imposter to manipulate him. Harder to anticipate his next move. If he could stay just a few steps ahead—even by accident—maybe that was enough to survive this.

 

Moody narrowed his eye, “You what?”

 

Harry lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug, “I told them. Fleur, Krum, Cedric. I shared the clue.”

 

Moody’s expression didn’t shift further, but the faint tension in his jaw said enough.

 

“I’ve never cared about winning,” Harry went on, his voice steady. “I didn’t put my name in that Goblet. I’ve just been trying to keep all four of us alive.”

 

He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle between them.

 

“I didn’t ask the dragons to make the task impossible for the other. I just told them about the tournament and asked them not to kill us. That’s what happened. They decided I was the only one worthy of the egg. That wasn’t me stacking the odds—it was them making their own choices.”

 

Harry looked Moody in the eye now, refusing to look away.

 

“I feel the same about the rest of the tasks. As long as Fleur, Viktor, Cedric, and I make it through alive—I don’t care who wins. This was never about glory for me.”

 

There was a long silence. The magical eye swiveled, studying him with sharp intent, but Harry didn’t flinch.

 

He wanted Moody to know he wasn’t the pawn they thought he’d be.

 

Moody cleared his throat, his voice returning to that familiar gravelly tone, “Well, given your lead, there's still a strong chance you'll win. Even if the others catch up a bit, as long as you complete the task, you'll likely remain in first or second place.”

 

Harry gave another shrug, feigning indifference.

 

He had been training—relentlessly. And with Kraken’s help, he was more than ready for the next task. He’d probably take first place without too much trouble. But that wasn’t the point.

 

Why did it matter so much to Moody that he stay ahead?

Why had he been so invested in Harry’s performance from the start?

 

And more importantly… why did Moody and Barty Crouch want him in this tournament in the first place?

 

Harry’s stomach churned.

 

Once he was dismissed, he didn’t waste time heading to the Room of Requirement. He told himself it was for swimming practice but when he stepped inside, he didn’t even glance at the conjured pool.

 

Instead, he dropped his bag and pulled out the Marauder’s Map.

 

He whispered the incantation and watched as ink bloomed across the parchment, revealing Hogwarts in its usual sprawling detail.

 

Alastor Moody — still in his office.

 

Exactly where he always was. Unmoving.

 

But Bartemius Crouch was in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

 

Harry stared at the two names, his thoughts racing. Something clicked, sharp and cold.

 

What if Crouch wasn’t working with Moody at all?

What if he was Moody?

 

Polyjuice. Of course. It would explain everything, wouldn’t it?

 

That would mean Harry hadn’t been talking to Moody at all.

 

He’d been speaking with Barty Crouch Jr. This entire time.

 

The realization sent a jolt through his chest.

 

Without wasting another second, he grabbed a quill and parchment and scribbled a quick, urgent letter—detailing what he’d seen on the map, what he suspected, and what it could mean. He folded it, sealed it tightly, and rushed to the owlery to send it off.

 

He didn’t know what Lucius would do with the information, but he hoped it would be fast.

 

Because if he was right—then Crouch was already too close.

 

And the second task was coming.

 

888

 

The morning of the second task dawned cold and bright, with a sharp wind blowing off the lake. Despite the chill in the air, Harry felt a strange, buoyant confidence. He was ready. Weeks of training had honed his swimming, and with Kraken at his side, he felt more prepared than ever.

 

Still, a nagging worry gnawed at the back of his mind.

 

They were supposed to retrieve something personal from the depths of the lake. That much was clear. But what would they take from him?

 

Hardly anyone even knew where he was living now, so it would be pretty difficult to steal something from him and his belongings hadn’t appeared to have been touched. He tried not to let the unease show as he sat at the Gryffindor table, tucked between Neville and Fleur. The comforting scent of porridge and toast did nothing to ease the tension in his chest.

 

But one detail finally struck him hard enough to draw his focus—Hermione wasn’t there.

 

He glanced around again, heart picking up speed, “Where’s Hermione?”

 

Neville, halfway through buttering a slice of toast, blinked and shrugged, “Dunno. She usually beats me up and either heads down or waits in the common room. Wasn’t there this morning.”

 

A sharp stab of anxiety lanced through Harry. He bit his lip and turned toward the Slytherin table, scanning the faces quickly. Draco was there, watching him curiously over a cup of tea, but Theo was missing.

 

That… wasn’t good.

 

His stomach twisted, a cold knot of dread settling low in his gut. He looked over to the Ravenclaw table next. Cho Chang was absent, though Roger Davies was eating with a small group of sixth-years.

 

Harry turned to Fleur, lowering his voice to a near-whisper, “Who’s the person you care about most in the world?”

 

She blinked at him, clearly confused by the sudden question. “My sister, Gabrielle. Why?”

 

Harry’s grip tightened around his spoon, “Because I think… I think I know what they took.”

 

Fleur’s expression darkened instantly, alarm overtaking her confusion. Harry leaned closer, his voice hushed but urgent. “We need to speak with the others. Now. I think what they took wasn’t just things—we’re meant to rescue people. People we care about.”

 

He didn’t wait for her to respond. His appetite gone, he stood from the bench with a clatter, his thoughts racing. If he was right, then Theo was underwater. So was Hermione. And maybe Cho. All bait in some sick game to force the champions to act like heroes.

 

The tournament was twisted.

 

888

 

“You think they put people at the bottom of the lake?” Cedric asked, incredulous.

 

Harry nodded once, grim and certain, “I do.”

 

The moment the thought had formed, it had settled in his gut like a stone. It was the only explanation that made sense.

 

Cedric swore under his breath, “That’s sick.”

 

Harry met his eyes, “Yeah. It is.”

 

Krum spoke next, his voice low and thick with his Bulgarian accent, “Even if true… how does this help us? I still need to find Hermy-own-ninny. The lake is big. Deep. What if we do not find them in time?”

 

“We’ve got an hour,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice calm. “I think they’ll be near the mermaid village. That’s what the clue hinted at. And… I have a way to get us there. Fast.”

 

Cedric raised an eyebrow, “How fast is fast?”

 

Harry took a breath, “If you trust me… maybe five minutes. Give or take.”

 

That made them all pause. Even Krum’s eyes widened slightly.

 

Fleur stepped forward, her expression determined. “Zat is better than my plan,” she said firmly. “I will come. For Gabrielle.”

 

Krum frowned, “Why help us?”

 

“Because your hostage is one of my best friends. Hermione is practically family to me,” Harry stated, “This tournament has already asked too much. I want all of them safe far more than I want some stupid trophy.”

 

Cedric looked between them all, then nodded, “Yeah. I’m in too. If you’ve got a plan, let’s do it.”

 

Krum folded his arms across his chest, “You better know what you’re doing, Malfoy.”

 

Harry offered a lopsided smile, “Yeah. I better.”

 

He looked over the three of them—their faces set, focused. They were united by the people they were about to risk everything to save.

 

“Alright then,” Harry said, “Don’t jump into the water until I tell you to.”

 

888

 

Narcissa was wringing her hands, her elegant gloves creased from the tension. They had been escorted to a raised platform on the edge of the lake. The air was sharp and cold, but Narcissa barely felt it, her full attention locked on the water and the coming challenge.

 

“I suppose this explains why Castor asked for so much Gillyweed,” Draco murmured, his tone edged with reluctant admiration as he scanned the lake’s surface. “He must’ve been preparing for weeks.”

 

“With how much I’ve sent him,” Narcissa replied, trying to maintain her composure, “he likely has every inch of this lake memorized by now.”

 

Lucius gave a faint nod of approval, his expression unreadable but his voice calm, “If it’s a matter of navigation and endurance, he’ll be difficult to beat.”

 

All three turned their eyes toward the approaching boat, which glided smoothly across the water carrying the four champions. The chill wind tugged at their robes as they leaned forward. Narcissa’s breath caught when she caught sight of her son among the others. All four were dressed in strikingly elegant swimwear, unmistakably enchanted. Valentin’s work, without question. Each piece tailored to both aesthetic and function—cut to flatter, charmed for comfort and temperature control. Narcissa spotted flashes of cameras at the edge of the viewing stands, but the noise faded into insignificance.

 

Her focus was solely on Castor.

 

He was radiant—confident, steady, the silk bag in his hand hinting at his preparation. She clutched Lucius's arm tightly, grounding herself, pride and worry battling in her chest. That bag had to hold the Gillyweed.

 

The champions climbed onto the platform and lined up. Bagman’s magically amplified voice boomed across the lake, “Now that the champions are in position, the task will begin on my whistle. Each has one hour to retrieve something precious taken from them—hidden deep beneath the lake.”

 

A ripple of energy passed through the crowd as the countdown began.

“Three... two... one—”

The whistle blew.

 

Cheers erupted, echoing across the icy water—and then confusion followed, like a wave crashing into silence.

 

None of the champions dove into the water.

 

Instead, they all turned... to Castor.

 

The entire platform—and the audience—watched in puzzled silence as he calmly reached into his silk bag and withdrew… a slice of bread?

 

Narcissa blinked. Lucius tilted his head ever so slightly. Even Draco looked baffled.

 

Harry handed a piece to each of the champions, who accepted them with varying degrees of confusion. Then, standing tall at the edge of the platform, he held one piece high in the air and bellowed with enthusiasm:

“KRAKEN! TOAST!”

 

Gasps and murmurs echoed through the crowd.

 

The other champions were visibly thrown off by this turn of events—though Fleur looked amused, and Krum raised a curious eyebrow. Cedric gave Harry a small, bewildered shake of the head.

 

Then suddenly, as if summoned from the depths, a massive tentacle shot up from the water and snatched the slice from Harry’s outstretched hand.

 

The crowd let out a collective gasp.

 

Draco groaned loudly, dragging a gloved hand down his face, “Oh for Merlin’s sake, he’s summoning the bloody squid with toast. Of course he is. Why dive when you can call in your personal lake monster like it’s a pet on a leash?”

 

Castor merely grinned and turned back to the others. Narcissa clung more tightly to Lucius’s arm as she whispered, stunned but not surprised, “Oh, Merlin. He’s trained it.”

 

888

“Offer him your pieces now,” Harry instructed calmly, still holding his own arm out, crumbs fluttering into the water below.

 

Fleur, ever quick on the uptake, immediately extended her slice of toast. It disappeared in a blink, plucked delicately by a curling tentacle. Krum and Cedric exchanged a glance, then followed suit, each watching in astonishment as their offerings were accepted one by one.

 

“There we go,” Harry said with satisfaction, brushing the crumbs from his hands. “Okay, now we jump in. Do your breathing spells—whatever you’ve prepped. I’ll speak to Kraken.”

 

He pulled out a fat bundle of Gillyweed, wrapped neatly in kelp, and without hesitation shoved it into his mouth. The bitter taste was immediate, but familiar by now. With a final nod, Harry dove gracefully into the dark waters.

 

The cold enveloped him instantly, but he barely noticed as the transformation took hold. Gills flared open on the sides of his neck, his fingers webbing slightly. Vision adjusted. Limbs lengthened and strengthened.

 

The lake opened before him like a silent world waiting to be stirred.

 

Kraken was already descending, his massive form casting a silhouette in the pale blue light filtering down. Harry swam toward him with ease, smiling warmly.

 

“Kraken! Hey, boy,” he said in, “Thanks for coming so quickly. I know it’s usually just you and me, but today I need your help—we need your help. The school’s hidden our friends down here. They’re trapped, somewhere in the deep. And we need to rescue them. We need you to be a hero.”

 

Kraken puffed up, his vast, rubbery body seeming to swell with pride at Harry’s words. His tentacles rippled outward like banners in a strong current, the motion full of eager anticipation. As if he fully understood his newly assigned status as “hero,” he extended several limbs with surprising delicacy, gently wrapping one thick, suckered tentacle around each of the approaching champions.

 

Not restraining them—cradling them. Protective. Intentional.

 

One tentacle each.

 

Fleur tensed at the touch, her fingers twitching toward her wand, and her lips moved in what looked like the beginning of a nonverbal shield charm. Cedric’s hand hovered at his hip, just barely resisting the urge to react. Krum, with his partially-transfigured shark head, gave no visible indication of alarm—but the slow lash of his tail suggested alertness.

 

Harry, unbothered, swam smoothly into Kraken’s embrace, letting the familiar tentacle curl loosely around his middle like a seatbelt.

 

He smiled at the others, offering a calm thumbs-up. “Don’t worry,” he called, bubbles streaming up in soft trails with each word. “He’s got you. I do this all the time. Just hold on tight—he’s surprisingly good at this.”

 

He turned toward the giant squid’s large central eye, giving it a small nod.

 

“To the mermaid village, Kraken. As fast as you can safely manage with all of us.”

 

Kraken blinked once in acknowledgment, then shifted into motion.

 

The water churned in a slow, rolling current as he propelled himself forward with a few measured pulses. He moved with the power of a ship and the grace of a creature born to the depths, weaving easily through jagged rocks and kelp forests. The champions, cradled in his limbs, were pulled along like drifting leaves in a strong tide.

 

They passed over schools of darting fish, past cold, forgotten statues half-buried in silt. A sunken boat tilted on its side, barnacle-covered and lost to time. Harry kept scanning ahead, watching for signs of movement—or a glimmer of mermaid scales.

 

Fleur was the first to speak, her voice tinged with awe even through the bubble-head spell: “I cannot believe you trained the squid.”

 

Krum let out a bubbling snort, which could’ve been a laugh—or a grunt of approval. Hard to say with a shark snout.

 

Harry glanced back at them with a modest shrug, “He just… likes toast. And I asked nicely.”

 

A distant melody rippled through the water. Haunting and lyrical.

 

Harry’s head snapped toward it. “There,” he said, voice firm, “We’re close.”

 

Kraken adjusted course again, heading into the narrowing trench where the sound had come from. The water grew darker here—colder too—and the rocks more jagged. But ahead, lit by faint phosphorescent light, a group of mermaids came into view. They floated in a circle, spears in hand, guarding what looked like four figures tied to a tall kelp structure anchored to the lakebed.

 

“There!” Harry pointed ahead, his voice muffled by bubbles as he gestured toward the shimmering circle of mermaids.

 

The merfolk, gathered in formation around the kelp structure, seemed just as startled by the behavior of Kraken as the humans had been. Their silvery eyes widened, hands tightening on coral-carved spears, but they made no move to attack. Instead, they hovered cautiously, watching the great squid.

 

Kraken slowed, drifting to a halt just above the lakebed. Harry was the first to slip free from the squid’s grasp, kicking strongly through the cold depths until his eyes locked on Theo.

 

There he was—tied securely with thick strands of enchanted kelp, his body still and eyes closed, but very much alive. His dark hair floated around his face like a halo, and his hands were bound tightly across his chest. For a moment, Harry felt a flicker of panic at how peaceful he looked—too peaceful—but it faded as he swam closer and saw the slow rise and fall of his chest.

 

The mermaids didn’t stop him as he approached. They watched silently, the only sound a faint murmur of their strange underwater language. One tilted her head, long pale-green hair waving like seaweed, as if fascinated.

 

Harry drew his wand and aimed carefully, “Diffindo.”

 

The kelp bindings snapped apart, releasing Theo into his arms.

 

Behind him, he heard the distant thrum of motion as the other champions swam forward to free their own hostages. Cedric cut Cho down with practiced ease, and Krum hovered protectively near Hermione, his powerful shark teeth slashed through her bindings. Fleur reached for her little sister, Gabrielle, with a desperate grace that suggested fear more than confidence.

 

Harry trusted they’d manage. The other hostages were in good hands.

 

Clutching Theo close, Harry kicked upward, strong and fast. With his gills flaring and webbed fingers cutting through the water, he surged toward the surface, heart thudding.

 

He broke through first, gasping the first breath of air as the chill wind slapped his face.

 

A beat later, Cedric surfaced with Cho, both gasping but safe. Krum followed with Hermione in tow—still half-shark, still oddly majestic. Theo stirred in Harry’s arms, jerking awake with a muffled gasp, eyes wide and disoriented.

 

“Hey,” Harry said quickly, steadying him, “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

 

Theo blinked, looking around with clear confusion, but then recognition dawned in his eyes and he nodded, calming slightly. He clung tighter to Harry's arm, still catching his breath.

 

A splash behind them drew Harry’s attention. Fleur had just broken the surface, but not as gracefully. She was clearly struggling to stay afloat with Gabrielle, who had woken in a full-blown panic and was thrashing wildly, her small arms flailing as she gasped for air.

 

Fleur tried to calm her, but Gabrielle latched onto her neck, dragging them both under.

 

Without thinking, Harry handed Theo gently to a floating Cedric, who reached out with both arms to steady him.

 

“I’ve got him—go!” Cedric called.

 

Harry dove again.

 

The cold water hit him like a slap, but he powered through it, reaching Fleur in seconds. Her eyes were wide, alarmed, and Gabrielle was kicking hard, coughing water between frightened cries. Harry grabbed the younger girl’s waist and pulled her to the surface.

 

“You’re okay. I’ve got you,” he said firmly, locking eyes with her. “Just breathe. You’re above the water now.”

 

Gabrielle’s grip loosened, her panic ebbing. Harry kept one arm securely around her and turned to Fleur. “You alright?”

 

Fleur, panting, nodded gratefully, “Oui. Thank you. She panicked—she is only a child—”

 

Harry shook his head, “Don’t apologize. Just hold on. Let’s get back to the platform.”

 

With Fleur on one side and Gabrielle clinging to him like a frightened barnacle, Harry called out from just beneath the surface, his voice bubbling out, “Kraken! A little help?”

 

The lake rippled ominously—and then, like some ancient sea god responding to a summoning, the giant squid surged upward. The water frothed and foamed as Kraken lifted a wide, steady platform of tentacles beneath the group, raising them gently above the surface.

 

Gasps erupted from the audience stands.

 

The sight of all four champions—plus four rescued hostages—balanced atop the Giant Squid was nothing short of surreal. There were audible gasps, shouts of disbelief, and a burst of enchanted camera flashes from the press box as the crowd took in the unprecedented conclusion to the Second Task.

 

Still under the influence of his Gillyweed, Harry slid off Kraken and emerged from the water with only his eyes and messy hair breaking the surface.

 

He gave Kraken’s side an affectionate pat. “Have I ever told you how incredible you are, Kraken?” he asked, his words muffled slightly as bubbles escaped his lips, “You deserve all the toast in the world.”

 

The squid rumbled, pleased, and began gliding toward the judges’ platform. As they drew near, Kraken gently picked each champion and hostage off his back with a careful tentacle and placed them on the dock like precious treasures. Madam Pomfrey and several staff members rushed forward with towels and Pepper-Up Potions.

 

Harry popped his head up beside the platform, but kept his gills submerged and his webbed hands in the water. His amphibious state wouldn’t wear off for a while and standing on land felt wrong—awkward.

 

Still half-floating by Kraken’s side, he watched as Fleur pulled Gabrielle into her arms with a sob of relief, Cedric helped Cho to her feet, and Krum—shark-head now reverting—checked Hermione for injuries. Theo took a towel and was watching him closely as he treaded water.

 

Up in the stands, the crowd was reaching fever pitch. Screaming, clapping, cheering—students from every house were up on their feet. Gryffindor was loudest, of course, but even the Slytherins were shouting Castor’s name.

 

“And there you have it!” Ludo Bagman shouted, sounding like he might combust from excitement. “A stunning finish! All hostages rescued, all champions returned—and would you look at that! The Giant Squid himself has made a guest appearance!”

 

He paused, chuckling breathlessly, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have just witnessed a Triwizard Task solved with toast diplomacy and interspecies friendship!”

 

The judges conferred for a moment, some smiling, some flustered. Madame Maxime looked deeply impressed. Karkaroff’s expression was sour, but Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling with amusement.

 

Finally, Dumbledore stood.

 

“This task was intended to test your ingenuity, magical strength, and most importantly—your care for those taken from you. Each of our champions succeeded in returning with their hostage. Each demonstrated courage and compassion. Therefore…”

 

He turned to the crowd as he read off the results.

 

“Viktor Krum, for partial Transfiguration: forty points.”

 

The Durmstrang students applauded heartily.

 

“Fleur Delacour, for dedication and brave recovery of her sister: thirty-five points.”

 

Beauxbatons let out a melodic cheer.

 

“Cedric Diggory, for second place and flawless use of the Bubble-Head Charm: forty-five points.”

 

A roar from Hufflepuff nearly shook the stands.

 

Dumbledore turned then to the lake, where Harry’s head bobbed just above the surface, curls plastered to his forehead, and a squid tentacle still hovering nearby like a loyal pet.

 

“And finally, Castor Malfoy—for returning first, assisting the others, and for forging a cooperative bond with a creature many believed untameable…” His voice dipped slightly, full of warmth. “Fifty points.”

 

The reaction was immediate. Gryffindor exploded with screams and cheers. Slytherin was clapping enthusiastically. Even some of the Hufflepuffs who weren’t busy being stubborn over joined in.

 

Harry, still chin-deep in the lake and trying not to smile too hard with gills fluttering along his neck, offered a little wave from the water.

 

Beside him, Kraken dipped a single tentacle—gracefully, almost like a bow.

 

Bagman leaned into the microphone again, “Well, I think we can all agree that was unforgettable!”

Chapter 56: Chapter 56

Chapter 56

 

Lucius stood near the edge of the platform, his gaze fixed on the lake where his son still lingered in the water. Castor was drifting alongside the Giant Squid, legs kicking lazily beneath the surface, clearly waiting for the Gillyweed’s effects to fade. The boy appeared entirely at ease, stroking a tentacle like it was an overgrown pet and laughing at something the squid did in return.

 

It was a strange sight. Not unbecoming, but strange.

 

Beside Lucius, Narcissa was still rubbing her hands, while Draco paced along the edge of the platform, muttering something about ridiculous lake creatures and dramatic showmanship.

 

Theodore Nott, however, was uncharacteristically still. Dry now, thanks to a warming and drying charm from Madam Pomfrey, he stood wrapped in a cloak, his eyes locked on Castor with a look Lucius couldn’t quite decipher. It wasn’t worry, exactly—it was something steadier, weightier.

 

‘Loyalty,’ Lucius thought, faintly surprised, ‘And something bordering on awe.’

 

Around them, the crowd had begun to thin. Students and faculty were loading into boats to return to the castle, their excitement still buzzing in the air. Laughter echoed from across the lake. Cameras flashed. Chatter buzzed in dozens of languages.

 

As Alastor Moody made his slow, clunking way toward one of the boats, Lucius stepped forward deliberately, extending both hands—one to grasp Moody’s, the other to steady his elbow.

 

“Careful there, old friend,” he said smoothly, his tone laced with falsely polite concern. “These docks can be treacherous when slick.”

 

Moody scowled, one electric-blue eye whirling to focus on Lucius, the other narrowed in clear suspicion. He made a theatrical show of swatting Lucius’s hands aside.

 

“I don’t need help from the likes of a Malfoy,” he growled, loud enough for a few nearby students to glance over, “Last time someone ‘helped’ me, I lost a leg.”

 

Lucius offered a thin smile, entirely unbothered, “Of course. Forgive my manners.”

 

But as Moody stepped into the boat, Lucius caught the subtle flick of a wrist—the quiet motion of the man tucking the small, folded note Lucius had pressed into his palm up into his sleeve. No acknowledgment. No glance back.

 

Perfect.

 

The boat pushed off from the platform with a splash.

 

Lucius turned his attention back to the lake, where his son was beginning to swim toward them, webbed fingers slicing easily through the water. The gills had started to fade, but slowly, and the boy looked almost reluctant to leave.

 

Theo stepped forward slightly at the sight, instinctively, to assist Castor out of the water.

 

The group gathered in Snape’s quarters, the fire casting a warm flicker across stone walls. Castor—still smelling faintly of lake water despite the drying charms—was practically buzzing with energy as he explained what had just transpired.

 

“He’s not just a squid,” Castor insisted, eyes shining with enthusiasm as he leaned forward. “Kraken’s brilliant—he understands more than people think. I’ve been swimming with him for weeks now. He listens. And he’s so gentle, even though he could probably pull a ship apart if he wanted to.”

 

The way he spoke—fond, animated, utterly sincere—reminded Lucius of how he talked about dragons. His dragons. The reverence, the affection, the sense of kinship. It was clear he loved this creature too.

 

“I can’t wait to get back in the water,” Castor added dreamily, ignoring the concerned glances that passed between the adults. “I bet Kraken misses the toast already.”

 

Narcissa raised an elegant eyebrow, arms folded, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “At this rate, we’ll need to invest in the Gillyweed trade ourselves—just to keep up with your consumption,” she said dryly.

 

Lucius gave a soft chuckle, but said nothing.

 

Still, they couldn’t bring themselves to mind. This was, after all, one of the very few things their son had ever asked them to buy for him. And even now, he was already earning his own money through that bizarre basilisk-harvesting project with Theo and working on the reserve. If he wanted Gillyweed, well… let him have as much as he pleased.

 

“Frankly, if all it takes is a bit of underwater herb to keep you this happy,” Narcissa added, “I’ll buy out every apothecary from here to the Alps.”

 

Snape, seated nearby with arms crossed and expression unreadable, muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Merlin help us if he starts breeding the damn thing.”

 

But even he didn’t sound particularly displeased.

 

The boy thought for a moment before asking, “Where do you expect me to find a female?”

 

888

 

Lucius and Narcissa returned to the Manor not long after their brief visit to Hogwarts, citing the need to prepare for an expected guest. The note Lucius had slipped to the imposter posing as Alastor Moody had been concise but unmistakable: “The Manor. Tonight. We have much to discuss—concerning a mutual acquaintance.”

 

He had told Narcissa everything. She had listened in composed silence, though her knuckles whitened against the trim of her cloak when he explained the Crouch was alive and impersonating Moody.

 

The manor was quiet save for the distant ticking of the grandfather clock and the occasional rustle of the wind outside. They waited in the drawing room, dignified and patient—Lucius with a tumbler of firewhisky untouched in his hand, Narcissa sitting upright in a velvet chair, the picture of poised steel. The hours slipped by, thick with anticipation.

 

Then, just as the clock struck twelve, the wards thrummed. A distant chime rang through the halls—a signal that someone had arrived at the manor’s gate.

 

Together, they moved down the long corridor to the front entrance. Their footfalls echoed off the marble floor, calm and deliberate. When the gates came into view, the lantern light revealed not the grizzled, scarred face of Mad-Eye Moody, but someone younger—sharper, gaunter. A face thought long dead.

 

Lucius raised a brow, voice smooth and low. “So it’s true,” he said, flicking his wand to disengage the outer wards. The gate swung open with a creak, “You’re alive.”

 

The man stepped forward, eyes calculating. His wand remained holstered, but there was a coiled tension to him—like a snake prepared to strike. “Yes,” the man replied quietly. “But the real question is—how did you know? Not even Dumbledore has figured it out.”

 

Lucius exchanged a look with his wife before answering, his voice like silk sliding over steel, “But Castor has.”

 

The words landed like a blow.

 

The man froze, expression warping from suspicion to stunned disbelief. “How?” he demanded, “He’s a child.”

 

Narcissa’s voice was cold as glacier ice, every syllable precise and cutting, “Our son is remarkably intelligent. And like so many others, you’ve underestimated him.”

 

Crouch gave a low hum, his sharp eyes flicking toward her with grudging respect, “Clearly, there’s more to him than meets the eye. He’s proven that much—repeatedly.”

 

They moved into the drawing room, the Manor’s ancient walls insulating them in a hush of tapestries and candlelight. An elf appeared with a silver tray of tea, placing it silently on the low table before vanishing again with a crack.

 

Narcissa didn’t wait for pleasantries. She lifted her cup, didn’t sip, “Why did you put Castor’s name in the Goblet?”

 

“I didn’t,” Crouch replied bluntly. “I put in Harry Potter’s. How was I supposed to know they were the same person? You didn’t even know.”

 

Lucius inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, though his gaze never softened. “And now that you do know? Now that Castor is aware you’re in contact with the Dark Lord—what is your plan?”

 

Crouch’s composure slipped for a moment, his brow furrowing, “How in Merlin’s name does he know these things?!”

 

Lucius said nothing—only leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the polished armrest, his expression unreadable but expectant.

 

Crouch let out a breath, raking a hand through his hair in frustration, “We’re… not entirely sure anymore. The original plan was simple: get Harry Potter to the final task and use the Portkey to bring him to the Dark Lord. But with this revelation—this Castor Malfoy twist—it’s all unravelled,” Crouch shifted uncomfortably, “The Dark Lord made a vow—one that prevents him from harming your children. He believes Castor is still bound beneath that vow.”

 

Lucius’s fingers drummed lightly on the arm of his chair, “He is. I saw to it myself.”

 

Crouch grimaced, “Then you see the issue. Potter—Castor—is untouchable by magical contract. The Dark Lord won’t risk breaking it. So now, the mission has shifted. Observation only. He’s waiting until the Third Task to decide the next move.”

 

“And in the meantime?” Lucius asked, sitting straighter, something sharper entering his voice.

 

A strange look crossed Crouch’s face—half incredulity, half reluctant admiration, “He’s been intrigued by Castor. How could he not be? The boy rode a dragon—a Horntail no less. There’s not a Death Eater in Azkaban who’d try that. I haven’t even had a chance to tell him what happened today—Merlin’s beard, he tamed the giant squid.”

 

Narcissa arched an elegant brow. “Kraken,” she corrected mildly.

 

Crouch blinked, “Right…”

 

Lucius smirked faintly, “He names everything he’s fond of. It’s becoming… a habit.”

 

“All the crups have names now,” Narcissa added.

 

Crouch snorted under his breath, “Well. There you have it. A dragon-riding, squid-charming, Parseltongue-speaking Malfoy with a hero complex. The Dark Lord doesn’t know whether to be impressed or worried.”

 

“And you?” Narcissa asked quietly, stirring her tea. “What do you think of him?”

 

Crouch hesitated, then gave a thin smile, “I think he’s dangerous—but not in the way most people are. He doesn’t use fear. He uses loyalty. That makes him… unpredictable.”

 

Lucius met his gaze, cold and calculating, “Good. Let him be unpredictable.”

 

Crouch raised a brow, “Is that a warning?”

 

Lucius leaned forward slightly, voice soft and smooth as smoke, “It’s an opportunity. For you. And a reminder—not to mistake our son for a pawn.”

 

There was a long pause before Crouch continued, brushing imaginary lint from his robes, “You Malfoys always did play your own game.”

 

“We do,” Narcissa smirked, “And we rarely lose.”

 

“I wish to see him,” Lucius said coolly, folding his hands behind his back as he stood beside the fireplace, “There is much I need to report… and I want to be there in person when he hears it.”

 

Barty studied him for a moment longer, then gave a slow nod, “Very well. Friday night. I’m expected anyway, to report on the second task.” His lips curled in a sardonic smile. “He’ll be eager to hear more about the boy.”

 

Lucius inclined his head with quiet satisfaction, “That is acceptable.”

 

From her seat by the window, Narcissa spoke without turning, “Ensure the meeting is private, Barty. No theatrics. No sycophants groveling at his feet. Just the Dark Lord, and us.”

 

Barty gave a half-hearted chuckle, “While he does enjoy a bit of theatre, he is not in the shape for anything like that. Only Pettigrew and I know his location for now.” Barty glanced at the clock, “I should go. Staying too long risks suspicion.”

 

“Indeed,” Lucius agreed, already summoning an elf with a flick of his fingers, “Hobbes will see you to the perimeter. The wards will close behind you.”

 

Barty hesitated a moment more, “You’re certain Castor won’t interfere?”

 

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, cool and calculating, “Castor has become rather observant, yes. But he knows better than to act without understanding the full picture. For now, he is watching… Learning.”

 

“And when he decides to act?” Barty pressed.

 

A small, dangerous smile curved Lucius’s mouth, “Then I suppose we’ll all find out what he's truly capable of.”

 

Barty gave a low whistle, “Merlin help us.”

 

888

 

Harry let out a giggle as a wall of icy water surged over him, courtesy of one of Kraken’s more enthusiastic splashes. The great squid rippled just beneath the surface, his tentacles undulating in a rhythm that Harry had come to recognize as playful mischief.

 

After the first task it was no longer a secret that he was friends with the squid. What had once been a strange, secret ritual of evening swims beneath the lake’s surface had become an open curiosity.

 

Still, as he waded waist-deep into the frigid waters that glittered under the late afternoon sun, most students kept their distance. They gathered in small groups along the shore and the castle-side benches, chattering behind gloved hands and enchanted scarves. The lake was far too cold for anyone sane to willingly dive in—and so, despite the eyes watching him from the shoreline, Harry found a strange sort of peace here. A pocket of solitude wrapped in the illusion of privacy.

 

After the chaos of the Second Task, he needed this.

 

Classes had dragged painfully since the event. Every hallway conversation seemed to circle back to the task: what had happened under the lake, how the champions had rescued their hostages, and—most persistently—how in Merlin’s name Harry had convinced the Giant Squid to act as his underwater steed.

 

“Kraken loves toast,” had not satisfied anyone.

 

Especially not Rita Skeeter, whose latest article had spun his performance into something between a dark miracle and an outright scandal. She had speculated wildly about dark magic, coercion, and possibly illegal aquatic bonding rituals. Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or be insulted.

 

He ducked under another splash, brushing wet silver hair out of his eyes. “You’ve caused quite the stir, you know,” he said to the squid, who responded with a gentle nudge from a single curling tentacle. It was almost affectionate.

 

Kraken hummed low in the water, the vibration echoing through Harry’s chest like a heartbeat.

 

“Yeah, I missed you too,” Harry murmured. “Everything’s crazy in there. It’s quieter out here.”

 

Another wave. Another giggle.

 

888

 

The next morning, a flurry of owls swept into the Great Hall as usual, but Harry immediately spotted Hedwig.  The owl landed delicately beside his plate, dropped the letter into his lap, and gave a hoot of smug satisfaction before eyeing the bacon.

 

Giving her a piece, Harry felt a grin tug at his mouth the moment he saw the deep violet envelope, sealed with a dramatic swirl of silver wax bearing Valentin’s initials.

 

He broke the seal with practiced fingers and unfolded the letter, already smiling in anticipation. Valentin’s handwriting was a controlled scrawl—elegant, chaotic, and somehow loud, even on parchment.

 

My Most Dazzling Sea-Sorcerer,

 

Darling, what have you done?

 

Four students in my designs—four!—riding atop a cephalopod the size of a bloody manor house, and not one of you sank. I am beside myself. The Daily Prophet has turned your exploits into an accidental fashion feature. There’s a two-page spread of you mid-rescue looking like a kelpie prince and I haven’t stopped showing it to people.

 

You are a vision, Castor. A hero in sculpted tailoring, cradling a hostage with one arm and commanding a mythical beast with the other. Honestly, if you weren’t fourteen, I’d suggest Theodore propose immediately.

 

Also—was that Gillyweed? Your eyes were glowing. I must design a line called "Merrowboy" in your honour. I have so many questions. Who did your hair before the event? Did the squid rehearse? Were the other champions aware they were merely background actors in your underwater opera?

 

Regardless, I am immensely proud of you, and your dragon-taming escapades have clearly only been the prelude. You, my dear, are quite literally making waves.

 

Write me soon. I have commissions coming in from half the continent and they all want “The Squid Look.” Also, do tell Kraken he’s a star. I’m including a small gift for him—seaweed crackers infused with garlic and toast essence. Apparently that’s a thing?

 

With awe and affection,

Valentin

 

P.S. I’ve enclosed a clipping of the Prophet article, and I did highlight the bits that got your angles right. You’re welcome.

 

Harry laughed aloud by the time he reached the postscript, drawing a few curious glances from across the Slytherin table and a suspicious eyebrow from Professor Snape at the head. He tucked the letter away carefully, already planning to write back during his next free period.

 

Next to him, Theo leaned slightly closer, as if catching some of the letter’s dramatic energy.

 

“Valentin?” he asked quietly.

 

Harry nodded, still grinning, “He’s—well… He’s Valentin.”

 

Theo gave a short nod like that answered everything, then returned to sipping his tea. A moment later, he added, “Tell him Kraken prefers sourdough.”

 

Harry let out another laugh and made a mental note to include that.

Chapter 57: Chapter 57

Chapter 57

 

At the start of the school year, Harry had loathed Fridays. Double Potions had felt like a cruel joke—hours trapped in the dungeons with Snape breathing down his neck. But now? Fridays had become the highlight of his week.

 

He spent the entire afternoon sharing a workspace with his brother and boyfriend—Draco and Theo, respectively—and despite the dim lighting and ever-present smell of burning ingredients, it had become one of the few places Harry felt comfortable just being himself. Their table was quiet but focused, the air between them filled with unspoken coordination and the occasional dry comment from Theo that never failed to make Draco smirk.

 

On top of that, there was entertainment.

 

Today, like many others, that came in the form of Ron and Lavender who were currently locked in yet another verbal duel across their cauldron.

 

"You absolute menace!" Ron barked, his face flushed as he pointed an accusing finger at the potion, which had turned a sickly, rancid brown, “You ruined it! Rat tails go in after the heat stabilizes!”

 

Lavender huffed, crossing her arms and glaring daggers at him, “You added the powdered scales too early, Ronald. The rat tails were timed perfectly! If you’d stirred instead of sulking, maybe the brew wouldn’t look like something a troll coughed up!”

 

Their cauldron gave a spiteful burble, belching a puff of foul-smelling smoke.

 

At their usual table, Harry covered his nose with his sleeve and tried not to laugh, “They’re going to blow something up one of these days.”

 

“They already did,” Draco muttered, flipping a page in their shared textbook. “Three weeks ago. We had to evacuate, remember?”

 

“Again,” Theo added blandly, not looking up from his careful chopping of murtlap roots.

 

Harry shook his head with a smile. At this point, he wasn’t entirely sure how Ron and Lavender had made it this far in the subject. Ron had only scraped by in previous years because Hermione had practically done his assignments for him. Without her, his marks were circling the drain.

 

Still, Harry had noticed a difference in Ron since the night of the Yule Ball—the night they'd had their confrontation. Ron had backed off since then, sticking mostly to Dean and Seamus. From what Harry had seen, the pair had eventually stopped trying to ditch him, and Ron, for once, had kept his head down and his fists to himself.

 

Harry didn’t particularly like Ron anymore, not after everything, but he could admit that the other boy had never been cruel—not truly. Just jealous, immature, and prone to tantrums. That didn’t excuse his actions, but it made them easier to understand. Maybe he really had taken Harry’s words to heart that night.

 

Another loud snap-hiss came from Ron and Lavender’s table as their cauldron began to bubble over. Lavender shrieked and jumped back. Snape, who had been scribbling notes at his desk, raised his eyes with a tired sort of menace and began to stalk their way.

 

“Five galleons says he gives them detention,” Draco murmured without glancing up.

 

“Ten says it’s double,” Harry replied, grinning.

 

“You’re both wrong,” Theo said. “He’ll take points, then make them finish cleaning with a toothbrush.”

 

The three of them watched as Snape paused beside the disaster in progress, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered something that had Ron and Lavender paling.

 

Theo calmly added, “Told you.”

 

After Potions, Harry turned to Theo as they packed up their things, “Do you want to come feed Kraken with me?”

 

Theo didn’t hesitate, “Of course.”

 

It had become a quiet ritual between them—one of those simple, grounding moments in a life that often felt too full of fire and chaos. They walked hand-in-hand through the crisp afternoon air, following the familiar path down to the lake. The surface shimmered under the pale light, and almost as if sensing their arrival, a ripple spread across the water. Within moments, the massive, sinuous form of Kraken appeared just below the surface, a few curious tentacles lifting above the waterline in welcome.

 

Harry grinned and reached for the plate Mipsy knowingly brought him, stacked high with perfectly golden slices of toast. He handed one to Theo, and together, they held them for the eager squid, who used all his tentacles to get them as fast as possible.

 

“He’s completely spoiled now,” Harry laughed as Kraken waved one long tentacle in a happy little wiggle. “I promised to come swim with him this weekend.”

 

Theo glanced sideways at him, amused, “You promised him a swim?”

 

“I promised him every weekend. He might get cranky if I miss it.”

 

Theo just shook his head with a faint smirk, “You're ridiculous.”

 

“Thank you,” Harry replied, with a mock bow.

 

With their plate empty and Kraken satiated, the boys turned and started back toward the castle, fingers loosely entwined once again. As they reached the edge of the sloping lawn, they spotted a large figure striding toward them from the direction of the paddocks.

 

“Hullo there!” Hagrid called, waving enthusiastically. “Oi, Castor! C’mere!”

 

Harry lit up and broke into a jog, Theo strolling after him at a much more composed pace. When Harry reached Hagrid, the half-giant clapped him on the shoulder with a grin that could’ve warmed the entire lake.

 

“That was a great show, that was!” Hagrid beamed. “You really are somethin’ special with creatures, Castor! I didn’t even know about the toast! Spent all week apologizin’ to Kraken—been bringin’ him a few slices every morning, poor lad.”

 

Harry laughed. “He appreciates it, I promise. I am sure you’re forgiven. Especially if you give him sourdough.”

 

“Yeh really are good to ‘im, ain’t yeh?” Hagrid’s eyes twinkled, clearly proud. “Yeh got a gift. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a creature trust someone like that.”

 

Theo had reached them by then and silently took Harry’s hand again, offering Hagrid a small but respectful nod.

 

“Evenin’, Professor,” he said quietly.

 

“Ah, Theo! Didn’t see yeh there. Good to see yeh, lad.”

 

“Likewise.”

 

“Kraken really likes him too,” Harry said, giving Theo’s hand a squeeze, “Even offered him a rock once.”

 

Theo raised a brow, “A slimy, algae-covered rock.”

 

Harry shrugged, “It’s Kraken’s version of a love letter.”

 

“Charming,” Theo murmured, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

 

“You two headed back in?” Hagrid asked.

 

Harry nodded warmly, “Yeah, we just came out to check in on Kraken. He gets lonely if no one visits—he’s gotten used to the attention. I’m glad he’s got you looking out for him too.”

 

Hagrid chuckled, his beard twitching with the movement, “Aye, I reckon he does. Smart creature, that one.”

 

The half-giant leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if offering a secret, “Listen, if you two are interested, I was going out to groom the Hippogriffs. Few of ‘em are moulting—lot of feathers scattered about. You’re always welcome to help with ‘em, Castor. You’re a natural with creatures, and I trust your touch. And if you and Theo want to collect some of the dropped feathers for your business, well, no sense lettin’ ‘em go to waste.”

 

Harry’s face lit up, “Really?”

 

Hagrid nodded firmly, “Course. Just no pluckin’. Even I won’t try that.”

 

Harry turned to Theo, the question clear in his eyes. Theo met his gaze, thoughtful for only a heartbeat before he gave a single approving nod.

 

“We’d appreciate that, Hagrid,” Theo said quietly. “Thank you.”

 

“Ah, no trouble at all. I’d rather see good lads put them to use than have ‘em trampled in the mud. Come along. I’ll get ye some work gloves and we’ll head out.”

 

The hippogriffs stood proudly in there pens- silver, charcoal, rust-gold, and one so pale it almost glowed white. As they moved, feathers fluttered down like oversized snowflakes, catching the sunlight.

 

Theo grinned, nudging Harry’s shoulder. “That one’s yours,” he joked, pointing to the pale hippogriff. “Matches your aesthetic.”

 

Harry pointed at the charcoal one, “And there is yours.”

 

Hagrid chuckled as he set the feed bag down with a heavy thump. “You two can start wherever. Here’s a few gloves and bags are over by the fence—should make it easier to collect. And don’t forget the bowin’ when yeh go near ’em.”

 

Theo pulled his gloves on, and Harry grabbed a burlap bag and brush before the two started toward the Hippogriffs. The process was oddly peaceful—Harry would groom that and Theo would catch the falling feathers, carefully picking up the fallen plumage, occasionally pausing to admire a particularly good one.

 

He picked up a long, silvery tail feather and held it up, “This one’s nearly perfect. It would make a good quill.”

 

They spent the next hour gathering feathers while Hagrid refilled the water trough and checked hooves. Occasionally, one of the hippogriffs would wander close, snorting curiously or pecking at Theo’s coat. He didn’t flinch once, offering the appropriate bow each time until they turned away, satisfied.

 

“You’re good at this,” Harry said as they walked toward the fence with full bags.

 

“So are you,” Theo answered simply.

 

With the sun dipping low and the feathers safely bagged, the boys made their goodbyes. As they walked back toward the castle, Harry glanced at Theo, smiling.

 

“I like days like this.”

 

Theo looked at him sideways, considering, “You mean simple ones?”

 

Harry nodded, “Yeah. Quiet. Useful. With you.”

 

Theo was quiet for a moment before replying, “We should have more of them.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, “We should.”

 

888

 

When Harry finally made it back to the Room of Requirement at the end of the day, he was a strange mixture of bone-deep exhaustion and barely contained anticipation for the weekend ahead. His muscles ached pleasantly from the afternoon’s work with Hagrid and the hippogriffs, but his mind kept drifting toward the promise of swimming with Kraken again.

 

He stripped out of his hippogriff-dusted clothes, showered away the smell of hay and feathers, and padded barefoot to his bed. Pulling his familiar blue-and-white blanket up to his chin, Harry let out a sigh of contentment. The warmth and softness seemed to wrap around him like a cocoon. Within moments of his head hitting the pillow, he was asleep.

 

The firelight was the first thing he noticed when his dream began—low, flickering orange flames casting long, dancing shadows across the walls of a rotting, decrepit room. The smell was wrong too, damp stone and mildew mixing with the faint copper tang of something far more unpleasant.

 

The small, motionless, twisted infant-like creature that was Voldemort was resting in a nearby chair. Its skin was waxy and grey, its limbs far too thin, and it didn’t seem to breathe.

 

Harry’s stomach turned. He’d seen this scene before. Too many times.

 

Why did he keep coming back here?

 

From somewhere below, the muffled sound of multiple footsteps echoed up a winding staircase. Harry’s attention shifted to the warped door, expecting Crouch to appear and deliver his report on the second task.

 

But when the door creaked open, Harry froze.

 

It wasn’t just Crouch.

 

Both of his parents—Lucius and Narcissa—stepped into the room, bowing low before Voldemort. The sight was surreal, even though Harry had always known they’d once served him. Seeing them here, together, in this place… was different.

 

“My Lord,” Crouch began, straightening, “I have brought Lucius and Narcissa. Castor has discovered my identity somehow, but rather than telling Dumbledore or the Aurors, he told Lucius.”

 

There was a beat of silence before Crouch added, almost defensively, “It’s difficult to keep much secret from that boy, My Lord. He has a knack for… figuring things out.”

 

The withered figure by the fire moved one spidery, pale hand, dismissing the concern with a languid wave.

 

“No matter,” Voldemort rasped, his voice soft yet carrying through the room like a hiss. “It is better, perhaps, that we speak plainly… about your son.”

 

Lucius stepped forward, chin high but eyes watchful, “You’ve taken an interest, I presume.”

 

Voldemort’s lips curled into something not quite a smile. “I am… intrigued. He is resourceful. Clever. Publicly impressive. And yet…” His crimson eyes narrowed, glinting in the firelight, “His loyalty is still… fluid.”

 

Narcissa’s voice was calm, cool as frost, “Castor’s loyalty is earned, my Lord. Not taken.”

 

The Dark Lord’s gaze shifted to her, studying, and Harry felt an uncomfortable pull in his chest—as though the dream itself was drawing him closer to hear what came next.

 

Voldemort studied the two Malfoys for a long, silent moment. His crimson gaze flickered with something calculating… and something else Harry couldn’t quite place.

 

“Castor Malfoy,” Voldemort began slowly, tasting the name like a foreign spice. “He is… inconveniently untouchable. Your vow, Lucius… quite binding. I cannot move against him, not without breaking it again. So tell me—” the voice dropped into a hiss, “—what exactly am I to do with a boy who has made a public spectacle of himself… and yet stands outside my reach?”

 

Lucius inclined his head in deference but chose his words carefully, “My Lord, he is… far more complicated than I had realized. When he first returned to us, I assumed he was a typical Gryffindor. But in recent months… I have seen signs of something else.”

 

“Go on,” Voldemort prompted, leaning forward just enough for the firelight to catch the unnatural gleam in his eyes.

 

Lucius glanced briefly at Narcissa, then back to his master. “Castor is a Parselmouth. He claims this… gift… came to him after your first defeat. That when you struck at him, you somehow transferred part of your magic to him. He has visions of you at times as well.”

 

The flames crackled loudly in the pause that followed. Voldemort’s expression barely shifted, but his fingers flexed once against the arm of his chair. Harry caught the faintest tightening around the Dark Lord’s mouth—almost imperceptible, but there.

 

“I see,” Voldemort murmured. “And what do you make of that, Lucius?”

 

Lucius shook his head slightly, “I confess, I am uncertain. If true, it would explain his affinity for serpents.. But I do not understand the mechanism. Such a thing should be nearly impossible, let alone doing so on accident.”

 

Voldemort allowed the barest ghost of a smile to curve his lips, “Impossible, yes… to most.” His gaze sharpened, “And what of his nature? Has his… allegiance shifted since learning the truth of his parentage?”

 

“He is loyal to those who earn it, my Lord,” Narcissa’s reiterated with a tone of ice, “Not before.”

 

The Dark Lord’s attention lingered on her, then moved back to Lucius. “Loyalty can be… cultivated. Persuaded. Shaped. He has shown himself to be resourceful—riding a dragon in open competition.”

 

Crouch added, “He got first place in the second task as well, My Lord. Castor summoned the Giant Squid, which he has trained, and the creature carried all of the champions to there hostages within minutes.”

 

Voldemort looked amused, “Charming the school’s… pet monstrosities to his will. These are not the talents of a mere schoolboy. He is dangerous, whether he wishes to be or not.”

 

Lucius inclined his head again, “He has value in him, my Lord. Not as an enemy.”

 

“Perhaps.” Voldemort’s voice was almost thoughtful now, though still threaded with caution. “But I wonder…” His eyes narrowed, studying the flames. “When power is given… it leaves its mark. Sometimes more than a mark.”

 

Lucius’s voice cut carefully into the silence, smooth but edged with something personal, “My Lord… if, despite our best efforts, Castor does not choose to stand with you… what then?”

 

The question hung like smoke in the air.

 

Voldemort’s gaze slid to Lucius—slow, deliberate, “I would be… disappointed.”

 

Lucius lowered his head slightly in acknowledgment, though his next words were measured and deliberate. “He is young. Still… shapeable. It would be a waste to lose such potential to… opposition. I would ask that, if he resists, we find other means to bring him into your vision. For his sake… and for the strength he could offer you.”

 

The Dark Lord studied him for a long, tense beat, the corners of his mouth curving faintly—not in warmth, but in the quiet satisfaction of hearing a loyal servant beg without quite grovelling.

 

“Your plea is noted, Lucius,” Voldemort said softly, though there was a dangerous undercurrent to the words. “For now, I will watch. And wait. But understand—if the boy becomes a threat to me, no vow will shield him forever.”

 

Lucius inclined his head once more, the gesture concealing the faint tightening in his jaw, “I understand, my Lord.”

 

Harry jolted awake, breath catching in his throat, the faint echo of Voldemort’s voice still curling like smoke through his mind. For a long, still moment, he lay in the dark of the Room of Requirement, staring up at the enchanted ceiling above his bed as if it might offer answers he didn’t have.

 

But the image burned into his mind wouldn’t fade—the sight of both his parents kneeling before Voldemort.

 

He’d heard them speak for him, defending him, even pleading for him. But it wasn’t what he had hoped Lucius would do with the information Harry had entrusted to him. That wasn’t resistance—it was walking straight back into the serpent’s den.

 

Lucius had gone to Voldemort.

 

The thought turned his stomach. Lucius should be in prison for his past crimes, not returning willingly to that life—certainly not so soon after everything that had happened. And Narcissa… his mother… she had been there too. Just as complicit. Just as guilty.

 

Tears slid hot and unbidden down Harry’s face. He hadn’t even realized he was crying until one landed on his pillow. The familiar ache of being utterly alone settled over him like a weight he knew too well. Because no matter which way this went, he was going to lose his family.

 

He would never bow to Voldemort. But he also knew he would never let Voldemort harm the people he loved, no matter their choices.

 

It was an impossible knot to untangle, and it left him hollow inside.

 

A wild, desperate thought took root—maybe he and Theo could just leave. They could run away to Romania, vanish into the dragon reserve where no one could reach them. No politics. No war. No divided loyalties.

 

Harry pushed the blanket aside and climbed out of bed, his bare feet meeting the cool floor. He began to pace the length of the Room, running a hand through his hair over and over. The silence pressed in from all sides, broken only by the sound of his own uneven breathing.

 

Harry didn’t know what his next move should be.

Chapter 58: Chapter 58

Chapter 58

 

Harry found himself pacing all night. Only when his legs ached did he finally drop heavily into the chair by his desk. The firelight from the Room’s hearth flickered across the walls, throwing restless shadows that seemed to breathe with him.

 

Theo would listen. Hermione would try to fix it. He knew both of them cared enough to help, and yet… the words stuck in his throat at the mere thought of telling them.

 

If he told Theo, it would put him in danger—more danger than he already lived with simply by being close to Harry. And Hermione… Hermione would march straight to McGonagall, or worse, Dumbledore. Then everything would spiral out of control, and Harry wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

 

No, this was something he had to hold close. Something he had to figure out before anyone else became tangled in it. He would carry it himself, just like he had carried everything else.

 

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes until stars burst behind his lids. When he finally lowered them, he stared blankly into the flames.

 

The flickering light painted his face in gold and shadow, but it didn’t warm him.

 

Alone, he thought bitterly, and maybe it was better that way.

 

888

 

By breakfast, Harry had smoothed his face into something that resembled normalcy. It wasn’t hard—he’d been doing it for years with the Dursleys—but it felt heavier now, like forcing a smile while carrying a boulder no one else could see.

 

Theo was waiting at the edge of the Great Hall, leaning casually against the wall, a faint curve of a smile tugging at his mouth when he spotted Harry.

 

“Morning,” Theo greeted, brushing his fingers lightly against Harry’s as they fell into step.

 

“Morning,” Harry echoed, keeping his tone light.

 

Theo steered him toward the Slytherin table, suggesting they have breakfast together before Harry ran off to swim with his pet squid. Harry stiffened slightly at the sight of his brother already seated there.

 

“You look dreadful,” Draco said bluntly as they sat.

 

“Didn’t sleep well,” Harry muttered.

 

Theo studied him for a fraction too long, as though weighing the truth, but didn’t press. Draco’s eyes narrowed in that Malfoy way that meant he was filing the answer away for later.

 

Harry forced himself into the easy rhythm of their usual breakfast chatter—laughing where he was supposed to, listening as Theo told him his mother had enjoyed her gift, trading sarcastic comments with his brother.

 

But underneath it all, his mind kept replaying the image of Lucius and Narcissa kneeling before Voldemort, the sound of the Dark Lord’s voice weighing his fate like a scale tipping between life and death.

 

And not once did he let it show.

 

888

 

The following week dragged, each day stretched thin as though time itself had slowed to mock him. Harry often caught himself staring at nothing, his thoughts spiraling back to the same image—Lucius and Narcissa kneeling before Voldemort, voices calm and composed as they pleaded for him.

 

Visits with Kraken became his only real reprieve. The rest of the time, he shut himself away in the Room of Requirement. If Voldemort was going to come for him—and if he couldn’t rely on anyone to stand between them—then he had to make sure he could stand alone.

 

So he studied. First, he made sure his regular coursework was flawless; there would be no excuse for professors to think he was distracted or falling behind. Once that was secure, he moved into more dangerous territory—dueling techniques, advanced spellwork, combat transfiguration, defensive wards. Anything that could give him an edge when the inevitable came. He read until his eyes ached and the candles guttered low, until the Room’s silence pressed close like a held breath.

 

Swimming was now a weekend ritual rather than a daily necessity. He didn’t need the constant practice anymore, but without it, he found himself restless, craving the burn of movement in his limbs. The Room, as always, adapted—offering free weights, enchanted resistance bands, even a kind of treadmill that shifted incline and speed in time with his heartbeat.

 

Somewhere along the way, he noticed subtle changes. The meals constant meals and nutrient potions had added a bit of weight to his frame—not softness, but potential. He thought he might have even grown taller, though perhaps that was just Valentin’s boots and wishful thinking. Regardless, he decided to turn what he had into something useful, something solid.

 

Because the truth was, every rep, every page, every spell mastered wasn’t just about being ready—it was about keeping the fear at bay. It was about building himself into someone Voldemort couldn’t break… and someone who wouldn’t shatter if the day came when his parents truly chose the Dark Lord over him.

 

888

 

When Draco swept up to the Gryffindor table—Theo in tow—Harry knew before a word was spoken that they were plotting something.

 

“You’re coming to Hogsmeade with us again,” Draco declared without preamble, his tone suggesting it wasn’t up for debate.

 

Harry, fork halfway to his mouth, tried for a quick escape, “Can’t. I promised Kraken I’d go swimming with him today.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes, “You can swim afterwards. You’re never in there for much more than an hour, and we won’t be gone all day.”

 

Harry opened his mouth, searching for another excuse, but nothing convincing came to mind. A second later, Theo’s hand landed lightly on his shoulder—gentle, but firm enough to tell Harry he’d already lost the battle.

 

Which was how he found himself, a short while later, walking down the path toward Hogsmeade flanked by the full Slytherin entourage.

 

He made an effort to enjoy himself, even if part of him still itched to be back by the lake. He wandered Honeydukes with Crabbe and Goyle, watching their eyes light up as they debated which sweets were best. He strolled into the bookshop with Theo, their fingers intertwined as they browsed the shelves together—Theo drifting toward arcane potion texts and Harry following.

 

By lunchtime, they’d regrouped at the Three Broomsticks, cramming into a long table near the fire. The chatter and clinking of glasses filled the air, and for a while Harry let himself get swept up in it, laughing at Pansy’s sarcastic commentary and kicking Draco lightly under the table when he started preening about his marks in Defense.

 

On the surface, it was almost normal.

 

But as the lunch crowd thickened, the low roar of voices and the clatter of tankards seemed to close in around Harry. The warmth from the fire, once pleasant, now felt stifling. He pushed the rest of his meal away, the smell of buttered parsnips suddenly too heavy in his throat.

 

Leaning toward Theo, he kept his voice low, “I’m done. Just… need some air.”

 

Theo straightened immediately, “I’ll come with—”

 

Harry cut him off with a small, tired smile, “Finish your meal. I’ll be fine. Promise.”

 

Theo didn’t look convinced, but he nodded, watching as Harry slipped through the crowd and out the door.

 

Theo’s gaze lingered on the doorway a beat too long.

 

“Where’s he going?” Draco asked from across the table, his eyes narrowing.

 

“Said he wanted air,” Theo replied, but his tone carried the same thread of unease tightening in his chest.

 

Draco leaned back in his seat, frowning. “There’s something off about him this week. I’ve hardly seen him. And I got a letter from Mother—she says Castor hasn’t written since the second task. Normally, she gets more mail from him then myself.”

 

“That’s not like him,” Pansy said, stirring her butterbeer idly but watching Theo’s reaction from the corner of her eye.

 

Theo’s fingers drummed lightly against the table, his appetite gone despite the untouched food in front of him, “No. It isn’t.”

 

Outside, Harry’s breath misted in the sharp winter air as he strode away from the Three Broomsticks, the press of the crowd still clinging to him like a second skin.

 

He just needed space—space from the noise, from the crowd pressing too close, from the eyes that always seemed to follow him. The cold air bit at his cheeks as he left the bustle of Hogsmeade behind, boots crunching over packed snow.

 

Without really thinking about it, his steps carried him toward the far edge of the village, past the last clusters of shops and houses. The road narrowed and twisted, skirting the slope that led down toward the Shrieking Shack.

 

It was quiet here. Even the wind seemed to hush as it passed between the skeletal branches of bare trees. Most people didn’t bother coming this way, especially on a day like today, when the chill crept easily into your bones.

 

Harry welcomed the solitude.

 

He stopped at a large, half-buried boulder a short distance from the fence surrounding the shack and sat, his breath clouding in slow, measured puffs. The place loomed before him, its windows dark, its roof sagging in places, the wood weathered to a dull, splintered gray. It had a stillness about it—empty, yet heavy, as though holding its secrets close.

 

Harry sat in silence for a long moment, letting the quiet seep in and loosen the knot in his chest.

 

Then, faintly at first, came the sound—snow compressing under steady, deliberate steps.

 

His head turned toward the noise, half-expecting to see Theo or Draco—or both—tracking him down. But it wasn’t them.

 

A shape moved between the dark tree trunks, shadowed at first, then clear against the pale snow.

 

A large, black, grim-like dog stood at the treeline, eyes locked on him.

 

Harry’s breath caught. He knew that stance, that stare.

 

Sirius.

 

 

For a moment, neither of them moved.

 

The wind whispered between the bare branches, rattling the skeletal twigs overhead. Harry’s fingers curled into the folds of his cloak, the instinct to reach for his wand warring with the equally strong urge to look away.

 

Sirius took a cautious step forward, snow muffling under his paws. His form shimmered, fur dissolving into the long lines of a gaunt man with hollow cheeks and eyes too bright for the gray day. He stayed several paces away, as if aware that coming closer too quickly might shatter whatever fragile thread kept Harry from walking away entirely.

 

“Harry,” Sirius said softly—too softly for the wind to carry the name far. “Or… Castor, if you prefer.”

 

Harry’s chest tightened.  “You shouldn’t be here,” Harry said finally, the words flat but sharp.

 

“I had to see you,” Sirius replied, his voice low but steady. “I heard about the second task. About… the squid. You were brilliant.”

 

Harry’s jaw tightened, “Keeping tabs on me, are you?”

 

Sirius’s expression twisted, pain flickering there before he masked it, “I never wanted to hurt you. I thought I was helping you.”

 

“By taking me from my family?” The words came sharp, slicing through the cold air.

 

Sirius flinched but didn’t look away, “I thought I was saving you—from them, from the kind of life I thought they’d force on you. I thought I knew what was best.”

 

“You thought wrong,” Harry said, his voice colder than the snow at his feet.

 

For a moment, neither spoke. The Shrieking Shack loomed behind Harry like a ghost of another time, its broken windows gaping.

 

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” Sirius said finally. “But I want to explain. Everything. If you’ll let me.”

 

Harry’s fingers curled into the fabric of his cloak, “Then explain.”

 

Sirius’s gaze flicked toward the treeline, scanning for movement, before settling back on Harry, “It’s not safe here. Come with me. Just for a little while. There’s a place we can talk—no one will overhear.”

 

Harry hesitated, torn between storming off and demanding answers. In the end, curiosity—and the stubborn need to finally hear it all—won out.

 

Sirius turned and started toward the trees without waiting for a reply.

 

Harry followed.

 

They cut across the frozen ground, the only sounds the crunch of snow beneath their boots and the faint howl of wind through bare branches. The village noise faded behind them, replaced by the muted silence of the forest. Sirius moved quickly, slipping between drifts and weaving through trees until the ground began to slope downward.

 

The mouth of the cave appeared suddenly, half-hidden by a jagged outcropping of rock. Sirius ducked inside, beckoning Harry after him.

 

The air within was damp and cold, but a small fire burned at the far end, its light casting long shadows across the uneven stone. A pile of blankets and a battered tin kettle sat nearby—signs that Sirius had been living here for some time.

 

Harry stayed just inside the mouth of the cave, arms folded tightly across his chest, the flickering firelight catching on the hard set of his jaw.

 

“All right,” he said coolly, “We’re here. Start talking.”

 

Sirius leaned back on the flat rock near the fire, his posture deceptively casual, though there was an edge in his eyes. “Your family—” he began, his voice low but unflinching, “—they’re dark, Castor. The darkest of the dark. Lucius wasn’t just in Voldemort’s ranks; he was one of his most trusted lieutenants during the war. And your mother—she may not bear the Dark Mark, but don’t fool yourself. She was in just as deep as any of them. Her husband and her sister? Bellatrix and Lucius? Two of the most dangerous, vicious Death Eaters the Order ever fought.”

 

Harry’s brow furrowed, “The Order?”

 

“The Order of the Phoenix,” Sirius replied, his voice thick with memory, “Dumbledore’s answer to the Death Eaters. We were the ones who went where the Aurors couldn’t, did what the Ministry wouldn’t.”

 

Harry let out a short, humorless laugh, “So… a vigilante club.”

 

Sirius’s lips thinned, “I wouldn’t call us vigilantes. Many of us were Aurors—or Aurors in training. We didn’t go looking to break the law. But we knew the Ministry’s hands were tied. And you’d be surprised how often those hands were tied by people like your father—pure-blood aristocrats with deep pockets and political leverage.

 

“You see, Voldemort didn’t just rely on fear. He relied on influence. Men like Lucius bought seats on important committees, funded Ministry departments, and ‘donated’ to the right causes. They used their respectability as a shield. If someone tried to investigate a Death Eater, suddenly a key file would disappear from the records room, or a witness would recant their testimony after a quiet ‘conversation.’” Sirius’s tone turned bitter. “Half the Wizengamot owed favors to people like your father. And the other half were too scared to cross them.”

 

Harry’s jaw tightened, his voice clipped, “So you decided I had to be taken from them—without actually knowing how they would treat me. You just… assumed.”

 

Sirius’s eyes sharpened, a spark of heat flaring behind them, “If I’d waited, you’d have been raised in that house, groomed into their world before you even had a chance to choose. I can’t say I regret it, Castor. I won’t.” His tone was firm, but there was a raw edge beneath it.

 

He leaned forward slightly, gaze steady, “Look at you. Look at how you turned out. You’re compassionate in a way they could never be. You think for yourself. You protect people. I am so damn proud of the man you’re becoming.” His mouth tightened as he went on, more softly now, “I just fear that now they have you again, they’ll find a way to… wear that down. To twist it. To erase all the good that’s been built into you. You are such a kind, heroic boy, Castor—and I don’t believe that would have survived in a household like theirs.”

 

Harry didn’t answer right away. His mind betrayed him with an image as vivid as if it were happening all over again—Lucius and Narcissa, kneeling before Voldemort, the firelight casting their shadows long and thin, their voices low and deferential.

 

Harry’s throat felt tight, and he hated that Sirius’s words didn’t just roll off him. Because part of him knew there was truth buried in them—truth he didn’t want to acknowledge.

 

He had seen the Malfoys bow to Voldemort. Seen them pledge loyalty to someone who’d murdered without hesitation. And yet… they’d also been the ones who’d searched for him, who’d held him when he came back from the Reserve covered in ash and grief, who’d bought him Gillyweed without question because it made him happy.

 

He hated that the same people who wrapped him in warmth could kneel before that monster.

 

He hated that Sirius might be right.

 

He hated that Sirius might be wrong.

 

“You talk about compassion like it’s something you gave me,” Harry said finally, his voice low but edged with steel. “But I didn’t get it from you, Sirius. I learned it myself. From people who actually showed me they cared. You don’t get to take credit for that.”

 

Sirius flinched, just barely, but Harry caught it. The man’s expression shuttered, leaving behind something more guarded, “I gave you freedom, Castor. That’s not nothing.”

 

Harry folded his arms again, jaw clenched. “No. You took my choice. There’s a difference.”

 

Sirius’s mouth tightened. “Choice?” he echoed, almost scoffing, “You think a child raised under Lucius Malfoy would ever be given a choice? That’s the point, Castor. There are families in our world who decide who you are before you can even walk. They call it tradition, heritage, bloodlines—but it’s shackles, all the same.”

 

Harry didn’t move, his expression cold.

 

Sirius pressed on, voice taking on that sharp, “The Malfoys aren’t just rich. They’ve got power threaded through the Ministry like rot in a beam. They can kill laws they don’t like, bury investigations, appoint their own people to posts that should be neutral. Half the reason Death Eaters kept walking free after the war was because men like Lucius were there to twist the outcome.”

 

“And the other half?” Harry asked, tone flat.

 

“Fear,” Sirius said simply. “Fear of what would happen if the old families pushed back. The Ministry’s terrified of open rebellion from the pure-blood bloc, so they compromise, they bargain, they let it slide. That’s why Dumbledore formed the Order. Because the Ministry couldn’t—or wouldn’t—stop the worst of them.”

 

Harry stared into the fire, remembering Lucius’s calm voice explaining how much “influence” he had.

 

Harry’s expression didn’t soften. “You chose for me,” he said flatly, “You decided what my life would be without asking me, without trusting me to figure it out for myself one day. That’s not love, Sirius—that’s control.”

 

Sirius flinched, but Harry wasn’t finished.

 

“And maybe you tell yourself it was all for my own good. Maybe you even believe it. But that doesn’t change what it was. You took me from my family. You lied to everyone about who I was. You let me grow up in a house where I was unwanted, where I was a burden, all because you thought it was better than letting me be a Malfoy.”

 

“I was protecting you,” Sirius insisted, desperation creeping into his tone.

 

Harry shook his head, his voice lowering to something colder, “No. If you were protecting me, you would have warned me when we met. You were protecting yourself.”

 

For a long moment, the only sound in the cave was the slow drip of water from the stone ceiling. Sirius opened his mouth as if to say something more, but Harry was already moving toward the entrance.

 

“I’m not going to let you rewrite this so you’re the hero, Sirius,” Harry said without looking back, “Not when you’ve already taken so much from me.”

 

With that, he stepped out into the biting winter air. The wind cut across his face, but the cold felt almost good—it kept him moving, kept him from sinking too deep into the emotions clawing at his chest.

 

The snow crunched under his boots as he followed the narrow, winding path back toward the distant roofs of Hogsmeade. The sounds of laughter and chatter from the village reached him faintly on the wind, but they felt a world away.

 

He shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw set. Whatever else happened, one thing was clear: Sirius Black was no savior. And Harry was done letting other people decide who he was supposed to be.

 

Still… Sirius had made a few points Harry couldn’t just ignore.

 

Lucius was dark—that much was undeniable. Harry had seen enough now to know it wasn’t just rumor. But what Sirius had said about the politics of the war… that was new. Harry had always known Voldemort’s end goal was the extermination of Muggles and Muggleborns, which was as insane as it was horrifying, but he’d never considered the political machinery behind it all—the way influence in the Ministry could warp the entire system.

 

No one had ever explained to him how the war had actually been fought on the Ministry’s side, or how much of it had been bogged down in laws, interference, and bureaucracy.

 

By the time he reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade, Harry had come to a decision: if no one was going to give him a clear picture, he’d get it himself.

 

He detoured to the bookshop for the second time that day, ignoring the pull of the Quidditch magazines and the latest Defense manuals. Instead, he went straight to the section on wizarding history and political theory. His fingers skimmed across spines until he began pulling volumes at random—accounts from war veterans, dry Ministry reports, thick political treatises, even one book that appeared to be a bitter memoir from someone who had served under three different Ministers. He took from both pro-Ministry and anti-Ministry authors, determined not to swallow just one version of events.

 

The stack grew until he had to balance it with both arms. The shopkeeper gave him a startled look when he dropped them on the counter. “Research project,” Harry said shortly, fishing for coins.

 

When he stepped back out into the cold, the books stuffed in a heavy bag over his shoulder, the air seemed to hum with tension. Down the street, he spotted the Slytherins moving with frantic energy, darting in and out of shops. Even from here, he could hear snippets—Pansy calling someone’s name, Blaise scanning the crowd.

 

It wasn’t until Crabbe caught sight of him and pointed, shouting, “There he is!” that Harry realized they’d been looking for him.

 

Draco was on him in seconds, pale and sharp-eyed, Theo right behind him.

 

“Where the hell have you been?!” Draco demanded, his voice tight.

 

“Bookshop,” Harry said simply.

 

“We were already at the bookshop,” Theo said, frowning in confusion.

 

Harry shrugged, adjusting the strap of the bag so it sat more comfortably against his shoulder.

 

“Had an idea while I was walking around,” he said casually. “Picked up a few books.” He tipped the bag toward them just enough for the corners of the thick tomes to be visible before letting it swing back into place.

 

Theo’s gaze lingered on the bag for a beat longer than Draco’s, the curiosity in his eyes clear—but he didn’t ask. Draco, however, seemed to be biting back a dozen questions, his pale brows drawn in suspicion.

 

Harry, not wanting to become the center of even more attention than he’d clearly already attracted, stepped past them and spoke before Draco could press the issue.

 

“Can we head back now?” he asked, his tone almost impatient. “I still need to visit Kraken today, and I’d rather get there before the sun starts to set.”

 

Theo’s expression softened at that—Harry knew the boy understood just how much time with the squid meant to him.

 

“Alright,” Theo said simply, falling into step beside him.

 

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose but followed as well, the rest of the Slytherins trailing behind them, their chatter resuming in bursts as they made their way out of the village.

 

Harry kept his eyes ahead, letting the cold air sting his cheeks. The bag of books thumped lightly against his hip with every step, a solid weight and a silent reminder that the answers he needed wouldn’t come from anyone else—he’d dig for them himself.

Notes:

Sorry this one took a while. I found myself having problems with it so you'll have to let me know if anything is confusing or needs fixing. Thank you!

Chapter 59: Chapter 59

Chapter 59

 

Harry spent the next few weeks burying himself in research, absorbing every scrap of information he could get his hands on. His absences from common spaces became more frequent, but with the looming Third Task, it was easy enough to brush off any questions by citing preparations. No one seemed inclined to doubt him.

 

He tore through as many books as the library could provide, though eventually the history texts began to blur together. Names, dates, and events repeated with only minor differences in phrasing, as if every author had drawn from the same heavily curated account. Even volumes that purported to be critical of the Ministry and the Wizengamot tended to echo the same tired narratives, their so-called “exposés” offering little more than reworded versions of familiar stories.

 

One book, however, stood out—Ministry in Shadow: A Memoir by Edric Montclair. Montclair had worked in the Ministry for an astonishing sixty-two years before finally committing his memories to paper. Unlike the polished histories, his writing was raw and unsettling. By his own account, the Ministry’s gleaming corridors hid a rotting foundation—tales of bribes exchanged behind closed doors, quiet threats that bent votes, and whispered offers no law-abiding wizard would accept.

 

Harry had been almost surprised the bookshop had been allowed to sell it at all, especially when so many other works felt as though they’d been carefully vetted. But a little past the halfway mark, the memoir took an abrupt turn. It was no longer Montclair’s voice speaking, but that of an “analysis” tacked on after the fact—a rebuttal penned by one Brennan Umbridge.

 

The tone shifted sharply. Umbridge’s so-called analysis claimed to “debunk” every one of Montclair’s allegations, but to Harry’s eye, it offered no evidence, only scorn and dismissal. Montclair, Umbridge wrote, had grown senile after “too many encounters” with mind-affecting curses. According to him, the Ministry had mercifully kept Montclair employed long past his prime out of respect for his years of service, though they had quietly reduced his access to sensitive information. Cut off from the inner workings he had once known, the old man had—so Umbridge asserted—spun a web of paranoid fantasies to explain his diminished role.

 

Harry didn’t buy a word of it. In fact, the rebuttal made him more inclined to believe Montclair. The venom with which Umbridge attacked the memoir read less like reasoned criticism and more like the work of someone desperate to bury uncomfortable truths.

 

He began noticing patterns—similar evasions, similar rewritings—in other books and articles. The more he read, the more he suspected that much of wizarding history had been scrubbed clean, rewritten until only the Ministry-approved version remained. And the more he thought about it, the more connections he began to see between those old manipulations and the tangled mess he was living through now.

 

If it made him sound like a conspiracy theorist, so be it. Harry was starting to think the difference between a lunatic theory and the truth was simply whether or not anyone wanted you to find out.

 

888

 

Harry stood in one of the quieter corners of the library, head tilted back as he scanned the higher shelves. His finger hovered over the spine of the book he needed—just barely out of reach. He rocked up on his toes, stretching, but it was hopeless. With a quiet huff, he reached for his wand to summon it.

 

Before he could cast the spell, a pale hand slipped in over his head and plucked the book from the shelf as easily as if it were nothing.

 

Harry turned, already ready to mutter a thanks, only to find Theo examining the cover with raised brows.

“Magical Jurisprudence Through the Ages?” Theo read aloud, his mouth twitching with amusement. “What’s this for? Planning to become a lawyer now, too?”

 

Harry rolled his eyes and snatched the book from him, tucking it against his chest, “Maybe,” he said with mock seriousness.

 

Theo smirked, leaning one shoulder against the bookshelf. “I was a little surprised to see you in here. You’ve been… scarce lately.” His voice dropped a fraction, the teasing fading into something gentler. “Is everything alright? Did I… do something?”

 

Harry’s eyes widened, and he shook his head quickly, almost frantically. “Of course not! You’re—” He stopped, the words sticking in his throat for half a second before he pushed them out, softer this time. “Sometimes you’re the only thing that feels like it makes sense.”

 

Theo’s smirk faded into something far more subtle, his eyes studying Harry’s face in that quiet, deliberate way of his. He didn’t push, but Harry could feel the question still hanging there between them.

 

Instead, Theo reached past him again and plucked another book off the shelf—Wizengamot Rulings of the 20th Century—and placed it on top of the one Harry was already holding.

“If you’re going to bury yourself in law, might as well get the full picture,” Theo said lightly. “This is the best you will find here.”

 

Harry swallowed, warmth curling in his chest despite the heavy thoughts still lingering in the back of his mind. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

 

Theo shrugged as though it was nothing.

 

888

 

The book Theo had recommended turned out to be more than just a passing suggestion—it was a solid foundation, outlining the broader strokes of magical law and the statutes that actually mattered in the current political climate. Harry had devoured several chapters over the past few days, underlining sections and scribbling notes in a small journal he’d started keeping in the Room.

 

That morning, he was so absorbed in a passage about post-war reforms to Wizengamot voting rights that he didn’t notice the flutter of wings above the Slytherin table until a familiar white shape swooped down in front of his plate.

 

Hedwig landed gracefully, her amber eyes sharp, holding a parchment envelope between her beak. Even before he touched it, Harry could tell from the neat, elegant script pressed into the parchment that it was from his mum.

 

My Dearest Castor,

 

I know Draco has mentioned that you are terribly busy as of late, but your father and I would be most pleased if you and your brother would grace the Manor with your presence for the Easter holidays.

 

I am aware this may intrude upon your studies and steal you from time with Kraken, though we thought you might also take the opportunity to spend some time amongst the dragons.

 

I imagine you must dearly miss your girls.

 

Write and tell us your thoughts.

 

Draco is amenable to the visit.

 

—Mother

 

Harry traced the signature for a moment, imagining her at her writing desk in the sunny drawing room at the Manor, the scent of tea and roses faint in the air. The thought of seeing the dragons again tugged at him—he did miss them, and wanted to check on Jasmin—but the idea of returning to the Manor so soon after his dream of Voldemort and his parents bowing before him left a cold stone in his stomach.

 

Neville, seated beside him, tilted his head to glance at the letter, “Something important?”

 

Harry folded the parchment with care, creasing the edges until it lay perfectly flat before tucking it into the inside pocket of his robes.

 

“Just my mum,” he said lightly. “Wants me home for Easter.”

 

Neville nodded in understanding, “Gran’s been saying the same thing—thinks I should make up for not coming home at Yule. And, well, Luna’s heading home too. We’re going to meet up over the break.” His expression softened as he spoke, a small smile tugging at his lips, “She’s coming to the manor for tea, and then I’m going to her place for… well, I’m not entirely sure what, actually. Luna mentioned Huckleborns and rosemary. Haven’t the faintest idea what she meant, but I’m fairly certain I’ll be thoroughly entertained while I find out.”

 

Harry chuckled. Neville and Luna had been nearly inseparable ever since Harry had properly introduced them. It hadn’t taken long for Neville to grow completely at ease with Luna’s peculiarities—peculiarities he now seemed to actively enjoy. Where others might smile politely and edge away, Neville leaned in, curious, listening. It was clear to anyone paying attention that he’d fallen for her, hard. Meeting each other’s families was just the next natural step.

 

“I think you’ll like her home,” Harry said, picturing the eccentric warmth of the Lovegood household from what Luna had described, “She’ll probably have you chasing Huckleborns through the garden before you’ve even had a chance to unpack.”

 

Neville grinned, shaking his head fondly, “If that happens, I’ll send you an owl with the full story. Though knowing Luna, you probably won’t believe half of it.”

 

Harry smirked, “Oh, I’ll believe it. With Luna, I believe just about anything.”

 

888

 

Harry sat slumped in his seat, leaning heavily against Theo as the train rattled along the tracks. The rhythm of the movement, usually soothing, only made him feel more worn down. He hadn’t slept properly in days—last night had been the worst yet. Dream after dream of Voldemort walking the halls of Malfoy Manor, of his parents kneeling, of familiar faces turning cold in torchlight. But he kept reminding himself that the Dark Lord was a husk of what he once was. He wasn’t strong enough to storm through wards or issue commands like he once had. Not yet.

 

Still, the unease lingered like smoke in his lungs.

 

Harry closed his eyes, hoping to steal even a few minutes of rest. He didn’t see the flicker of concern pass over Draco’s face from the opposite bench, or the way his brother had been watching him almost constantly since they boarded.

 

When Harry’s breathing finally evened out, Draco leaned in toward Theo, voice lowered to a near-whisper.

 

“Did he tell you what’s wrong?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral but edged with tension.

 

Theo shook his head, keeping his eyes on the window for a beat before answering, “No. I’ve asked a few times, but he just says he’s tired. Or studying.”

 

“He told Mother he’d come home,” Draco said quietly, “but she said even his letter sounded reluctant. Clipped. Like he was agreeing out of obligation more than anything else. The only thing he mentioned with any enthusiasm was the reserve.”

 

Theo gave a short nod, “That tracks. He lights up when he talks about the dragons or Kraken. It's the only time lately he looks like himself.”

 

Draco frowned, tapping his finger against the polished wood of the seat, “It’s more than school or the Tournament—I know it is. Something’s bothering him, something he’s not telling us.”

 

“I know,” Theo murmured, “But if we push too hard, he’ll retreat. He’s like that.”

 

Draco grimaced in agreement, “I hate it.”

 

A silence fell between them, broken only by the hum of the train on the tracks and the occasional thump from the corridor. Outside the window, the countryside rushed by. Theo’s eyes drifted to Harry again, watching the way his brow furrowed even in sleep.

 

After a moment, he said quietly, “Maybe being home will help.”

 

Draco didn't answer right away. Then: “Or maybe it’ll make things worse.”

 

The train gave a long, low whistle as it pulled into the station. The boys stirred from their seats, gathering cloaks, trunks, and bags with sluggish movements. Harry blinked the sleep from his eyes and straightened up, trying to shake the grogginess from his limbs before anyone could comment on it.

 

Theo offered him a quiet look as he stood, not quite asking are you alright? but letting the question hang there anyway. Harry gave a faint nod, eyes already moving to the window, scanning the crowd.

 

It didn’t take long to find them.

 

Lucius Malfoy stood tall and still, unmistakable in his black wool coat and silver-tipped cane. Next to him, Narcissa had her hands clasped in front of her, wrapped in a warm cloak the color of stormclouds, fur-lined and elegant. Her sharp eyes swept over the crowd of students spilling onto the platform—only softening when they landed on her sons.

 

Draco was the first to wave, “There they are.”

 

Theo stepped back slightly as Harry moved forward, his shoulders unconsciously straightening, his mouth tightening just a fraction.

 

They disembarked quickly. As soon as they stepped off the train, Narcissa moved forward, pulling both boys into a gentle embrace, starting with Draco and then pausing just a second longer when she reached Harry.

 

“My darling boys,” she murmured. “Welcome home.”

 

Lucius offered only a brief nod in greeting, “Castor. Draco.”

 

“Father,” Draco replied while Harry just bowed his head in greeting.

 

Lucius’s gaze lingered on Harry for a moment longer than it did on Draco, his expression unreadable, as if he were trying to measure something in the lines of Harry’s face or the slump of his shoulders.

 

“I trust your journey was uneventful?” he asked, tone polished and cool.

 

“Fine,” Draco said before Harry could answer, “We mostly slept.”

 

Narcissa’s hand brushed Harry’s arm gently, “You look tired, darling. Not sick, I hope?”

 

Harry offered a faint smile, the kind that barely touched his eyes, “Just didn’t sleep much last night. I’m alright.”

 

Lucius studied him for a beat longer than was comfortable before giving a curt nod. He then extended his cane—the one carved with the serpent's head and inlaid with silver. Harry instinctively stepped forward, his fingers brushing the cold cane just before Draco and Narcissa followed suit. Theo remained behind, giving Harry one last look before the portkey activated.

 

The familiar tug behind the navel came fast and hard. A moment later, the cold platform of the train station vanished, replaced by the polished stone steps of Malfoy Manor.

 

The vast estate stood tall and severe under a heavy gray sky. He followed the others up the steps and into the grand foyer. The sound of his boots echoed too loudly on the marble floor, as if the house itself disapproved of his presence. The manor was just as elegant and imposing as he remembered.

 

It was beautiful, yes. But it was the kind of beauty designed to remind others that they didn’t belong.

 

And once again, Harry felt like a guest in a home that was technically his.

 

Narcissa turned to him with a warm expression that didn’t quite match the cold atmosphere around them. “Your room is just as you left it, Castor. The house-elves aired it out this morning and made up your bed. You should feel free to rest if you’re tired.”

 

“I’m fine,” Harry murmured, though the weight of exhaustion still pressed behind his eyes.

 

“Draco, perhaps you can go with your brother upstairs?” Lucius suggested.

 

Draco hesitated for just a moment before giving Harry a nudge, “Come on. I'll show you what they did with the upstairs corridor while we were gone. Apparently we have another portrait of Great-Aunt Honoria, because the first one wasn’t horrifying enough.”

 

Harry managed a breath of amusement, but followed quietly, glancing over his shoulder once at the entranceway before the doors were shut behind them with a soft click.

 

He let Draco talk as they walked, barely absorbing the commentary about portraits and absurd ancestral traditions. His mind was elsewhere—half on his dreams and half on what Sirius had said about their parents.

 

Eventually, Draco stopped outside Harry’s bedroom door, “Dinners not for another hour. You’ve got time to rest for a while.”

 

Harry opened the door and stepped inside. The bed was neatly made, the windows perfectly polished

 

He dropped his bag onto the desk and stood there for a long moment.

 

888

 

“Draco was right,” Lucius said flatly the moment the boys were out of earshot.

 

Narcissa, who had only just turned to watch them disappear around the corner, shifted her gaze back to her husband with visible frustration. “But what is wrong?” she demanded, her voice taut with restrained emotion. “We were making progress. Real progress. He was starting to trust us, to speak more, to smile. And now—he’s pulled away entirely. He’s barely written since the second task, and when I hugged him earlier…” Her voice faltered, then hardened again. “It was like embracing a stranger. Cold. Hollow. He just stood there.”

 

Lucius’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it tightened with thought, “He’s frightened. Or angry. Possibly both.”

 

“With us?” Narcissa asked, wounded.

 

“Not necessarily,” Lucius replied, though the doubt in his voice was evident. “But he’s a child. And children—especially ones raised away from truth—begin to question. They reach an age where they stop simply surviving and start looking at the world around them. I suspect he’s begun putting certain pieces together.”

 

Narcissa’s brow furrowed, “But what could he have learned that would push him away again? We’ve tried so hard to show him who we are-not who the world sees us as.”

 

Lucius turned toward the fireplace, his cane tapping once against the marble as he moved, “He may have heard something, Narcissa. Or someone may have told him something about us—about me.”

 

“But we agreed to be honest if he asked,” she whispered.

 

“And he hasn’t,” Lucius countered, “Which means either he doesn't want to know… or he already does, and he doesn’t like what he’s found.”

 

Narcissa crossed the room and sat on the nearest chaise, her robes pooling around her, “He barely even looked at me,” she said softly, almost to herself. “And I… I don’t know how to reach him. I thought I was. Slowly, but surely, I thought I was.”

 

Lucius’s mouth pressed into a thin line, “Perhaps we’ve placed too much trust in time to heal wounds without giving him the tools to understand us. If he’s begun asking questions about the war, about the Ministry, or about your sister—”

 

“I don’t want him learning those things from anyone but us,” Narcissa snapped, rising again. “I don’t want him hearing exaggerations and slander passed off as truth, or learning our family history in some twisted, one-sided story in the Hogwarts library.”

 

Lucius arched a single, sharp brow,“And yet I’d wager that’s precisely what he’s been doing.”

 

Narcissa resumed pacing, the soft rustle of her robes the only sound in the otherwise quiet drawing room, “Then I should speak with him. We should speak with him.”

 

Lucius gave a short nod. “Yes. But carefully. No veiled questions, no emotional pleas. Don’t push, and don’t try to guide him too obviously. If he even suspects we’re trying to direct his thinking, we’ll lose what little trust we’ve earned.” He turned fully to face her, his tone grave, “Remember what he told us during his last meeting with Amelia… what your cousin told him? That we were dangerous. Manipulative.”

 

Narcissa paused mid-stride, her shoulders tightening. “Sirius,” she hissed, the name like poison on her tongue, “He filled Castor’s head with twisted stories and made himself into the hero. He stole him from me, and then tried to convince him we are monsters.”

 

Lucius’s jaw twitched, but his voice remained composed, “To Castor, Sirius was family. Even if he’s angry with him now, that kind of loyalty doesn’t disappear overnight. And if Sirius warned him against us… we cannot afford to act in a way that proves him right.”

 

Narcissa’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes glinting with frustration and helplessness, “I just— I want him to see us. Who we are. Not shadows of a war he has yet to fully understand. He’s my son, Lucius. I carried him. I sang to him before he was born. And I lost him before I ever got to know him. I want him back.”

 

“I know,” Lucius said softly, stepping closer. “But we cannot demand that from him. We can only give him space to return on his own. Or not.”

 

She looked up at him then, and for the first time in a long while, Lucius saw the crack in her composure—grief buried under years of practiced elegance.

 

“I won’t lose him again,” she whispered.

 

“You won’t,” Lucius said—more firmly than he felt. The words were meant to anchor her, though they rang slightly hollow even in his own ears. “But we must tread carefully.”

 

Narcissa inhaled slowly through her nose, exhaled through parted lips—a practiced breath to still her nerves. She tilted her chin, eyes distant for a moment, before nodding, “I’ll speak to him after dinner. Nothing probing, nothing too serious. Just… something gentle to open the door.”

 

Lucius studied her, noting the thoughtfulness behind her measured tone.

 

“Perhaps I’ll ask which days he’d like to spend at the reserve,” she continued, folding her hands together. “Or whether he might enjoy a visit from Theodore. He always softens around that boy.”

 

A small, wistful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, fragile but real, “He doesn’t lower his guard for many people, but he does for Theo. They speak the same quiet language.”

 

Lucius gave a slight nod of approval, “Good. Familiar ground. If you can get him to talk about dragons or his… companion, it might ease him into conversation.”

 

Narcissa turned to look out the tall windows, watching as the manor grounds blurred into soft silhouettes beneath the falling dusk. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “If we can just remind him that this is his home too, maybe he’ll stop flinching every time he steps through the doors.”

 

Lucius didn’t answer right away. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t feel hollow.

 

After a beat, he simply stepped up beside her, resting a gloved hand on hers.

Chapter 60: Chapter 60

Chapter 60

 

Despite the lingering undercurrent of awkwardness, supper was not the silent, stilted affair Harry had half-expected. Draco refused to let it become one. His brother kept the conversation moving with an easy rhythm, tossing questions and comments across the table like lifelines. Each time Draco deliberately drew Harry into the discussion, Harry answered—quietly, sometimes with only a few words, but he answered. Still, his mind wandered more often than not, tugged toward the thought of the manor’s library.

 

He remembered Narcissa mentioning once that some of the volumes on the highest shelves were not permitted within Hogwarts’ walls. Those, and the hidden alcove he had been shown by Draco months ago, would be an excellent place to begin searching for books that leaned toward the darker side of politics. There was knowledge there that might prove useful. Dangerous, perhaps, but useful.

 

He was just about to excuse himself with the intention of slipping away to begin his search when Narcissa’s voice cut across his thoughts.

 

“Castor” she said, her tone warm but deliberate, “would you join me for a walk to the stables?”

 

Harry hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second before nodding, “Alright.”

 

He wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about her these days. There was still an instinct—a pull—to please her, even when part of him wanted to keep his distance. Was that what Sirius had meant? That the affection his mother gave could be something addictive?

 

It was a strange thing to admit to himself, but that was what it felt like. A drug. He had craved it for as long as he could remember, and now that he had it—even in this fragile, uncertain form—part of him was terrified of losing it. The other part whispered that, when Voldemort regained his body, this affection might become conditional… and that was a price too high to pay.

 

They stepped outside, the evening sun soft on their faces. Snow still clung to the shaded edges of the path, but it was thinning fast, turning to slush under the warmth. Here and there, the first stubborn hints of green were pushing through. Spring, it seemed, was gathering its courage. Harry found the walk… more pleasant than he’d expected.

 

They walked in companionable silence until the stables came into view. A crup pup darted through a shallow puddle ahead, splashing muddy water onto its legs, and Narcissa’s voice finally broke the quiet.

 

“We were wondering,” she began, “if you’d like to invite Theodore over for a day during the holidays. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I’m sure the two of you would enjoy a day down here with the animals—or perhaps we could invite his family for dinner. You seemed to get along with them quite well at the Greengrass’s New Year’s Ball.”

 

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “It would, of course, need to be arranged around your time on the reserve. We also wanted to see which days you’d like to spend there.”

 

“Every day,” Harry said without thinking, the words coming out softer and more wistful than he intended.

 

Narcissa’s lips curved into a small smile, “As much as I know you love your dragons, I’d like to spend some time with you before you return to school. I thought perhaps you and Draco could visit the reserve the day after tomorrow and stay for two nights before coming back. Then, maybe, Mr. Nott could join us a day later.”

 

Harry nodded, the plan sounding harmless enough, “Alright.”

 

Narcissa didn’t broach anything remotely delicate until they were deep inside the stables, where the air smelled of hay, leather, and warm animal musk. Sunlight spilled in pale ribbons through the high windows, turning drifting dust motes into lazy sparks.

 

Harry stood beside a sleek, dappled Kneazle, the soft thwip of the brush against its fur filling the silence. The creature leaned into his strokes with a low, satisfied rumble, and for a fleeting moment, he let himself settle into the simple rhythm.

 

“You haven’t been writing as much lately,” Narcissa said at last, her voice casual—but there was a precision to the comment, as though she’d been measuring the right moment to release it.

 

Harry’s hand faltered mid-sweep. “…Been busy,” he said finally, keeping his eyes fixed on the Kneazle’s flank, “With the tournament and all.”

 

“I imagine.” She gave a faint, knowing hum, her gaze unreadable. “Do you have any notion what the final task might be?” the question was feather-light in delivery, yet sharpened just enough to probe.

 

Harry shook his head, forcing the brush back into motion, “No. They’ll give us more information closer to the event. For now… I’m studying a little of everything.”

 

“Yes,” Narcissa said thoughtfully, “a wise approach. Cover all angles and you can’t be caught unprepared.” Her eyes followed the smooth sweep of the brush in his hand before she continued, “And everything with Theodore is well?” She let the name hang briefly in the air. “You seem to have grown rather close. I suppose that’s natural, after… such a significant shared experience in the Chamber of Secrets.”

 

Harry allowed himself a small, genuine smile despite the prickling awareness of her watchfulness, “Theo’s great.”

 

 

“Good,” Narcissa said, the single word thick with approval yet carrying the faintest thread of appraisal, as though she were cataloguing his every movement for later reflection. Her smile was warm, practiced, but her eyes never softened.

 

Harry bent over the kneazle again, letting the rhythmic sweep of the brush anchor him. Still, he could feel her gaze—steady, deliberate—pressing into the back of his skull. She was watching him. Assessing him. Waiting for something to slip.

 

He thought he’d been playing his role flawlessly since stepping off the train, but clearly, she sensed something. She just didn’t know what. And she wasn’t going to know. He wasn’t about to tell her ‘I saw you bow to Voldemort’. That sentence didn’t belong in the world—it sounded absurd even in his head. What would she say? Deny it? Laugh? Tell him he’d imagined it?

 

She loved him. She did… didn’t she? At least, she acted like she did. She smiled, touched his cheek, remembered his favorite tea. But then—behind his back—she stood beside the man who had tried to kill him again and again. What kind of love was that?

 

Sirius said it was manipulation. But Sirius was mad. Completely, undeniably mad. You couldn’t trust a madman’s word.

 

…Except sometimes madmen were right.

 

He was mad too. Everyone said it often enough. Hermione didn’t say it outright, but it was in her tight little frowns and cautious pauses. Theo said it, but in that fond, sly way—like madness was a compliment.

 

He didn’t think they were wrong. He was mad. Maybe he had been for years.

 

But madness didn’t mean he was wrong. He was right most of the time, wasn’t he? People praised his instincts. They said he saw things others didn’t. That was individuality. That was vision.

 

He would never do what Sirius had done. Never steal a child. Never twist someone’s life into a lie. He couldn’t.

 

The thoughts crashed and clawed over each other in his mind, too loud, too fast, a relentless churn that made the stables seem smaller, darker, closer. His vision swam, the brush slowing in his hand.

 

“Castor?” Narcissa’s voice sliced into the noise, cool but touched with concern. “Are you quite alright? You’re looking rather peaky.”

 

He blinked at her. The kneazle’s purr had gone tinny in his ears.

 

“Perhaps we should return to the manor,” she continued, already stepping closer. “You’re still tired, aren’t you? I think an early night would be best.”

 

888

 

“How did the conversation go?” Lucius asked without looking up from his book, the flickering candlelight catching in the curve of the silver embossing on the cover.

 

Narcissa eased onto her side of the bed, smoothing the covers before lying down. “It didn’t, not really,” she admitted, voice carrying a quiet frustration. “I began with the basics—dates for him and Draco to visit the reserve, the suggestion of inviting Theodore over. He agreed to all of it readily enough. He even seemed genuinely taken with the idea of Theo. He seemed so… smitten with the boy.” Her voice softened briefly, almost fond, before returning to its clipped precision, “But before I could get to anything of substance, Castor seemed to—” she hesitated, as if the word itself was absurd, “—panic.”

 

Lucius lowered his book at last, brows knitting, “Panic? Over what? The boy works on a dragon reserve, surrounded by half-ton, fire-breathing lizards. What could possibly rattle him in the stable?”

 

Narcissa’s hands twisted together in the sheets, the movement almost uncharacteristically nervous, “Me.”

 

That pulled Lucius’ full attention. His tone sharpened, “You? We’ve already established that you’re the only reason he gave us a chance at all. Without you, he would have bolted the first week. Why on earth would he suddenly fear you?”

 

“I don’t know.” Her voice dropped, quieter now. “But if he does… it might explain why he hasn’t written to us. Did I—” she paused, eyes searching the bedspread as though it held the answer, “—do something during the Second Task? Something that might have seemed… wrong to him?”

 

Lucius considered her question, leaning back against the headboard. “I don’t believe so. But Castor’s mind…” he let out a slow breath through his nose, “it’s different. I can rarely follow his train of thought. And when I can, it’s rarely on the rails I expect.”

 

Narcissa’s gaze lingered on the flame of the candle between them, her thoughts turning inward. “He looked at me tonight,” she murmured, “as if he were trying to solve a puzzle and wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.”

 

Lucius’ fingers tapped the book cover, his mind working, “Then perhaps we must give him more pieces…”

 

888

 

“Your mother tells me you’re agreeable to visiting the reserve tomorrow?” Lucius inquired the next morning, his voice carrying that calm, assessing weight that made every question feel like an inspection.

 

“Yes,” Harry answered simply, spooning porridge dotted with pumble berries into his mouth. He kept his tone neutral, eyes fixed on his bowl rather than his father.

 

“You and Draco will be going alone,” Lucius continued. “Draco, I trust you understand that while your brother is there to work, you are expected to conduct yourself with the utmost decorum.”

 

“You’re not coming with us?” Draco asked—though his slip of excitement was too quick to hide.

 

Lucius’s gaze cooled instantly, “I mean it, Draconis. Your brother has earned his place there, and I will not have your antics undermining his efforts. If you cannot behave for his sake, you will not accompany him again.”

 

Draco raised his hands in exaggerated surrender, leaning back in his chair with a smirk, “What am I going to do? Steal a dragon?”

 

Castor huffed a small laugh despite himself, the sound short and quickly stifled.

 

Lucius, unmoved by his eldest’s theatrics, turned his gaze to the younger twin, “As for Mr. Nott’s visit—would you prefer an intimate afternoon with just the two of you, or shall we arrange a more formal family dinner? If you wish, we could extend the invitation to his parents as well.”

 

The word intimate might as well have been spelled in flames across the breakfast table. Heat rushed to Harry’s cheeks, and he fumbled his spoon before managing a faint, “H-his family can come… if they’d like.”

 

Narcissa’s eyes softened, though her voice remained carefully light, “I will send a note to them today.”

 

“Thank you,” Harry murmured, focusing intently on pushing the pumble berries around in his porridge rather than meeting anyone’s eyes.

 

Lucius’s attention lingered on his son, his gaze sharp but unreadable. He exchanged a subtle glance with Narcissa—a wordless reminder of the conversation they’d had last night. The boy would not volunteer what weighed on him. They would have to draw it out.

 

“Your mother and I,” Lucius said at last, his tone measured, “were hoping to speak with you privately after breakfast. In my office. It won’t take long.”

 

Draco immediately looked up, halfway through buttering a slice of toast, “Me too, right?”

 

Lucius shook his head once, “Not this time, Draconis.”

 

The clink of Harry’s spoon against the side of his bowl was the only sound in the room. He froze mid-bite, his posture tightening as though bracing for a blow.

 

Narcissa’s hand stilled on her teacup, “It’s nothing to be concerned about, darling. Just a conversation.”

 

Harry nodded mutely, though the tension in his shoulders did not ease. The air at the table had shifted—subtle, but enough that even Draco stopped smirking.

 

888

 

Breakfast ended in a muted rhythm, the soft chime of cutlery on porcelain tapering off as Draco excused himself with a casual wave and bounded upstairs. Harry lingered a moment, tracing the rim of his bowl with his spoon, pretending to focus on the last smear of pumble berry juice swirling in the milk.

 

Lucius pushed back his chair, the movement precise and measured. “Shall we?” he said, his pale gaze flicking between Narcissa and their youngest.

 

Narcissa rose gracefully, smoothing the front of her robes before falling in step beside Castor. Her hand brushed his arm—light, almost absent—but enough to guide him away from the dining table.

 

They moved together through the Manor’s east hall, their footsteps echoing faintly against the marble. The portraits seemed unusually attentive, eyes following them as though aware something significant was about to take place.Harry’s stomach tightened, though he kept his expression neutral.

 

Lucius led the way, his cane tapping an even rhythm on the floor. Narcissa’s presence softened the atmosphere slightly, but there was still a weight to the walk, a sense of inevitability.

 

When they reached the tall double doors of Lucius’s office, he held them open for both of them to pass through. Inside, the air smelled faintly of parchment and clove polish. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting the room in a warm but subdued light.

 

Lucius closed the door with a quiet click, moving to his desk but not yet sitting. Narcissa settled gracefully on the settee opposite, her eyes steady on her son.

 

“There are matters,” Lucius began, his voice smooth but edged with an unyielding seriousness. He rested both hands on the carved serpent heads of his desk, pale fingers curling slightly against the polished wood. “Matters your mother and I feel can no longer be left unspoken.”

 

Narcissa’s gaze didn’t waver from her son. Her tone, though gentler, carried the same resolve, “And we would prefer to speak plainly, without interruption—just the three of us.”

 

Harry’s leg began to bounce before he could stop it, the nervous motion betraying him. “About… what exactly?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

 

“Everything,” Lucius said, the word landing with finality. He straightened, his posture a careful blend of authority and restraint. “When you first returned to us, we chose to give you space—time to adjust. And for a while, it seemed to work. You began to relax here, to… engage. But recently, you’ve withdrawn again. You’ve grown evasive, watchful, and—” his pale eyes narrowed slightly, “—almost fearful. Of me, that is not unexpected, given our… history. But you have begun to show the same guardedness with your mother, and that, Castor, is cause for concern.”

 

Narcissa’s hands folded neatly in her lap, but there was nothing idle about her posture. Her eyes were fixed on him, “We are long past pleasantries, darling. If there is something unspoken festering between us, it will poison what we’re trying to build. We have every intention of being completely honest with you today—about ourselves and our choices.”

 

Her voice gentled, though the steel beneath it never wavered, “And we would like—no, we expect—you to be honest in return. No deflections. No pretenses. If you are hurt, say so. If you are angry, say so.”

 

Lucius leaned forward slightly, hands resting on the carved serpent heads of his desk, his gaze like a blade honing in on the smallest flicker of reaction. “So,” he said softly, “would you like to begin by asking us something… or shall we go first?”

 

Harry swallowed, throat tight. Every instinct screamed at him to retreat behind vague answers, to keep them guessing. Clearly, he wasn’t as convincing as he thought—if they’d noticed the shift in him this quickly. They were fishing because they didn’t know. That much was obvious. And if they didn’t know… then he still had the advantage of silence.

 

He decided he’d give them direct answers when pressed, but nothing freely. If he could navigate this without spilling the bigger truths—without giving them weapons to use later—he would.

 

The problem was what to say first. He wasn’t about to bring up Voldemort and hand Lucius an invitation to interrogate him. So instead, he reached for the most evasive question he could manage, “What am I meant to ask you?”

 

Lucius exhaled through his nose, the sound halfway between a sigh and a chuckle without humor, “How about I simply begin telling you what you should know, and you may ask whatever questions you like along the way? In return, I expect equal transparency.”

 

Harry said nothing, merely gave a short nod.

 

Lucius’s expression settled into something almost formal, as though delivering a lecture in court, “I once told you that your grandfather was a major supporter of the Dark Lord. Your mother’s family was the same. The majority of the Blacks were as devoted to the Dark Arts as the Malfoys ever were. We both grew up surrounded by it—not merely as a branch of magic, but as a cultural inheritance.”

 

Narcissa’s voice joined his, calm but with a thread of warning, “People will tell you the Dark Arts are evil in their very nature. That is not entirely true.”

 

Lucius inclined his head in agreement, his tone calm but edged with conviction.

“The most destructive and vicious spells do fall under that category, yes. And I will not deny that there are more tools for cruelty in that branch than in any other. But it also contains the most potent magic for preservation, for protection, for creation—if one has the discipline and the will to master it. It is not the category of the magic that determines guilt, Castor. It is the intent of the one wielding it.”

 

Harry stared at him, hardly believing what he was hearing. “But you’ve done bad things with it,” he said bluntly, no softness in his tone.

 

Lucius inclined his head once more, unflinching, “Yes. I have. But so did everyone. You have to remember, Castor—it was war. I may have joined the cause because my father expected it of me, but that does not mean I do not believe in the Dark Lord’s ideals.”

 

Harry’s mouth twisted, “Yes, you’ve made it clear that you hate Muggles and Muggleborns.”

 

Lucius gave a dismissive scoff, “There was far more to the war than blood status. As with most wars in our history, it was about power. Always about power. That is something you must understand about our world, no matter how new to it you still feel—power is everything. And you, Castor, have it.”

 

The words made Harry shiver. Voldemort had told him something eerily similar in his first year, while trying to lure him to his side. His glare sharpened, “You’re basically quoting Voldemort.”

 

Lucius seemed faintly surprised at the accusation, but recovered quickly, shaking his head, “That is because it happens to be true. The Dark Lord was at school with your grandfather. My father was a fews years ahead of him, in fact. Even as a student, he was making waves. The older years recognised his potential and took him under their wing, but his power soon outstripped theirs, and they gave their allegiance to him instead.

 

“After Hogwarts, he travelled widely, studying magic across the world. What he discovered was… humbling. Other countries were more magically advanced than Britain. Why? Because the Dark Arts had never been banned there. When he returned, he sought to bring that knowledge to Hogwarts. He even applied for a teaching position. But Dumbledore stood in his way. You see, the Dark Arts were never banned here because they were ‘evil’—that is a convenient fiction. They were banned because of Muggleborns.

 

“The so-called ‘Pureblood Supremacy’ you hear so much about has its roots in this: certain forms of Dark magic can be strengthened and passed down through bloodlines. Pureblood lines therefore held a natural advantage. It is not prejudice, Castor—it is a fact. In the Dark Arts, a Pureblood will always have greater potential than a Muggleborn.”

 

Harry’s jaw clenched, “You sound like you’re reciting a recruitment speech.”

 

Lucius ignored him and continued, voice smooth as silk, “Dumbledore decided that since Muggleborns could never truly match Purebloods in that discipline, the subject should no longer be taught at Hogwarts at all. As both Headmaster and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, he had the power to make it so. By the time my generation began school, the Dark Arts were already stripped from the curriculum. Our parents taught us at home, while we endured an education of purely light and neutral magic at school. It was not ideal, but it was manageable… until Dumbledore took it one step further.”

 

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, “None of this makes sense.”

 

Lucius gave a small, almost humourless smile, “I agree. But the justification he gave was this: if Muggleborns were not taught the Dark Arts at all, the magic would never enter their bloodlines. And without it, they—and their descendants—would remain at a permanent disadvantage against Purebloods. His answer, therefore, was to deny everyone access to that branch of magic, thereby levelling the field by… eradicating the advantage entirely.”

 

Harry frowned deeply, “And that outraged people?”

 

Lucius’s eyes sharpened, “Naturally. Pureblood families—along with many Half-bloods—saw it for what it was: an act of deliberate magical impoverishment. If the Muggleborns simply practised the Dark Arts and married within the right circles, their descendants could one day be Purebloods themselves.”

 

Harry looked genuinely puzzled, “How does that even work?”

 

“Everybody has a Muggle somewhere in their family tree, Castor. What determines blood status is how many generations back that Muggle ancestor lies. For a family to hold the title of Pureblood, their magical lineage must stretch twenty-eight generations without interruption. It is not an easy feat, but every Pureblood family has achieved it, and it has always been considered a mark of great prestige—along with the exceptional magical strength that comes with it.”

 

“If everyone starts from Muggle lines, then why are Purebloods so cruel to Muggleborns? Why go around calling them ‘Mudbloods’?” Harry demanded, glaring.

 

Lucius’s expression cooled, though he did not look offended so much as faintly weary, “Because the term ‘Mudblood’ does not mean what you think it does. It is not merely an insult flung at all Muggleborns—it is far more specific. Historically, it referred to Muggleborns who entered the wizarding world, learned our ways, and then chose to reject them in favour of returning to Muggle life. In doing so, they brought heightened risks of exposure to our kind.”

 

Harry frowned, “So it’s not just… bigotry?”

 

Lucius arched a brow, “The word is often misused, yes, and in modern times it has devolved into a vulgar slur. But its original meaning was tied to a genuine concern. Those who returned to the Muggle world were more likely to marry Muggles. This diluted the magic within their bloodline, keeping their family magic weak—‘muddy,’ if you will—rather than allowing it to strengthen over generations. Once upon a time, such cases were rare. Now, it happens with troubling frequency.”

 

Harry crossed his arms, “So you’re saying the insult started as a warning?”

 

“In a way,” Lucius allowed. “It was once a cautionary term, used to highlight those who endangered both their own magic and our secrecy. But language changes, Castor. In war, words are sharpened into weapons. The Dark Lord’s followers—and others—took an old, pointed term and began applying it indiscriminately to all Muggleborns. Cruelty replaced meaning. It was not… honourable, but such is the way of conflict.”

 

Harry considered this, his glare softening into something more guarded, “And you use it?”

 

Lucius did not flinch, “At times. As I said before—war makes hypocrites of us all.”

 

There was a long silence between them, the air weighted with truths Harry wasn’t sure he wanted. Part of him wanted to reject everything Lucius was saying outright, to shove it into the same mental corner where he kept all the other justifications for cruelty he’d ever heard. But another part—stubborn, questioning—filed it away for later.

 

“Still doesn’t mean I’ll ever say it,” Harry muttered.

 

“Nor would I expect you to,” Lucius replied smoothly, though a faint flicker of approval crossed his eyes, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

 

Harry bit his lip, unsure if he should believe him, “Are there books about this in the library?”

 

“I doubt you’ll find anything in Hogwarts’,” Lucius said. “But there are plenty in our own collection. Help yourself—just be certain Dumbledore doesn’t see you with one.”

 

Harry turned that over in his mind. If Lucius was telling the truth, it upended everything he thought he knew about the war. And if it was so easily provable—as Lucius claimed—then it likely wasn’t a lie. Which meant, perhaps, it was his turn to give a truth in return.

 

“So,” Harry said abruptly, “is that why you ran straight back to Voldemort the moment I gave you a way to?”

 

Both Malfoys startled. Neither had expected the shift in topic.

 

Lucius’s brow furrowed. “How do—?” He stopped, realization dawning, “You saw the meeting.” His voice dropped, the sudden understanding almost knocking the air from him, “Of course. You would have a vision of that exact moment…”

 

Narcissa’s hand flew to her mouth, “That’s what’s been troubling you…”

 

Harry’s glare was cold, “Yes. I gave you a chance to help me, and you ran straight back to the man who’s tried to kill me—over and over!”

 

Lucius shook his head, “It is not what you think, Castor. I am helping you.”

 

“I will never join Voldemort.”

 

“I know.”

 

That answer caught Harry off guard.

 

At his son’s silence, Lucius went on, his tone measured, almost lecturing.

“The Dark Lord did not begin the war by just hunting Muggleborns. He first fought politically against Dumbledore but with Dumbledore monopolizing so many key positions, there was no space left for other voices. No compromise. That was when the war began in earnest.

 

“For generations, our families have poured magic and sacrifice into strengthening our lines. Some married for blood rather than affection. Others raised children they never wanted—all for the sake of the family’s magical inheritance. And suddenly, it felt as though all that sacrifice was under siege. Half-blood families who had worked their way, generation after generation, toward pureblood status saw those efforts stripped away.

 

“People rallied to the Dark Lord because he promised to protect what they’d built from being erased. He is dangerous, yes—cruel, often—but he knows the worth of all wizarding blood. He does not seek genocide. He seeks freedom for our people. Safety. Stability. If you do not threaten him, he has no reason to harm you.”

 

“You said you would bring me to him!” Harry snapped.

 

Lucius’s expression was unflinching, “He wants to understand what happened the night he failed to kill you. He wants to know the nature of your connection. But he will not hurt you.”

 

Harry’s voice rose, “What makes you so sure?!”

 

“Because his vow is still in effect—so long as I remain in his service.”

 

Harry frowned, “What?”

 

“When you were taken, I confronted the Dark Lord,” Lucius said. “You were gone—we had no other suspects anymore—and everyone assumed it was his doing. Rather than kill me for the accusation, he swore a magically binding vow: that he had not, and would not, harm any of my children unless they struck at him first. It is a vow of command, made from leader to subordinate. As long as I continue to support him, that vow holds.

 

“And it has… constrained him. Each time he has come for you, it has cost him. He cannot kill you outright—not until you make the first move. That protection is mine to maintain… and mine to lose.”

 

Harry didn’t know what to say. His throat felt tight, and for a moment, he could only glance toward his mother, silently asking if this was true. Narcissa met his gaze without flinching and inclined her head in a slow, deliberate nod.

 

“And we have no intention of ever allowing you to strike at the Dark Lord first,” she said, her tone soft but unwavering. “With the path you’ve chosen for yourself, there is no need. You will finish your schooling, and when you are ready, you will go to Romania. There, you will be far from any storm that might break over Britain. You will have your dragons, your work… your peace. You might even marry—perhaps young Mr. Nott—” her mouth curved faintly, “—and perhaps the two of you will blood-adopt a few creature-obsessed children to carry on your legacy.” Her eyes turned wistful, her voice briefly losing its steel as she indulged the vision.

 

“I know this is not the life you might have imagined, Castor,” she went on, “but it is the only future in which we see you safe. That matters more than anything else. You are not a natural soldier. While you have the power—enough to win, if pressed—I will not risk that at the expense of your soul. There is more light in you than most could believe, especially considering how deep your dark magic runs. That balance is rare. Precious. And I will not see it destroyed by the filth and cruelty of war.

 

“If it comes to it, I will lock you in the dungeons myself to keep you safe,” she said, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across her lips. “Though, of course, I would have them refitted with every comfort you could want. Down to the plaid blanket.”

 

Lucius nodded in agreement and continued, “Your brother on the other hand… when he comes of age, his path will be his own to choose. If he wishes to follow in the family tradition, I will not stop him, though I will worry for him as any father would. But you, Castor—” his eyes shifted to Harry, sharp and unyielding “—your place is not on a battlefield. Your future lies elsewhere, and I will see to it that it stays that way.”

 

Lucius leaned forward slightly, as though trying to impress every word deep into Harry’s mind, “We know you will have no desire to stand before the Dark Lord, but if a few minutes in his presence secures his vow, it may be the very thing that spares you from his attention entirely. If it stops him from finding a way to bend his oath, I would see it done.”

 

Narcissa’s voice, trembling with the restraint of someone who has been holding back fear for too long, slipped in like silk fraying at the edges, “We cannot bear to lose you again, sweetheart. Not after all these years.”

 

Harry’s jaw clenched. The lump in his throat made his voice come out sharper than intended. “If I go through with this, I’ll just be leaving you behind to fight a war without me,” his breath hitched—half frustration, half desperation, “How is that any different? You’ll still be in danger, still in his path. I can’t just hide while you—”

 

“That,” Lucius cut across firmly, his tone like a gavel striking, “is what we chose long before you were born. This was never meant to be your burden. The blame lies entirely on Dumbledore and Sirius Black. They are the ones who waged war against us. Black is the one who took you from us. And you—” his voice tightened with something raw, almost breaking through the polished mask “—you are the light worst victim of all. You have already suffered more than any child should endure. You have carried more than your share of pain. You do not need to carry this war as well.”

 

Castor felt the air leave his lungs all at once, as if Lucius’s words had driven the breath from him like a physical blow. The truth in them pressed down on his chest, suffocating in its weight, yet the thought of standing aside—of watching from the safety they promised while others bled and fought—was its own kind of agony.

 

He dragged in a shaky breath, but it wasn’t enough. Every word seemed to echo in his head, fitting together too neatly to be a trap. For once, he almost wished he could convince himself they were manipulating him, that there was some ulterior motive he could fight against. But there wasn’t. This was real.

 

They were offering him everything he had craved over the past few months—freedom from the endless fear, release from the gnawing pain, the promise of a future he’d dared not imagine. And they were offering it without conditions. No impossible tasks. No sacrifices demanded. Just… a life.

 

The fear, the relief, the love—they collided all at once, too much to hold. His pulse thundered in his ears, his tears warm and unrelenting as they traced the curve of his cheek. He felt every beat of his heart, heavy and alive.

 

Then his mother’s arms were around him, soft and unyielding at the same time, pulling him in as if she could anchor him to this moment by sheer will alone. The scent of her perfume, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the quiet hum of reassurance against his hair—it was all too much, and yet not enough.

 

Lucius’s presence hovered at his side, a silent pillar, and  there was no judgment in his eyes—only the fierce, uncompromising resolve of a father who would burn the world to keep his son safe.

Notes:

I’m really sorry for the gap in posts—I usually share something every day, but it’s been a bit hectic lately. Since quitting my main job, I’ve been doing some dog sitting alongside my much less frequent work. Normally, that wouldn’t interfere with writing; in fact, it often gives me more time since I’m just hanging out at their homes with my laptop.

But this weekend, a massive thunderstorm caused the basement to flood while the owners were halfway across the country. So I ended up spending the entire weekend shop-vacuuming the basement between my 8-hour shifts.

Now that I’m back home and have a week off, I finally managed to pull this together. Please let me know if anything feels off—I’m still pretty exhausted. :P

Chapter 61: Chapter 61

Chapter 61

 

Once Castor’s breathing had steadied and the storm of emotions had ebbed to something he could stand upright under, his parents guided him through the hushed corridors of the Manor. They led him to the library, its high shelves looming like sentinels, the faint scent of aged parchment and polished wood curling through the air.

 

Together, they pulled down volume after volume—histories, memoirs, and treatises—that delved into the truths they had just shared with him. The spines were heavy with dust and time, their pages thick with the weight of voices long gone. Each book promised to fill in the fractures of the story he had been told his entire life.

 

Lucius, with a rare glint of something almost conspiratorial in his eye, beckoned him deeper into the room. He pressed his palm to a carved panel along the far wall, revealing a narrow alcove hidden in the shadows. From within, he retrieved a slim, leather-bound journal.

 

“This,” Lucius said quietly, handing it to him with a kind of reverence, “belonged to your grandfather, Abraxas.”

 

The pages were lined with meticulous, flowing script—Abraxas’s own record of the years before the First War, when Dumbledore and the Ministry had begun reshaping the political order, forcing changes that had driven Voldemort to turn an ideological battle into a bloody one. It told of the Death Eaters’ origins not in faceless malice, but in a fractured society, one choice and one consequence at a time.

 

“This one doesn’t leave the library,” Lucius warned, and Castor only nodded. It was the first book he reached for.

 

He settled into his chair—the one beneath the tall, arched window where the light always pooled just right in the afternoons. Tucking his legs beneath him, the soft creak of the chair’s cushions was the only sound as he began to read.

 

888

 

“Castor! Wake up! We’re going to the reserve!”

 

Draco’s voice came with an impatient rhythm of fists against the door, the rapid-fire pounding more reminiscent of an overexcited toddler than a fourth-year Slytherin.

 

Castor groaned into his pillow, dragging himself upright with all the enthusiasm of someone rising from the grave. He pulled on his work gear piece by piece, boots thudding softly on the rug, and slung his bag over one shoulder before trudging downstairs.

 

The smell of tea, buttered toast, and something rich and spiced greeted him before he even reached the dining room.

 

“Morning,” he mumbled as he slipped into his chair—the last to arrive at the table.

 

“About time you got up,” Draco said with a dramatic roll of his eyes, butter knife poised like an accusing finger.

 

Castor shot him an unimpressed look, dropping into his seat, “We’re taking my portkey, Draco. It doesn’t matter what time we leave.”

 

“Yes, but I want to see dragons. Don’t you?” Draco leaned forward like that was a winning argument.

 

“I’ll still see them, whether or not I inhale breakfast in thirty seconds,” Castor replied, reaching for the teapot.

 

“Just remember to be on your best behaviour for your brother, Draco,” Narcissa said in her light, warning tone—the one that could still silence both of them in an instant.

 

Draco pouted theatrically, “You make it sound like he’s the big brother here.”

 

“Only when he acts more mature than you,” Narcissa said, arching one perfectly shaped brow.

 

Draco’s mouth opened for a retort, but whatever comeback he had died when Castor hid a smirk behind his teacup.

 

Choosing to move on, Narcissa turned her attention back to her youngest. “You’re feeling better today?”

 

Castor nodded, setting his cup down. “Yeah. I just stayed up rather late reading. Needed a bit of a lie-in—but, of course, Draco would never allow that.”

 

“You can sleep when we get back,” Draco cut in eagerly. “I want to draw the baby dragons.”

 

Castor didn’t bother dignifying that with a response.

 

Lucius, unbothered by the interruption, said evenly, “If you need help understanding anything in those books, you may come to either myself or your mother. Some of those texts… require context.”

 

“I know,” Castor said, giving a small nod before finally digging into his breakfast. The food vanished from his plate faster than he intended—not because he was starving, but because Draco kept throwing him impatient looks the moment his own plate was empty.

 

When they finished, the family exchanged a brief goodbye, and Lucius and Narcissa followed the boys outside. The air was crisp, carrying that faint winter brightness that made the frost sparkle across the lawns.

 

“Enjoy yourselves,” Narcissa said, pulling her cloak tighter as she watched them take their places around the portkey.

 

A swirl of colour and pressure later, Castor landed in a now-familiar clearing, boots crunching on the frosted grass. Overhead, Norberta circled in the air, her massive wings pushing gusts of wind down through the trees. The chain on her collar gave her space to wheel lazily in the pale morning light, the sun flashing gold over her scales.

 

Castor couldn’t help smiling, warmth blooming in his chest. He took off down the path at a run, the cold air biting his cheeks, while Draco followed at a much slower, almost dignified pace—more a waltz than a walk.

 

The moment he stepped into view of the main yard, Jo spotted him. She broke into a grin and waved energetically, her gloved hand catching the light.

 

“Hey, kid!” she called.

 

Others turned at her greeting.

“Welcome back!”

“The dragons are going to be so excited!”

 

Castor’s grin widened. This place—the people, the dragons, the work—it all felt right.

 

Dane and Charlie must have been finishing up their breakfast rounds, because Harry spotted them coming up the path with a small group of handlers, the faint scent of singed leather and cooked meat clinging to the air around them.

 

Catching Charlie’s eye, Castor broke into a jog, boots crunching against the frost-stiffened ground. The redhead’s face split into a wide grin.

“Castor! Great to see ya! Thanks for coming!” Charlie greeted, reaching out with one calloused, soot-streaked hand to ruffle his blond hair.

 

Castor laughed and ducked back, swatting at his hand. “Oi! I just brushed it, you menace.”

 

Charlie only smirked, leaving a faint trail of ash behind in the boy’s hair.

 

“Always happy to be here,” Castor continued, grin softening. “I think I’ll check on Jasmin first—spend some time with her, see how she’s doing. Then I’ll make the lunchtime snack rounds to say hello to everyone, and after that, supper rounds.”

 

Dane gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Always so eager. I like it. Just don’t run yourself ragged, kid.”

 

“I’ll be fine,” Castor replied with an easy smile. “I just… I’m happy to see everyone. I can’t wait until I graduate.”

 

Charlie patted his shoulder in that big-brother way of his, his eyes warm but tinged with a quiet sort of caution. “Don’t rush to grow up, kid. There’s plenty of time for that.” He tipped his head toward the nesting grounds. “Come on, let’s go see your girls. Jasmin’s boys have been thriving—don’t spook around the handlers like most hatchlings do. We think it’s because of you. Maybe Jasmin told them we’re safe.”

 

Castor’s heart gave a small, surprised twist. “Really?”

 

“Really,” Charlie nodded, “The pair are actually pretty playful… but also mischievous as anything. I’ve started calling them Gred and Forge.”

 

Castor choked on a laugh, nearly doubling over, “Merlin—don’t tell the twins, they’ll take it as a personal challenge to live up to the names.”

 

Charlie grinned wolfishly, “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

 

Dane’s quiet chuckle followed them as they made their way toward the Fireball’s den. The air gradually shifted, growing warmer with each step, carrying with it the mingled scents of scorched stone, warm earth, and the faint tang of charred meat. Low, resonant rumbles from the dragons echoed across the grounds, some like distant thunder, others sharp enough to vibrate in Castor’s chest. Somewhere ahead, he caught the bright, high-pitched chirring of young voices—lighter, more eager—and his lips curved into an involuntary smile.

 

Unable to contain himself, Castor quickened his pace, then broke into a run, darting past a few of the larger dragons lounging in their pens. “I’ll visit in a little bit!” he called over his shoulder, grinning and waving as he went, “I just want to check on the Fireball first!”

 

The handlers he passed smirked knowingly; it wasn’t the first time they’d seen the boy tear across the reserve like that.

 

As the nesting enclosure came into view, Castor slowed to a halt, his breath catching for reasons that had nothing to do with the run. The scene before him was… perfect.

 

Jasmin lay curled in her nest, her great, burnished-gold scales gleaming under the sun. Her long, graceful neck rested on the lip of the nest, and her eyes—liquid amber, calm and watchful—followed the antics of the two young dragons tumbling and pouncing in front of her. They chirped and squeaked, wings flapping clumsily as they wrestled, their talons kicking up small clouds of straw and ash. Every so often, Jasmin let out a soft, approving rumble, the kind only a proud mother could make.

 

Castor felt something loosen in his chest at the sight—relief, joy, and a quiet gratitude that she seemed… okay. Better than she had been.

 

“Merlin’s beard,” Charlie murmured behind him, smiling faintly, “They’re growing every day.”

 

One of the hatchlings spotted Castor then, pausing mid-wrestle to fix him with a curious golden eye. With an excited chirp, it bounded toward him on awkward, overlarge feet, wings flaring for balance.

 

The little Fireball skidded to a stop a few feet from him, tail lashing in quick, jerky movements. Its sibling, not about to be left behind, scrambled after it—half-tumbling, half-flying in a chaotic dash until it barreled into the first with a squawk.

 

Castor crouched down slowly, careful not to startle them, though he could already feel their excitement buzzing in the air like static. “Well, hello, troublemakers,” he murmured, grinning.

 

Both hatchlings answered with a chorus of chirps and huffs, their heads bobbing curiously as they edged closer. One sniffed at his boot before giving it an experimental nibble, tiny teeth scraping harmlessly against the leather. The other decided his robes were far more interesting, grabbing the hem in its mouth and giving it a triumphant tug.

 

Behind them, Jasmin rumbled in what could only be interpreted as indulgent amusement.

 

“Oi, you’re gonna ruin those,” Charlie said, though his voice carried no real scolding. “And you’re proving me right, by the way—mischievous little gremlins.”

 

“They’re perfect,” Castor said, voice soft but steady. He reached out a hand, letting the bolder of the two sniff his fingers before rubbing the delicate ridge between its eyes. A wave of warmth spread through him when the hatchling leaned into the touch without hesitation.

 

Dane folded his arms, watching the scene with an approving smirk, “Looks like you’ve been adopted, kid.”

 

Castor didn’t argue.

 

The hatchling nipped lightly at his fingers, then turned and bounded a few steps toward Jasmin before looking back as if to beckon him along. It was an invitation he had no intention of refusing.

 

Castor followed the hatchling back to the nest, lowering himself to sit cross-legged a respectful distance from Jasmin’s massive foreclaws. She shifted slightly to make room, her great golden eyes watching him with that slow, deliberate blink that had always felt like trust.

 

The bolder hatchling scrambled up onto her foreleg while its sibling curled beside her flank, making a noise somewhere between a sigh and a purr. Jasmin’s tail curled loosely around both of them, protective but relaxed.

 

For a moment, Castor just sat there, letting the warmth of her body seep into his bones, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing. It was hard not to think of the last time he’d seen her like this—when her eyes had been clouded with grief, her movements restless and sharp. She had barely let anyone near the unhatched eggs, refusing food for days.

 

Now… she was calm. Not whole—he doubted she’d ever forget what she’d lost—but there was a peace here, a quiet acceptance.

 

“They are amazing,” he said softly, resting a hand against her scaled forearm. Her muscles flexed briefly under his touch, then eased.

 

One of the hatchlings stretched its neck out and sniffed his face before giving his cheek a warm, ticklish huff. Castor laughed under his breath, his throat tight.

 

Dane, standing a few steps away, didn’t say anything, but Castor caught the approving glint in his eyes. Charlie simply grinned like he’d known all along that Jasmin’s recovery would come, given time and care.

 

Eventually, Castor stood, brushing stray bits of hay and scale dust from his robes. “I’ll come back with food for them later,” he promised Jasmin, giving her a final pat. She blinked slowly in response.

 

And then, with one last fond look, he turned to start his rounds.

 

888

 

After the supper rounds, Charlie caught up to the Malfoy twins and, with his usual easy grin, invited them to join the handlers for a bonfire. Castor didn’t hesitate to agree, and soon the group was gathered under the darkening sky, the crackle of flames and scent of woodsmoke wrapping the clearing in a cozy warmth.

 

The fire cast shifting light over the handlers’ faces as they traded jokes, swapped stories, and occasionally burst into loud, contagious laughter. Someone passed around mugs of spiced cider, and the air was thick with the scent of roasting marshmallows. Castor relaxed into it easily, laughing at some of the wilder tales from the reserve—like the one about a Norwegian Ridgeback that had learned how to steal entire buckets of meat without being spotted.

 

Draco, however, remained unusually quiet. He sat slightly apart, expression polite but reserved, hands folded neatly on his knees. Castor assumed it was because his twin was used to a more refined sort of gathering—fewer dirty jokes and more wine glasses—and perhaps he was trying to uphold their parents’ request to be on his best behaviour.

 

As the crowd began to thin, handlers drifting away in twos and threes toward their tents, Charlie settled into the empty seat beside Castor, his face lit orange by the dying flames.

 

Without preamble, he reached into his coat and produced a large Easter egg, holding it out with a sheepish smile.

 

“Mum sent this for you,” he said. “She’s been worried you might hate the lot of us after… y’know, what happened with Ron. But she still cares about you. Even with everything that’s changed. Ron didn’t bother going home for the holidays—still sulking—but he’ll be grounded all summer.”

 

Castor turned the egg over in his hands.

“It’s not that I hate your family,” he said finally, “It’s just… easier to keep my distance right now. You’re different, since we’re so far away from Hogwarts. It’s not like Ron’s going to walk in and see us together. But I don’t want to put the twins—or even Ginny—in a bad spot if Ron decides he doesn’t like it.”

 

He stared into the fire for a moment before adding, “I’m just… giving him—and myself—space. Since I’m not in the tower anymore, I mostly keep out of the way. The only Gryffindors I still really talk to are Hermione and Neville… Well, and a couple of the girls who ask about Valentin, but that’s about it.”

 

Charlie nodded slowly, absently prodding at the glowing logs with a stick until a shower of sparks rose into the night air, “Fair enough,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, the easy humor of earlier replaced with something more thoughtful. “But… if you ever want to write to Mum, I think she’d like that. She worries more than she lets on.”

 

Castor gave a small nod, “I’ll send her a thank-you letter when I get back,” he promised, his tone sincere. “She didn’t have to send anything, but… it means a lot.”

 

Before Charlie could reply, Draco rose abruptly from his seat, brushing nonexistent ash from his robes.

“I think I’ll turn in for the night,” he said, his voice clipped in a way that didn’t quite match the relaxed setting. Without waiting for anyone to respond, he gave a polite nod to the group and walked away toward their tent, his figure quickly swallowed by the shadows beyond the firelight.

 

Charlie and Castor exchanged a glance, both wearing matching frowns. “Was it something we said?” Charlie asked under his breath.

 

Castor shrugged, eyes still on the dark where Draco had disappeared, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

 

888

 

Castor enjoyed the rest of his stay at the reserve, though the same could not be said for his twin. Draco never seemed to shake whatever sour mood had settled over him since that first night. While Castor spent his days tending dragons and chatting with the handlers, Draco kept mostly to himself, sketchbook in hand, seated apart from the bustle. His pencil rarely paused, but his conversation had all but vanished.

 

It wasn’t until they portkeyed back to the manor that the matter was even acknowledged—if only indirectly.

 

Their parents were waiting in the front hall when they arrived, the air rich with the familiar scent of polished wood and fresh flowers. Lucius and Narcissa greeted them warmly, but before any real conversation could begin, Draco excused himself, claiming exhaustion. His tone was polite but final, and without a backward glance he ascended the stairs, disappearing toward his room.

 

As the echo of his footsteps faded, their parents turned to Castor with matching, subtle frowns.

 

“You would think he was the one working these past days rather than drawing and resting,” Lucius remarked, his words carrying the weight of an observation rather than a question—though Castor felt compelled to answer anyway.

 

“He’s been… off since the first night,” Castor admitted. “We were at a bonfire, and he’d been quiet all evening. I figured he was just trying to be polite, you know, since most of the handlers aren’t exactly his crowd. But then, right in the middle of a conversation with Charlie, he just—stormed off. Has hardly looked at me since.” He hesitated, frowning. “I think maybe I said something he didn’t like, but I can’t imagine what.”

 

Narcissa rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, her expression calm but knowing.

“You know Draco can be a bit… dramatic, Castor. I’ll speak with him. I’m sure it will pass. Why don’t you head upstairs and get cleaned up? You’ve eaten, yes?”

 

Castor nodded.

 

“Good,” she said, her voice softening into something final. “Go on, then.”

 

888

 

They allowed Castor just enough time to reach his own room before making their way down the quiet corridor toward the family wing. The plush carpets muffled their steps, and the flicker of enchanted sconces painted warm gold across the paneled walls. When they reached Draco’s door, the faint scrape of paper and the clink of metal from within betrayed that he was unpacking.

 

Inside, Draco stood beside his desk, methodically removing sketchbooks and charcoals from his satchel and arranging them with the same precision he always applied to his art supplies. At their knock, he glanced up briefly before resuming his task.

 

“Everything all right, darling?” Narcissa asked, her voice warm but carefully measured.

 

“I swear I was polite the whole time,” Draco said quickly, almost as if bracing himself for an accusation.

 

“We know,” Narcissa assured him. “Castor said as much. But… he also believes he’s somehow upset you.”

 

Draco’s hands froze mid-movement, and a shadow crossed his expression.

“I just thought he was done with those bloody redheads,” he said, the contempt in his tone sharp and unguarded. “Of course I knew he’d still have to work with the one, but now he’s planning on writing letters to the broodmare and chatting with the rest of that brood—aside from the one. He’s… trying to go back to that family again.”

 

His jaw tightened, “The woman even sent him a present when she can barely afford them for her own children.”

 

Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a brief look—silent, but heavy with understanding. Narcissa’s brows smoothed into something almost pitying, while Lucius’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a cool glint flickering there. Neither corrected Draco immediately; instead, Narcissa stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, as though deciding her next words with care.

 

“Draco,” Narcissa began softly, her fingers still resting on his shoulder, “you know as well as I do that your brother’s past is not something he can simply lock away and pretend never happened. He isn’t going back to them. He’s simply… acknowledging a kindness. That is not the same as returning to a life he’s left behind.”

 

Draco’s gaze flicked toward her, lips pressing into a thin line, “It feels the same to me.”

 

“That,” she said, her tone still patient but edged with truth, “is your feeling. Not necessarily his intention.”

 

Lucius, silent at the edge of the room, regarded his eldest son with the same cool attention he might give to a delicate chess match. “Perception,” he murmured, “can be a dangerous thing when it hardens into assumption.”

 

Draco looked down at his desk, fingers tightening around a pencil until his knuckles whitened, “I just… I thought we were enough for him now. That he wouldn’t need them anymore.”

 

Narcissa’s touch lingered for a heartbeat before she withdrew, smoothing an invisible crease in her sleeve. “We are enough,” she said gently, “But family—no matter how fractured—has a way of leaving shadows. Let him find his balance, Draco. If you hold too tightly, you risk pushing him away.”

 

Lucius’s gaze lingered on Draco for a moment longer, cool and unreadable, before he gave a faint nod toward the door, “Rest. We will speak more of this later.”

 

As they left, Narcissa’s hand brushed Lucius’s arm in passing, a silent exchange between two parents who had read far more in their son’s words than he had intended to reveal.

 

They walked together down the quiet corridor to their private sitting room. Once inside, Narcissa shut the door with a soft click, then crossed to the sideboard to pour herself a small glass of wine. Lucius remained by the hearth, one hand resting on the mantel as he stared into the flames.

 

“He’s jealous,” Narcissa said plainly, taking a measured sip before lowering herself gracefully into one of the armchairs, “Not just of Castor’s time, but of his willingness to extend himself toward those he considers… unworthy.”

 

Lucius’s gaze shifted to her, sharp and assessing, “Jealousy and insecurity often wear the same face. In this case, I suspect both are at play.”

 

She let out a quiet breath, swirling the wine in her glass, “He’s terrified of losing him again, Lucius. He’d never admit it, but the bond they’ve rebuilt is still so new, so fragile in his mind. Any hint that Castor might be drawn back to the Potters circle-.”

 

“Feels like a betrayal to him,” Lucius finished smoothly.

 

Narcissa nodded, “He needs to understand that Castor’s politeness is not an open invitation for reunion.”

 

Lucius’s expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle shift in his stance—a narrowing of his eyes, a faint tilt of his head, “And yet, perhaps we should allow him to wrestle with that understanding himself. To interfere too directly may only deepen his resentment.”

 

“I agree,” Narcissa said, her tone thoughtful, “But we can guide him. Gently. A word here, a reminder there. Let him feel he has reached the conclusion on his own.”

 

Lucius gave a faint, approving smile—the kind that never fully reached his eyes. “Very well. Let us see how our sons manage the coming days. I suspect there will be more… opportunities for conversation.”

 

The fire crackled softly between them, and in the silence that followed, each was privately calculating just how much they could shape the outcome without either boy realizing they were being shaped at all.

Notes:

I was planning to post this tomorrow, but since it’s my birthday and I might forget, I went ahead and finished it tonight while dyeing my hair.

Also, I’ve written a new story summary after being told my old one didn’t capture just how wild this story really is. I’d love to know if this one is better—summaries have never been my strong suit.

Chapter 62

Chapter 62

 

Castor woke with a ripple of excitement that practically buzzed in his chest. Theo was coming today. Not until supper, but still—he was coming.

 

This visit felt different. It wasn’t just about seeing Theo; it was about meeting his family properly. They’d technically met before, at Hogwarts and during the New Years Ball. Tonight, though, would be different—warmer, less formal. A chance for them to meet him in his own skin, rather than as a polished Malfoy.

 

He wanted to make a good impression… but more importantly, he wanted to look like himself.

 

He padded across the room to the wardrobe Valentin had painstakingly curated for him. Pulling the doors open revealed a harmony of fabrics, cuts, and textures, arranged with obsessive precision—black and white dominating the palette, a reflection of Castor’s own tastes. That contrast had always drawn him in: the sharp meeting of dark and light, opposites pressed together until they complemented one another.

 

His fingers brushed over a particular pair of trousers—one leg a deep, inky black, the other a crisp, clean white. They had been his favorite the moment he’d first seen them in the catalog that day with Draco and his mum.

 

Smiling faintly at the memory, Castor scanned for a top that could meet the trousers halfway, something that balanced their drama without drowning it.

 

After a moment’s thought, he pulled out a fitted white shirt with a black collar and narrow black cuffs, the clean lines echoing the trousers’ split contrast. Crisp, sharp, and just a little dramatic.

 

After he got dressed, Castor stepped before the mirror, tilting his head in consideration. Simple, but deliberate. The kind of outfit that made a statement without a single unnecessary embellishment. Black and white from head to toe, clean and balanced, sharp edges meeting smooth lines. He didn’t look like he was trying to impress anyone. He looked like himself.

 

Satisfied he went to breakfast, but the day seemed to drag from there. He wandered between the library, the sitting room, and the greenhouse, trying to keep busy with a book or a change of scenery. Nothing held his attention for long. Every creak in the manor made him glance toward the door, every pop from the fire had him straightening in his chair.

 

By the time the clock chimed the hour before supper, he’d given up pretending he wasn’t just waiting.

 

The hour crawled, each minute stretching as if the universe itself had decided to test his patience. He ended up in the entrance hall far earlier than necessary, leaning casually against the banister as if he had simply happened to be there.

 

The air shifted before the Floo even flared—an almost imperceptible hum of magic, the quiet pull of anticipation in his chest. Then green fire roared to life in the grate, and Theo stepped out, brushing a bit of soot from his sleeve like he’d done it a hundred times before.

 

He was dressed in his own sort of understated elegance—dark grey trousers, a soft moss-green jumper, and a coat so perfectly tailored it looked like it had been made for him (and probably had). His hair was slightly mussed from travel, but his posture was as composed as ever.

 

Theo’s gaze flicked over Castor once, quick and deliberate, lingering for the briefest second before returning to his eyes. No verbal greeting—just a faint lift at the corner of his mouth that spoke volumes.

 

“You’re early,” Castor said, the words coming out lighter than he meant, though the subtle tremor in his tone betrayed the relief blooming in his chest.

 

“Am I?” Theo’s voice was mild, almost casual, but there was a thread of certainty woven through it—like he’d known exactly when Castor would be standing there, waiting.

 

“Yeah… but I’m glad you are,” heat rose to Castor’s cheeks before he could stop it, and he half-lifted his arms in a silent invitation for a hug—only to falter, pulling them back in uncertainty.

 

Theo didn’t let the hesitation stand. He stepped in, gathering Castor into the solid, unhurried warmth of his embrace, one arm settling around his back while the other hand came up to cradle the side of his head. Without a word, Theo dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to Castor’s forehead—an unspoken reassurance in the simplest of gestures.

 

Castor let himself melt into it for a moment, eyes closing briefly. It was only when the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall that they parted slightly, though Theo kept a hand on Castor’s shoulder as if reluctant to let go completely.

 

Through the still-glowing Floo stepped Theo’s mother, her presence immediately commanding the room with quiet authority. Following close behind were Alban and Calla. Theo’s grandfather’s gaze swept over the scene—cool, deliberate, and weighing—but there was no malice in it, only the measured assessment of a man used to reading people in an instant. His grandmother, by contrast, softened at the sight of Theo, her eyes warming like embers in a hearth as she stepped forward with the faintest incline of her head.

 

Selene’s lips curved into a faint smile, a knowing glimmer in her eyes, “I see you’ve already found each other,” she remarked, her tone poised and polite, yet carrying the undercurrent of someone who noticed far more than she said.

 

Castor instinctively straightened, feeling Theo’s steady hand still resting on his shoulder—a small anchor in the moment. He offered a polite greeting to each family member in turn, his words careful, his manner just shy of formal. Still, there was an awkwardness to it.

 

Before the silence had a chance to stretch into discomfort, Lucius and Narcissa swept into the room. The shift was immediate; greetings were exchanged, pleasantries passed between old acquaintances, and the subtle undercurrent of scrutiny on Castor eased as the adults’ attention shifted to one another.

 

Theo and Castor took the opportunity to slip into quieter conversation, voices low as they caught each other up on the small but important details they’d missed since last seeing one another. Primarily Castor’s time on the reserve and Theo’s time helping at the zoo.

 

It didn’t last long. Narcissa’s voice, smooth and firm, cut through the hum of conversation, “Boys, the dining room is ready.” She gestured gracefully toward the archway leading deeper into the manor.

 

Theo’s hand brushed against Castor’s back as they turned to follow her, the faintest of touches—too casual to be remarked upon, yet enough to make Castor’s heart skip before he schooled his expression into something appropriately neutral.

 

The group fell into an unspoken formation as they moved down the polished corridor toward the dining room. The air in the hallway felt just a little cooler, the faint echo of footsteps against marble adding a deliberate pace to the moment.

 

Theo’s grandparents walked with the unhurried grace of people who never needed to rush for anyone, their presence alone enough to command space. Selene matched her steps with Lucius, their conversation quiet but laced with the formality of old pure-blood ties being carefully tended. Narcissa walked slightly ahead of the boys, her posture flawless, a subtle guide toward the evening’s next act.

 

Castor, caught between Theo’s quiet, reassuring presence on one side and the awareness of eyes on his back from the other adults, tried to focus on the little things—the faint scent of polished wood, the warmth of Theo’s arm brushing his, the gleam of candle sconces reflecting off the panelled walls.

 

Theo leaned just close enough for his voice to reach Castor alone, “Breathe. They already like you more than most people.”

 

It drew the corner of Castor’s mouth into the faintest smile, a flicker of warmth that carried him through the wide double doors.

 

The dining room was an elegant expanse of gleaming wood and soft candlelight, the long table set with understated finery—expensive, but never gaudy. The arrangement of seats made the hierarchy clear: Lucius and Alban would preside at opposite ends, with the rest positioned to encourage both conversation and observation.

 

Castor was seated beside Theo, their chairs close enough that their shoulders brushed whenever either shifted. Across from them sat their mothers—Narcissa serene and poised, Selene with a quiet watchfulness that revealed far more than she said. When Draco entered moments later, he took his place without hesitation beside Lucius, the seat of the heir reserved for him alone.

 

Under the table, Castor slipped his hand into Theo’s. It was an anchor in the elegant, gleaming expanse of the dining room, and though neither of them spoke of it, the gesture steadied him. The first course was served with silent efficiency, the faint clink of silver against porcelain filling the brief lull before conversation resumed.

 

“So, Castor,” Alban began, his tone measured but not unkind, “how has your work on the reserve progressed?”

 

Castor’s expression brightened at once, relief softening his posture. “Incredible,” he answered honestly, “We’ve made so much progress. The dragons are beginning to understand that the reserve is meant for their safety, not their imprisonment. There hasn’t been a single attack on a handler in months.”

 

Alban’s head inclined slightly, a flicker of approval in his sharp eyes, “Impressive. And do you intend to continue in that line of work?”

 

“Yes,” Castor said quickly, without hesitation. “I’ve been developing some ideas—ways to give the dragons greater freedom without compromising their safety. I’d like to test them this summer. And if they succeed…” He hesitated, then pressed on, “…then I was thinking about traveling. Visiting other reserves, helping them reach the same balance we’re finding in Romania.”

 

“A noble goal,” Calla said, her voice softer than her husband’s but no less weighted. Her gaze lingered on him as if trying to measure the sincerity behind his words.

 

Lucius, who had remained silent thus far, set down his glass with a faint chime against the table. “Ambitious,” he drawled, though his eyes carried a glint of something that might have been pride—or caution, “Few at your age would dare to speak of reform, let alone attempt it.”

 

Draco, who had been turning his soup spoon idly in his hand, looked up then, his expression unreadable. “Ambition runs in the family,” he said coolly.

 

For a moment, silence stretched, as though everyone at the table weighed the meaning behind Draco’s words. Castor tightened his fingers slightly around Theo’s under the table, grounding himself before replying.

 

“I don’t see it as ambition,” he said carefully, but firmly. “I see it as responsibility. If I’ve been given the ability to help, I should.”

 

Narcissa’s lips curved faintly, pride flickering through her composure. “A sentiment your father and I can respect,” she said smoothly, and the current of tension eased—though not entirely.

 

The courses continued, the conversation weaving between polite formality and subtle tests. Castor could feel eyes on him, weighing not just his words but the way he carried them, and he knew this dinner was far more than a meal.

 

After dinner, Narcissa rose with her usual grace, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin before suggesting, “Why don’t you and Theodore take a walk, Castor? Some fresh air will do you both good after such a heavy meal.”

 

Castor perked up instantly, though his mother’s next words made his stomach drop, “Draco, you will accompany them.”

 

Draco arched a brow, clearly amused, while Castor went scarlet. The idea of suddenly needing a chaperone—especially with Theo—made his chest burn with embarrassment. He didn’t dare protest, not under so many watchful eyes, but he mumbled a hasty agreement before rising. Tugging Theo gently by the wrist, he hurried toward the door, Draco following at a leisurely pace behind them with a smirk he didn’t bother to hide.

 

Once the boys had left, tea was served in delicate porcelain cups. The adults settled comfortably into their seats, but the conversation quickly turned to weightier matters.

 

“Theodore is rather taken with Castor,” Selene said at last, her tone measured but carrying a note of maternal certainty.

 

Narcissa, serene as ever, folded her hands in her lap. “Castor feels the same,” she replied without hesitation.

 

“Good,” Alban interjected, his voice steady and authoritative. “Because Theodore was hoping you would not oppose his beginning a formal courtship with Castor. Neither boy was bound by childhood betrothal, and the match is an advantageous one. The papers already speak of them as something of a power couple.”

 

Lucius leaned back in his chair, the flicker of the firelight catching in his pale eyes. He was silent for a moment, considering. “It will be Castor’s choice,” he said finally, his tone slow, deliberate, “He was not raised as we would have wished. His sense of duty, of tradition… these things are fractured. I cannot say how he would react to the notion of binding himself, even by choice.” He sipped his tea, the delicate clink of porcelain punctuating his words, “Draco has mentioned explaining his own arrangement with Miss Greengrass to him. Castor was confused, yes, but he did not… panic. That is promising. Still, I will not force him into a betrothal of his own.”

 

“He would hardly see it as forced if it is with Theodore,” Narcissa interjected smoothly. Her gaze flicked toward Selene, her expression calm but her words carrying conviction, “If there is anyone he would choose, it is your son.”

 

Selene’s lips curved, faint and knowing, while Calla’s sharp eyes softened in quiet approval. Alban gave a single grave nod, though the faintest hint of satisfaction flickered in his expression.

 

“Theodore has spoken of Castor’s past,” Alban said, his tone as firm as the set of his shoulders. “He will know how to approach the boy without spooking him. As long as there is no interference and no protest from either side, I trust those two will find their way. I will inform Theodore that you will not stand in his path.”

 

Narcissa’s expression softened faintly, “We were rather relieved when Castor began to cling to Theodore. It is a match far better than we could have arranged ourselves. At first, Castor struggled with the idea of being with a boy—he worried it was… abnormal. But once we explained it was not, he only seemed to fall for Theodore more.”

 

The Notts exchanged startled looks. Alban’s brows drew together, while Calla’s eyes narrowed with incredulity, “Why on earth would that matter?”

 

Narcissa gave a delicate shrug, her tone deceptively mild, “It seems to be a Muggle thing. And the Muggles who raised him were the worst sort.”

 

“Oh?” Calla pressed, her curiosity edged with disdain.

 

Selene’s expression was gentler, though concern flickered in her gaze, “Theo has not shared details, but he did hint that Castor’s childhood was… less than kind.”

 

Lucius set his teacup down with deliberate precision, his voice cool but carrying an undercurrent of restrained anger, “Less than kind is putting it far too lightly. The Muggles in question were recently arrested for abuse and neglect. Castor endured conditions that no child should have. It is remarkable that he has pulled though as strong as he is.”

 

A heavy silence followed, thick enough to press against the room’s walls. Calla’s lips tightened into a thin line, and she glanced at Selene as though silently confirming something unspoken. Alban’s gaze darkened, his hands tightening over the head of his cane.

 

Finally, Selene spoke, her voice low but unwavering, “That explains much. Theo has always been patient with him, protective in a way I once thought excessive. Now I see it was precisely what Castor needed.”

 

Narcissa inclined her head in agreement, though her expression was distant, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

 

Lucius, however, leaned forward slightly, his tone regaining some of its usual controlled precision. “If we are to consider this match, then it must be with full understanding. Castor’s heart is resilient, but it is also wounded. He will not tolerate deception, coercion, or manipulation. He has been a pawn before, and he will not be one again.”

 

“Then we are in agreement,” Alban said, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “We give them time. We do not press. And when Theodore is ready to make his intentions plain, we will stand aside and let Castor decide for himself.”

 

A moment of quiet fell, each adult lost in their own considerations. The fire crackled, delicate china clinked as Calla refilled Selene’s cup. It might have ended there, a rare moment of harmony between two great houses—until Lucius spoke again.

 

“He will be back soon.”

 

Selene nearly spilled her tea, her usually composed features betraying open shock at the abrupt shift in topic, “What?”

 

Alban’s eyes narrowed like a hawk sighting prey, “How can you be so certain?”

 

Lucius’s expression was calm, though the set of his jaw revealed the gravity of his words, “Because we have spoken with him.”

 

The room seemed to constrict at once. Silence pressed in thick and heavy, broken only by the faint hiss of the fire.

 

“What does this mean for the boys?” Selene asked at last, her voice tight.

 

Lucius lowered his gaze to the swirl of dark liquid in his teacup, gathering his thoughts before answering. “For the moment, nothing. He wishes to meet Castor, yes—but he has made no move to interfere. Not yet. However…” His eyes lifted, sharp as polished steel. “When his strength is fully restored, I believe it inevitable that an Azkaban break will follow.”

 

Selene gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth. Calla’s knuckles whitened around her teacup as she whispered one name like a prayer, “Tiberius…”

 

Lucius inclined his head gravely, “It is not a certainty, but the probability is high. And while I hope the storm that follows will not touch the children, I cannot in good conscience ignore the possibility. Theodore, too, may be caught in its shadow.”

 

For a long moment, Alban studied him, the firelight carving lines of iron into his face. Then he inclined his head, “Thank you for the warning, Lucius. Better to be forearmed than blind.”

 

Narcissa’s hand tightened on her husband’s sleeve, but her tone remained steady, “We will protect them, whatever comes. Castor has been stolen from us once—we will not let it happen again.”

 

Calla set down her cup with a faint click, her gaze flicking to Selene before returning to Lucius, “If this is true, then the future of both our families may rest in their bond being strong enough to weather what lies ahead. Let us hope the boys continue to choose each other.”

 

The fire popped sharply, as though to punctuate her words, and no one dared speak further.

Chapter 63: Chapter 63

Chapter 63

 

Draco trailed after his younger brother with far more curiosity than he would have ever admitted aloud. At first, he told himself it was nothing more than brotherly vigilance—just making sure Castor wasn’t making a fool of himself—but the longer he watched, the more he realized he was captivated.

 

He had seen them together before, of course. In classrooms, sharing notes at meals, even at the Yule Ball when propriety kept everything wrapped in politeness. But watching from a distance like this was entirely different. They seemed to drift into a world of their own, smiling at one another with a softness that left little room for anyone else. Smitten, the both of them.

 

Draco had never seen Castor like this. Not once. His twin was usually so tightly wound, carrying himself like every step might splinter beneath him. Even at the dragon reserve, where one might expect Castor to feel free, he was almost rigid, pouring all his energy into doing everything perfectly, proving himself useful. But here, with Theo, it was different. Castor was relaxed. He was—Merlin help him—comfortable.

 

Of course, Draco told himself, that was only natural. They had spent countless hours together down in the Chamber of Secrets, side by side with no one else intruding. By now they probably knew each other’s habits better than he and Castor ever would. Still, the realization stung.

 

Sometimes, Draco couldn’t shake the gnawing suspicion that Castor merely tolerated his presence. Yes, they had shared a few meals, and the occasional class side by side, but Draco couldn’t help but wonder if his twin’s willingness to sit with him had less to do with him—and everything to do with being closer to Theo.

 

Once Draco decided his brother and Theo had been granted enough time alone, he subtly steered the pair back toward the manor. Castor and Theo walked hand in hand, entirely unbothered by his quiet presence. Still, Draco allowed them a measure of privacy by walking a few steps ahead, giving them the illusion of being alone as the evening drew to a close. Their goodbyes were soft and lingering—even though, in truth, they would be reunited at school in only a matter of days.

 

By the time they returned, the elder Notts were preparing to take their leave. Selene kissed Castor’s cheek, and Alban clasped his hand firmly, both of them reiterating their promise: a private tour of their prized menagerie once summer holidays began. Of course, they assured him, it would be arranged to accommodate whatever schedule the dragon reserve might demand of him.

 

When the Notts had finally departed, Narcissa turned to her younger son with a graceful smile, “That went rather well. Did you enjoy yourself with Theodore?”

 

Castor nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Yeah. It was great, actually. We haven’t had much chance to talk lately, not properly. Getting to just… walk, and talk creatures, like before—it almost felt like being back in the Chamber, working together again.”

 

Narcissa’s smile softened, touched by the ease in his voice, “I’m glad. The elder Notts seem quite taken with you as well. Though that hardly surprises me—you’ve supplied them with no small fortune in basilisk materials. But Selene spoke fondly of another gift. A framed photograph, was it? The same one you sent me?”

 

Castor’s face warmed, “Well, it was of both Theo and me. It was meant to mark his achievement more than mine. I just thought she might like to have a copy, too.”

 

“And she does. Very much so,” Narcissa confirmed, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

 

Yawning, Castor excused himself for the night. Draco, equally worn from the long day, fell into step beside him as they made their way toward the family wing. The silence between them was comfortable enough, though neither had addressed the awkwardness that lingered from the reserve.

 

It was Castor who broke it halfway down the corridor, “I owe you a thank you.”

 

Draco arched a brow, his tone dry, “For what—shadowing you and Theo like an unwanted chaperone? If our positions had been swapped, I’d have hexed you.”

 

Castor rolled his eyes but smiled faintly, “No. For introducing me to Theo in the first place. If you hadn’t pulled me into your circle of friends… or forced me to be your potions partner, Merlin knows I probably wouldn’t have ever gotten this close to him. And now—” He hesitated, the sincerity in his voice unguarded. “Now I can’t imagine my life without him in it. So… thank you.”

 

For once, Draco was caught without a ready retort. He blinked, studying his younger brother as though seeing him with new eyes. Finally, he let out a quiet huff that could almost be mistaken for a laugh. “You’re welcome, I suppose. Though if you start writing me poetry about it, I’ll personally throw your journal into the fire.”

 

Castor smirked, “No promises.”

 

They reached the doors to there rooms and Draco lingered a moment longer than usual, his voice dropping low, “Just… be careful, Castor. Feelings like that—they make you strong, but they also make you vulnerable. Not everyone in this world will treat them kindly.”

 

“I know,” Castor said softly.

 

The brothers parted with a nod, an unspoken understanding settling between them.

 

888

 

The remainder of the holidays slipped by in a strange blur, one day bleeding into the next. When he wasn’t with family, Castor poured over his grandfather’s journal with an almost feverish determination. He wanted—needed—to understand the ideals that had shaped not only Abraxas, but Voldemort as well.

 

Some of the entries were exactly what he expected: rhetoric about blood purity, about the dangers of diluting magic, about a wizarding society that must remain separate from Muggle influence. Those were familiar enough. But there were other ideas that made him pause.

 

One suggestion was that the parents of Muggleborns should be required to sign binding secrecy contracts upon learning of the wizarding world—contracts that, if broken, would erase their memories of magic entirely. Another proposed obliviating the families altogether, severing Muggleborns from their past lives to ensure loyalty to the wizarding community.

 

What unsettled him most was how logical some of it sounded when framed in neat, matter-of-fact sentences.

 

Even the notion of segregation—something Castor had always equated with cruelty, something that had conjured the grim shadows of the Holocaust he’d learned about in Muggle school—was presented in a way that gave him pause. Abraxas hadn’t written about camps or extermination; he’d envisioned separate schools. Muggleborns, he argued, entered Hogwarts with a staggering disadvantage, unfamiliar with even the most basic charms or traditions. Was it fair to force them into competition with children who had grown up immersed in magic? Wouldn’t it serve everyone better if they were taught at their own pace, among others like themselves, until they could integrate fully?

 

It wasn’t the blood-soaked extremism Castor had expected. It was… rational. Or at least written to sound that way.

 

And that was what unsettled him most.

 

The ideas slid too easily into his head, as if the words were written to be palatable. He could almost imagine a version of himself agreeing with some of them—if he weren’t careful. If he forgot what it felt like to sit beside Hermione in class and see her brilliance shine.

 

He set the journal aside with a growing heaviness in his chest, torn between fascination and unease. He wanted to understand, but he feared what might happen if he began to agree.

 

888

 

Once aboard the train, Castor wasted no time seeking Theo out. He slipped into the seat beside him and nestled into his side, content in a way that made the rest of the long journey ahead feel trivial. Theo’s quiet presence, the steady rise and fall of his breath, was grounding. Across from them, Draco sat with a book in hand, pretending not to notice but casting the occasional glance at the pair as the compartment filled with the gentle buzz of departure.

 

They had just settled in when the compartment door slid open with a clatter. Neville stood there with Luna at his side, blinking in surprise.

 

“Oh—sorry,” Neville said quickly, already starting to pull the door shut.

 

“Hey, guys!” Castor called, brightening as he sat up straighter. His smile was enough to make Neville pause.

 

Luna tilted her head, her pale eyes dreamy as always. “Hello, Castor Malfoy,” she said, as if his name itself were some pleasant discovery.

 

Neville chuckled, stepping inside with her, “Hey. Looks like the holiday did you some good—you’re looking a lot better than when we left.”

 

Castor’s expression softened into a small but genuine smile, “Yeah, well… I spent some time with my boyfriend and some time with my dragons. That helped.”

 

Theo’s lips twitched at the word boyfriend, though he said nothing, only let Castor lean a little heavier against him.

 

Neville laughed and dropped into the seat beside Luna, slipping an arm comfortably over her shoulders, “I get that. Gran loved Luna, by the way. Said I needed a bit more creativity in my life.”

 

Castor snorted, “How could anyone not love Luna? She’s brilliant.”

 

For the first time, Castor caught Luna looking almost shy. Her gaze flickered down to her lap before she murmured, “Lady Longbottom was quite kind.”

 

Draco’s brow arched slightly over the top of his book. “Creativity, is it?” he asked, a trace of dry amusement in his tone. “I should think you’ll have no shortage of that now, Longbottom.”

 

Neville grinned, unbothered, “Exactly.” He gave Luna’s hand a small squeeze, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

 

Castor couldn’t help but beam at them. The sight of his friends so at ease—Neville more confident, Luna more grounded—filled him with a warmth that made the train compartment feel brighter.

 

888

 

Castor all but collapsed onto the bed the Room of Requirement had prepared for him, the familiar comfort of the space wrapping around him like a secret he barely deserved. He dug into his bag and pulled out the Marauder’s Map, tapping it with his wand until the delicate ink lines unfurled across the parchment. The castle bloomed into view, corridors and staircases shifting as students found their way back to their common rooms.

 

His eyes swept over the names, but as always, one stood out to him with chilling consistency—Alastor Moody, locked in place within the office that bore his name. Always there. Never leaving.

 

Castor’s stomach knotted.

 

He knew—he knew—that it wasn’t really Moody wandering the halls. The real man was somewhere trapped, likely bound and silenced, while a Death Eater wore his face and commanded respect from every professor and student in the castle. And Castor? He was lying here, staring at proof of the crime, doing nothing.

 

Guilt gnawed at him. He knew where the man was. He knew who had taken his place. He even knew the method—Polyjuice, most likely. And still, he kept silent.

 

Because speaking up meant defying Voldemort.

 

And if Voldemort realized that Castor had acted against his interests, would that open the door for retaliation? Would Voldemort have the excuse he needed to strike at him directly without being punished by his vow?

 

The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

 

The map trembled slightly in his hands as his grip tightened. Castor shut his eyes for a moment, torn between the sharp weight of responsibility and the equally sharp edge of fear.

 

His chest ached with the weight of it. Every time he looked at the map, every time he saw Moody still penned in that same neat little spot, it was like a silent accusation.

 

He told himself he wasn’t strong enough to fight this battle yet. That speaking up would only ruin whatever fragile ground he had gained in both worlds—his family’s, Voldemort’s, his friends’. If he moved too soon, he would lose everything.

 

And yet…

 

The image of the real Alastor Moody—scarred, paranoid, famously unyielding—sitting in chains somewhere within these very walls, while his identity was paraded about like a trophy, made Castor sick. He imagined the man’s fury, his sheer disgust, if he ever learned that someone had known and done nothing.

 

Castor rolled onto his side, pressing the map flat against the mattress as if he could smother the damning ink. But the names still moved. Students laughing in common rooms. Teachers making their rounds. And Moody, never moving, always there, like a prisoner screaming in silence.

 

Castor buried his face in his pillow, muffling the groan that tore from him.

 

He couldn’t tell anyone. Not Draco, not Theo, not even Hermione. To admit it would put them in danger too. And if Voldemort struck… he didn’t want their blood on his hands.

 

So he convinced himself—like he always did—that this wasn’t the right time. That he needed to be patient. That if he waited, there would come a moment when he could act without bringing down everything he had worked so hard to protect.

 

But even as he lay there, whispering those excuses to himself, he couldn’t shake the certainty crawling in his chest:

 

Every second that passed was another second Moody was trapped. And Castor was choosing to leave him there.

 

888

 

Hoping Kraken would forgive him for being absent nearly a week, Castor had Mipsy prepare an entire loaf of sourdough, sliced thick and toasted to a perfect golden brown. The aroma of butter and salt carried sweetly over the Black Lake as he stepped to the water’s edge. Almost at once, a ripple disturbed the surface. A massive tentacle rose, curling gently toward him, before plucking the toast from his hands one piece at a time.

 

Kraken forgave him instantly. Castor knew it the moment the enormous creature encircled him in a cool, briny embrace—an oddly affectionate squeeze that left his robes damp but his heart lighter. He laughed quietly, patting the slick skin in apology before the tentacle slid back into the depths.

 

“See you tomorrow,” Castor murmured. Then, drawing in a deep breath, he began his trek up the sloping bank toward the castle.

 

He had resolved—once and for all—that he needed to reclaim some order in his life. Daily studying. Exercise. A routine, as though structure might anchor him against the chaos always waiting around the corner. But, as usual, things rarely went according to plan.

 

Because tonight, he wasn’t alone.

 

A tall figure stood by the entrance, robes outlined in the glow of the sinking sun. For a fleeting moment, Castor thought he might be mistaken. Dumbledore was seldom seen wandering the grounds without purpose. But the tilt of his head, the careful patience of his posture, left little doubt. He had been waiting.

 

“Ah, Harry,” Dumbledore said, as though they had merely crossed paths by chance. His tone was soft, almost conversational, but Castor heard the deliberate weight beneath it. “Out giving your large friend a snack? That is quite kind of you, on a brisk evening such as this.”

 

Castor hesitated, damp sleeves sticking to his arms, his mind scrambling to decide whether this was idle observation or the opening move of another chess game he hadn’t agreed to play.

 

“Yes, well… Kraken worries when I’m gone too long,” Castor replied, his tone deliberately mild, almost lighthearted.

 

“Indeed,” Dumbledore mused, stroking his beard as his eyes twinkled—or perhaps gleamed, depending on how one chose to read it. “And how was your break?”

 

Castor gave a casual shrug, as though it were of little consequence, “Fine. Worked at the reserve. Spent some time with Theo.”

 

That faint twitch at the corner of Dumbledore’s mouth was almost imperceptible, but Castor caught it. Disapproval. Quiet, polite, but still there. He allowed himself a flicker of internal satisfaction—two choices Dumbledore would never have approved of, served up neatly like bait.

 

“The reserve,” Dumbledore mused. “A place where one learns respect for power, yes… and caution. As for Mr. Nott, he is a thoughtful boy, though he walks a path with shadows. I only hope you do not lose sight of the light, Harry.”

 

Castor said nothing, keeping his expression mild. Silence was proving sharper than any barb.

 

After a beat, Dumbledore’s tone shifted, carefully soft, “And home? I trust you found it… comfortable?”

 

“It was fine,” Castor said flatly.

 

“Families,” Dumbledore murmured, “can be the source of our greatest strength—or our deepest wounds. I wonder… do you feel safe with yours?”

 

Castor stiffened, pulse picking up.

 

“And Lucius?” Dumbledore asked, his voice smooth as glass but his gaze cutting deep. “He has always been a man of strong convictions. I imagine… living under his roof again has been something of an adjustment.”

 

Something in Castor snapped.

 

“You don’t know him,” he said suddenly, the words spilling faster than he could stop them. “You act like you do, but you don’t. Yes, he’s strict, and yes, he’s… complicated, but he’s trying. He listens. He doesn’t just—” Castor’s jaw clenched, his throat tight. “He doesn’t just tell me what to do and expect me to follow blindly. He cares, more than you’d ever think.”

 

The silence that followed was deafening. Castor’s stomach dropped. Merlin, what was he doing? He hadn’t meant to—

 

But Dumbledore only watched him with that maddeningly calm expression, as though every word had been a move he’d predicted on the board.

 

And yet, just for an instant, Castor thought he saw the faintest flicker of surprise in those blue eyes.

 

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable, though the tiniest smile ghosted his lips. “It warms my heart to hear you say so. Truly, it does. To defend one’s father—particularly when the world may judge him harshly—speaks of loyalty. And yet…” His voice softened, almost mournful. “History has shown us time and again that love can make us blind to danger. It can bind us to choices that are… unwise.”

 

Castor’s jaw locked. He knew exactly what Dumbledore was doing—taking his slip, twisting it neatly into a warning, planting seeds of doubt where Castor had been trying to root trust.

 

“Maybe,” Castor said tightly. “Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe love lets you see things others are too quick to dismiss. You’ve judged him for years without really knowing him. That seems… unwise.”

 

That flicker in Dumbledore’s eyes again—interest, calculation. Castor hated it.

 

Before the Headmaster could turn the words back on him again, Castor cut in, sharp but still polite. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, curfew will arrive soon. I’d like to return to my room.”

 

Dumbledore inclined his head, a faint glimmer of regret or perhaps amusement in his eyes. “Of course. Rest well, Harry.”

 

Castor turned on his heel before the man could say more, striding toward the castle doors. His heart still pounded, his words still burned in his throat. He hadn’t planned on defending Lucius. Not like that. But he wasn’t about to let Dumbledore be the one to define who his family was. Not anymore.

Notes:

Wow! We’re only two months in and this story is already nearing 2,000 Kudos, 900 Comments, and 65,000 Hits. That’s absolutely incredible—thank you all so much!

Chapter 64: Chapter 64

Chapter 64

 

Castor buried himself in his exercises and studies with single-minded intensity, pushing down the gnawing guilt and fear until the days blurred together. He lifted weights, sparred with a dummy, and read book after book until the words swam before his eyes. He was clinging to routine and discipline like armor.

 

It wasn’t until one damp, cool evening that his rhythm broke. The summons arrived: all champions were to report to the Quidditch Pitch for instructions on the Third Task.

 

When Castor arrived, his heart sank at the sight before him. The pitch—the very heart of Hogwarts spirit—had been twisted into something alien. Towering hedges now stretched across the field in endless rows, swallowing the familiar golden hoops and vast expanse of sky. It felt… wrong. Like a shrine defiled.

 

Bagman greeted them with his usual cheer, his grin grotesquely out of place amidst the looming greenery. “A maze!” he declared brightly, sweeping his arms as though presenting a gift instead of a trap. “You’ll be navigating your way through, facing obstacles and creatures, until you reach the Cup at the center. The first to grasp it wins!”

 

Castor’s lips pressed thin. A maze. Designed by wizards. It would not be simple brambles and dead ends.

 

Bagman explained the order: champions would enter one by one, determined by their current scores. Castor’s lead meant he would go first, and the extra head start settled uneasily in his stomach. Advantage or not, he knew what it really meant—he’d be the one facing the brunt of the maze’s surprises without anyone to clear the way before him.

 

Dismissed at last, Castor cut away from the others and drifted toward the Black Lake. Kraken would be waiting, and feeding his friend had become something of a ritual—one of the few times the world felt steady. The moonlight rippled across the water, and he found comfort in its quiet pull.

 

He had walked this path dozens of times and had never seen cause for alarm. Which was why, when the underbrush rustled violently and a figure stumbled out from the forest, Castor’s wand was already in his hand, curse balanced on his lips.

 

The man’s clothes were torn, his face pale and wild, his movements jerky as though he’d been dragged backward through a nightmare. For an instant Castor didn’t recognize him. Then his breath caught.

 

“Mr. Crouch?”

 

The name tore from him before he could stop it.

 

The man’s eyes rolled, unfocused, and words poured from his mouth in a hoarse babble. “The tournament… must… must be stopped… Weatherby! Weatherby, you must listen! He is here—he is—”

 

Castor froze, wand hand tightening. Weatherby? He felt the chill creep into his bones.

 

“Mr. Crouch, it’s me—Castor Malfoy,” he said carefully, though his pulse thundered.

 

But the man only staggered closer, his words tumbling over themselves in a feverish torrent, names and warnings strung together without sense, until suddenly he dropped to his knees at Castor’s feet and clutched at his robes with trembling fingers.

 

Castor’s heart pounded as Crouch’s ravings turned into desperate pleas. The man clutched at him, eyes wide and bloodshot, gasping, “Dumbledore—I must see Dumbledore—take me to him!”

 

But Castor’s instincts screamed otherwise. Dumbledore wasn’t who Crouch needed right now—Pomfrey, Castor thought frantically. He needs a healer, not riddles and questions.

 

“Sir, listen to me,” Castor urged, trying to keep his voice steady, though panic clawed at his throat. “We’ll get you help. You need to come with me to the castle.”

 

It was easier said than done. Crouch staggered, pulling against Castor’s guiding arm with surprising strength for a man so frail, his words slurring into half-gibberish about the tournament, Dumbledore, and Weatherby. They hadn’t even made it halfway back when the man crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

 

“Damn it,” Castor hissed under his breath, dropping to his knees.

 

He remembered something he’d read in his endless nights of research—a sleeping charm, one he’d hoped might help still his own visions but it only worked when someone else cast it. Awkwardly, he raised his wand. “Somnus…” His voice wavered, and the spell fizzled out. Gritting his teeth, he tried again. “Somnus!”

 

This time the magic struck true. Crouch’s ragged breath steadied, his wild eyes fluttering closed. Castor let out a shaky exhale, though he wasn’t sure whether it was the spell or sheer exhaustion that finally claimed the man.

 

He couldn’t carry him alone. But there was another option. Castor thought back to that night in the Shrieking Shack, Remus’s wand flicking with casual precision as Snape had been levitated away. He swallowed hard, pointed his wand, and whispered, “Mobilicorpus.”

 

The body jerked, then slowly rose to its feet, limbs dangling like a marionette’s. The sight sent a shiver down Castor’s spine—it felt wrong, manipulating someone’s body like that, even for good reason. The vacant sway of Crouch’s head, the unnatural shuffle of his steps as Castor guided him forward, would haunt him later. But for now, necessity overruled revulsion.

 

“Come on,” he muttered, his voice trembling more than he’d have liked, “We’ll get you safe.”

 

The floating figure lurched beside him as Castor steered them toward the castle. Every shadow between the trees seemed to stretch too long, every whisper of wind too sharp. His grip on his wand tightened until his knuckles ached.

 

Because if anyone saw him like this—dragging the body of a Ministry official into the castle in the dead of night—questions would be asked.

 

Castor had honestly believed—hoped—that he might actually reach the hospital wing without interruption. The first floors had been eerily clear, not a professor, not even a prefect patrolling in sight. He’d started to let himself think, ‘Maybe this time I’ll be lucky’.

 

Of course, it couldn’t be that easy.

 

He turned a corner and nearly froze. Not Dumbledore—whom he had been dreading most—but someone worse in this moment. The unmistakable limping gait, the twisted face, the whirling blue eye—Mad-Eye Moody.

 

Castor’s stomach plummeted like a stone in water. His concentration faltered, the magic tether slipped, and Crouch’s body dropped unceremoniously to the floor with a wet splat. Castor flinched at the sound, guilt rising hot in his chest, but his wand never wavered from the scarred figure advancing toward him.

 

“I can take it from here, Mr. Malfoy,” Moody said, his gravelly voice rough but confident, like he was doing Castor a favor.

 

But Castor wasn’t fooled. He swallowed hard, throat tight. He knew—deep in his bones—that this was the man responsible for Crouch’s delirium, maybe he even had him imprisoned like the real Moody. Letting the imposter keep the real Moody was one thing—one terrible, helpless compromise Castor had forced himself to live with. But handing over another victim, especially one who had begged him for help, was something he could never allow.

 

His grip on his wand tightened. His voice, though trembling, was firm, “I can’t just let you keep hurting people.”

 

Something subtle shifted in Moody’s stance. The hunched wariness melted away, his posture straightening, his mismatched eyes fixing on Castor with new intensity. The false mask of the eccentric Auror cracked just slightly.

 

“You think you know more than you do, Castor,” Moody said, his tone quieter now, edged with calculation, “I’ve spoken to your parents. You don’t have to play Dumbledore’s pawn. Things don’t have to be the way he wants them.”

 

Castor’s chest tightened at the mention of his parents, but he held steady, chin lifting in quiet defiance, “I know.”

 

His voice didn’t waver, “I’ve read my grandfather’s journal. There are things in it I agreed with—ideas, wisdom, pieces worth keeping. But there were just as many I rejected. And one of those is the belief that some lives matter more than others.”

 

He stepped forward, wand unwavering, “All lives are equal. Even your father’s.”

 

Moody’s mouth curled into something caught between a sneer and a grin. For a flicker of a moment, his good eye glimmered with dangerous amusement, as though Castor had just revealed something useful.

 

“You’ve got fire,” he rasped. “Your grandfather would’ve liked that.” He shifted his weight, his wand hand twitching ever so slightly. “But fire burns out quick when it’s smothered.”

 

Castor’s pulse thundered in his ears. He knew this was the edge—one wrong move, one hesitation, and Crouch wouldn’t be the only body lying cold on the flagstones tonight.

 

“I’d rather not hurt you, kid,” Moody drawled, his mismatched eyes boring into Castor. “Truth be told, I actually like you. And my Lord—” his mouth twisted into something between reverence and mockery “—he would not be pleased if anything happened to you. He finds you… entertaining. So I’ll make you a deal.”

 

Castor’s grip on his wand tightened. His heart hammered against his ribs, but he forced his voice steady, “What kind of deal?”

 

The scarred man’s smile widened, sharp and wolfish. “I need something. Once I have it, I’ll leave Hogwarts. If you help me get it tonight, you can keep Moody… and my filthy father. His mind’s gone anyway. Dead weight.”

 

The venom in his tone at the mention of his father made Castor flinch despite himself. There was no sorrow there, no pity—only loathing, like poison simmering just beneath the surface.

 

Still, he pressed, voice low and wary, “What do you need?”

 

Moody flicked his wand, and Crouch Senior’s limp body jerked upright again, obeying the invisible strings of Mobilicorpus. Without another word, the imposter turned and marched Crouch down the corridor, toward the familiar heavy door of the Defense classroom. He tilted his head ever so slightly, a subtle command for Castor to follow.

 

Every instinct screamed that it was a trap, but Castor kept his wand trained on him, refusing to blink, refusing to give the man his back. His footsteps echoed softly as he shadowed them into the room.

 

Inside, Moody let Crouch drop to the floor like discarded rubbish. Then he turned, closing the door behind them with a quiet snick. His good eye fixed on Castor, his expression shifting into something sharper, more calculating.

 

“My potion is wearing off,” he said. The whirling eye slowed, faltering in its wild spin. He straightened his shoulders, his scarred features already beginning to twitch, like clay softening and sagging. “Let’s speak face to face.”

 

His face rippled grotesquely, scars smoothing, jaw reshaping, hair paling. His body shrank slightly, losing its stiff, scarred bulk, until at last he stood revealed—Bartemius Crouch Junior.

 

The resemblance to his father was there, faint but undeniable, made monstrous by the wild gleam in his eyes.

 

“There now,” Crouch Jr. said softly, arms spreading wide like some grotesque performer taking his bow. His features, unmasked now, twisted into a grin too sharp to be anything but predatory. “No more masks. No more games.”

 

“What do you want?” Castor asked again, his voice lower this time, but firm enough to cover the tightness in his chest.

 

Crouch’s eyes glittered with feverish light, “I want your blood.”

 

Castor froze. For one breath, maybe two, he couldn’t move. His wand trembled almost imperceptibly in his hand. “M-my… blood?”

 

“Only a vial,” Crouch said smoothly, like he was asking for sugar over tea.

 

“Why?” The question slipped out before Castor could stop it, brittle and small.

 

“My Lord needs it.”

 

Castor tried to scoff, tried to mask the sudden spike of panic that set his heartbeat racing. “So he can put a blood curse on me?”

 

“No,” Crouch’s grin widened, eyes glittering with manic triumph, “It is a resurrection ritual. There are many ways to restore a great one who was cast down, but all of them require the blood of the vanquisher. That, Castor Malfoy… is you. The boy who lived.”

 

He stepped closer, his tone softening to something almost tender, as if speaking to a frightened child, “So you can give it to me, and live. Or I kill you here tonight, drain you dry, and my Lord rises anyway. Either way, I win.”

 

The words echoed inside Castor like the tolling of a bell—cold, heavy, final. His grip on his wand was so tight his knuckles burned. He thought of his mother’s steady hand on his shoulder, Draco’s laughter tugging him through the crowds at the Winter Market, Lucius’s unexpected defense of his choices. He had only just gotten them back—after years of aching emptiness. The thought of losing it all now hollowed his chest with terror. He didn’t want to die. Not now. Not when he finally had something worth living for.

 

“You swear you’ll leave,” Castor asked, his voice rough.

 

The grin that stretched across Barty’s mouth was the smile of a man already certain of victory. With a flick of his wand, a knife and a glass vial soared through the air, landing neatly in his waiting hand. The flash of steel against torchlight made him look all the more dangerous, all the more unhinged. He set the items on the desk between them, almost reverently.

 

“Fill the vial,” Crouch said softly, “and I’ll walk away.”

 

Castor’s heart thudded against his ribs, but his hand shook too badly to ignore. Slowly—so slowly—he lowered his wand. The movement felt like betrayal, like laying down his last shield. His fingers fumbled against the vial’s cool glass as he uncorked it, the soft pop deafening in the silence.

 

He stared at the knife, the edge gleaming cruelly under the dim classroom light. For a moment, he almost couldn’t breathe. He braced himself, dragging air deep into his lungs, steeling against what he knew was coming. Pain was nothing new. He could handle pain.

 

With trembling resolve, he pressed the blade to his palm. The sting came sharp and immediate, followed by the hot, sticky rush of blood. He hissed between clenched teeth but forced himself to tilt his hand, squeezing it over the vial, watching the crimson drip, drip, drip into the glass.

 

Crouch leaned forward slightly, eyes locked hungrily on the filling vial, “Yes… that’s it. Almost there.”

 

Castor’s stomach twisted violently, nausea rising as though his body itself rebelled against what he was doing. Each drop that slid into the vial felt like surrender, like a chain being locked around his neck. This wasn’t just blood—it was a piece of himself, willingly handed over to Voldemort. His chest grew tighter with every drip, his thoughts spinning. What if this was a mistake? What if this choice had just doomed the family he had only just found again?

 

The vial filled steadily, the crimson line creeping upward, until at last it brushed the neck of the glass. Before Castor could even lower his hand, Crouch swooped forward with a predator’s swiftness, snatching it away. He corked it immediately, his fingers caressing the sealed vial as if it were some priceless jewel.

 

“With that,” Crouch said lightly, slipping back into the cultivated drawl of the aristocrats Castor had endured at the New Year Ball, “I will take my leave. A shame, really, that things have gone so… sideways. We had envisioned this year playing out rather differently.”

 

He swirled the vial in his hand, watching the blood catch the torchlight. His lips curled into something mocking, elegant in the way only arrogance could be.

 

“But you, Castor, really ought to be thanking me.” His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. “Had I not slipped your name into the Goblet of Fire, you would still be Harry Potter—the four-eyed, mop-headed little orphan.” He spat the last word like it was something foul. “Now look at you. You’ve gained a family of wealth and power, turned yourself into a darling of the press, even carved out a career with dragons before you’ve grown hair on your chin.”

 

Castor’s heart pounded in his ears. The words dug into him like barbs, twisting guilt and fury together until he could hardly breathe.

 

Crouch tilted his head, savoring the sight of Castor’s inner turmoil, his voice silken with mockery. “Funny, isn’t it? You despise me, but without me, you’d never have all the things you hold so dearly now. If I were you, boy, I’d be grateful.”

 

The words lodged themselves in Castor’s chest like splinters, sharp and festering. For a moment, the silence stretched between them, brittle and dangerous, ready to shatter with the smallest sound. His hand was still bleeding freely, droplets striking the stone floor in rhythmic taps, but he hardly noticed. The crimson spreading down his wrist barely registered—he felt strangely distant from his own body, as though he were watching it all through water.

 

He knew this feeling. He had felt it before—when Neville’s letter had arrived, trembling in his hands, telling him the truth of Ron’s betrayal. That same numbness had seeped into him then, a coldness that dulled everything but the ache behind his eyes. It was happening again, that awful drift, the ground slipping away beneath him.

 

Not now, he thought desperately. Not here. This wasn’t the time. He needed to keep his head. He needed to be sharp, steady, strong—anything but this.

 

But his chest heaved unevenly, panic clawing through the numbness. His mind splintered under the weight of it all— Sirius kidnapping him, Ron’s betrayal, years of being lied to, the Malfoys’ cautious affection, Voldemort rising from his blood. It was too much, all of it, too much. His thoughts whirled in frantic fragments, colliding into one another until he couldn’t catch hold of a single one.

 

A sound tore out of him—something between a laugh and a sob, fractured and raw. His lips twisted into a grotesque parody of expression, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. He pressed a trembling hand hard against his temple as though he could keep the chaos inside from spilling out, as though he could physically hold his breaking mind together.

 

The room seemed to tilt and sway, the torches guttering in his vision. His breath came too fast, too shallow, each inhale scraping his throat raw. Magic pulsed unevenly at his fingertips, desperate and uncontrolled, sparks twitching against the stone as if the castle itself recoiled from him.

 

Crouch, however, merely watched. Unmoved. Almost bored. He had seen this brand of unraveling before—too many times in the presence of Bellatrix Black. And compared to her spectacular descents into hysteria, this boy’s quiet fracture was nothing.

 

“When you’re finished with your little episode,” Crouch said dryly, brushing a fleck of Castor’s blood from his sleeve as though it were dirt, “you’ll find Moody in the trunk. Keys are on the desk.”

 

His tone carried the weary impatience of a man giving instructions about housekeeping, not one who had just stolen a child’s blood for the darkest magic alive. With a practiced flick, he swept his wand and muttered the words. The air shimmered, swallowing his outline as the disillusionment charm cloaked him.

 

And then—he was gone.

 

The sudden emptiness of the room struck Castor harder than any threat Crouch could have wielded. One moment, there had been eyes on him, a presence to resist, a tension to fight against. Now there was nothing but silence, broken only by the steady drip-drip of his own blood onto the cold flagstones. His head swam, the coppery tang filling his mouth, thick on his tongue, as his body teetered on the edge of control.

 

His knees buckled beneath him, and he crumpled to all fours, retching violently, the remnants of his supper spewing across the floor. The bile burned his throat, mingling with the iron scent of his blood, and his mind swirled in a storm of fear, guilt, and despair. He laughed and sobbed at once, a frantic, fractured sound that seemed to echo off the stone walls.

 

Every thought collided violently with the next: the blood, the threat, the echoes of past betrayals, the horrors he’d seen—and the horrors he knew were still coming. His heart raced, chest heaving, vision narrowing as the darkness crept in from the edges of his sight.

 

Finally, muscles spent, tears streaming freely, body trembling, Castor slumped completely to the floor. The world went black, and the sound of his own labored breathing faded into nothing as he passed out, the weight of trauma pressing him into unconsciousness.

Chapter 65: Chapter 65

Chapter 65

 

Professor Flitwick stood at the front of the classroom, watching as the fourth years trickled in and found their seats. His sharp eyes, ever alert, skimmed the rows. Every desk was filled—except for one. Castor Malfoy’s usual place sat conspicuously empty.

 

Flitwick frowned faintly, though not with much concern at first. The champions had been summoned late the previous evening that the boy may have found taxing. Perhaps the boy had simply overslept.

 

He resolved to check in after class, already shaping the words of his opening lecture, when the door slammed open with such force that chalk rattled against the blackboard.

 

Ginny Weasley burst inside, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. Her panic was palpable, making the other students shift nervously in their seats.

 

“Professor!” she gasped, nearly out of breath. “Something’s happened—in the Defense classroom!”

 

Flitwick’s heart seized, his diminutive form bristling with sudden urgency. He darted forward, wand already in hand. “Is anyone injured?” he demanded, his high voice clipped with sharp authority.

 

Ginny’s eyes were wide, terrified. “Castor Malfoy!” she cried.

 

That name alone was enough. Before Flitwick could issue further instructions, a sudden commotion broke out behind him. Chairs scraped violently against the floor as Draco Malfoy shot to his feet, face pale and stricken. Theodore Nott followed in an instant, his usually composed expression cracking with alarm. Neville Longbottom and Hermione Granger were not far behind—both already moving before thought could catch up.

 

The four of them surged past Flitwick in a blur, driven by something rawer than obedience to rules. They tore out of the room at a dead sprint, leaving the professor in their wake, his own heart hammering as he turned to follow.

 

888

“Castor?”

 

The voice was soft, lilting, like the faint chiming of bells. It tugged at the edges of his awareness, urging him to rise from the heavy, suffocating fog of sleep.

 

But—why was his bed so hard?

 

His body ached all over, pressed against something unyielding and cold. Stone. He was lying on stone. His lashes fluttered, reluctant, before he forced his eyes open. The light stabbed at him, too bright, and he blinked rapidly, squinting until the blur began to clear.

 

Hovering above him was a pale, dreamy face framed by flyaway blonde hair. Luna Lovegood, kneeling beside him, her expression as unreadable as ever but her voice soft with concern.

 

“Castor,” she said again, as if coaxing him back into the world.

 

And with that name, with that face, the realization crashed over him. This wasn’t his bed. This wasn’t safety. He was sprawled on the floor of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, the flagstones leeching warmth from his body. The metallic tang of dried blood lingered in his mouth, in his nose, as if it were seared into him.

 

Then came the memories. The vial. The blade. Crouch’s smile. His words. The numbness that had crept in last night slammed back into place, heavier this time, almost comforting in its coldness. A shield against the rising tide of panic.

 

He stared up at Luna, unable to speak at first, torn between the relief of being found and the hollow ache of knowing nothing could undo what had been done.

 

The sound reached him before the sight did—Draco’s voice, sharp and furious, cutting through the low murmur of the Defense classroom, “Move! Out of the way—move!”

 

Castor turned his head toward the door with sluggish effort, lids heavy. Through the haze, he saw the crowd of third-years frozen in the threshold, uncertainty and fear clogging the entrance. Then Draco was there, shoving them aside with a force that made some stumble.

 

Behind him trailed the people who mattered most—Theo with his eyes already scanning for danger, Hermione pale and stricken, Neville tight-jawed and determined. They all swept toward him in a rush, forming a circle of familiar faces against the chaos.

 

“Castor!” Draco dropped to his knees beside him, voice cracking in a way Castor had never heard before. His eyes darted frantically over his twin, trying to track the origin of the dried, crusted blood that stained his robes and hands. “What happened? Where are you hurt?”

 

Castor opened his mouth. He wanted to answer, to offer something—anything—that would calm Draco’s wild expression. He wanted to scream, to rage, to claw the horror out of his throat and put it into words. But nothing came.

 

His throat locked.

 

He was so tired.

 

Tired of talking. Tired of recounting, again and again, the endless parade of betrayals and cruelties. Tired of explaining how broken his world had become when every word only carved the wounds deeper.

 

His lips trembled, but the silence stretched. His chest heaved with shallow, unsteady breaths. The weight of everything pressed down on him until the only sound he could muster was a strangled whimper—half sob, half laugh—that scraped raw against his throat.

 

Draco’s hand hovered over his shoulder, afraid to jostle him, but unwilling to let go. Hermione crouched on his other side, whispering something soothing he barely registered. Theo’s stare locked on the blood-stained floor, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched.

 

Castor’s body shook, trembling like a bowstring drawn too tight, but still—he said nothing.

 

Flitwick hurried in, robes swishing around his ankles, and froze mid-step at the sight before him. The coppery stench of blood hit his nose a second later, and his heart sank. Castor Malfoy lay crumpled on the floor, his robes stiff with dried crimson. The boy’s friends clustered around him like a living shield, but it did little to ease the horror of the scene.

 

“Has someone gone to fetch Madam Pomfrey?” Flitwick’s high voice cracked with urgency.

 

A Ravenclaw girl—pale and trembling—nodded quickly. “S-someone ran to the Hospital Wing, sir.”

 

Good. At least that was handled. Steeling himself, Flitwick approached slowly, as though one wrong movement might shatter what was left of the boy on the floor. His eyes swept the length of Castor’s body, searching for wounds, but the blood was too widespread, too dried, to identify the source.

 

“Mr. Malfoy?” he asked softly, crouching down. “Are you injured?”

 

There was no answer.

 

The boy’s eyes stared past him, glassy and far away, as if the question had been carried off into a void where words couldn’t reach.

 

Flitwick tried again. “Can you tell us what happened?”

 

Still nothing. Only silence, except for the faint sound of Castor’s ragged breathing.

 

Then, slowly, with a stiffness that spoke of exhaustion more than will, Castor pushed himself upright. His movements were sluggish, mechanical, his face pale beneath the grime and dried blood. He flinched suddenly, his whole body jerking at the unexpected sound of a voice cutting through the room.

 

“Weatherby!”

 

The voice was Crouch’s. His words came out slurred, fevered, as though plucked from a dream. “Weatherby—we must—speak—to Dumbledore—set up a meeting—” His arm flailed weakly toward the ceiling, fingers clawing at nothing.

 

The students nearest him shrank back, uncertain and frightened.

 

Flitwick’s heart thudded uneasily as he glanced between Castor’s haunted silence and the high-ranking Ministry official babbling on the classroom floor. None of it made sense. “What in Merlin’s name…” he whispered.

 

His gaze darted around, desperate for order, for clarity. “Has anyone seen Professor Moody?” he asked sharply.

 

A chorus of shaken denials filled the air.

 

“N-no, Professor,” stammered a Ravenclaw.

 

Luna, who remained kneeling beside Castor, tilted her head, her voice soft but certain. “When we came in, they were already here. Castor and Mr. Crouch. On the floor. Professor Moody was not here but… his leg and eye are over there.”

 

Flitwick tightened his grip on his wand. The scene was unraveling before him, far beyond his ability to explain.

 

Castor pushed himself upright, legs trembling under his weight. He caught the edge of the nearest desk to steady himself, but the moment pressure touched his sliced palm, white-hot pain seared up his arm. His grip faltered. He would have toppled back to the floor if not for the solid presence at his side—Theo, who slipped an arm firmly around him.

 

“I’ve got you, Castor,” Theo murmured, his voice quiet but steady. “Lean on me.”

 

And he did. For just a breath, Castor let himself rest against that strength, drawing enough balance to force his feet forward. Wordlessly, he began a slow, uneven walk toward the small staircase at the back of the classroom—the one that led to the professor’s office. Theo didn’t let go, keeping a sure hand on his arm, his stance coiled and ready to catch him again at the slightest stumble.

 

The students parted in uneasy silence as the pair made their way through. Flitwick followed at once, wand already drawn, sensing—hoping—that Castor was guiding them toward some explanation.

 

The office door creaked open on its hinges. Flitwick swept his wand across the room in practiced arcs, eyes sharp for any threat. But at first glance, the office was nothing but the clutter one would expect from an eccentric professor: scattered parchments, stacked books, the gleam of the foe-glass looming like a shadowy sentinel against the wall. Nothing overtly out of place.

 

Castor, however, moved with intent. His good hand reached for the desk, fingers closing around a key that lay beside the foe-glass. He didn’t pause, didn’t look at anyone, just crossed to the heavy trunk that sat against the floorboards like a silent guardian.

 

His movements were mechanical, too precise for coincidence. He slid the key into the lock.

 

Click.

 

The trunk gave a shudder as the lid sprang free.

 

“Step back!” Flitwick barked, instantly raising his wand. The gathered students obeyed, retreating several paces while the Charms Master advanced cautiously.

 

The lid creaked open. Darkness yawned beneath, deeper than a trunk ought to be. Flitwick leaned forward, heart pounding as he peered inside.

 

What he found stole the breath from his chest.

 

A pit—deep, impossibly deep—yawned within, like the entrance to some underground cell. And at the bottom of that cell, huddled and disheveled but unmistakably alive, was Alastor Moody.

 

Flitwick leaned closer to the yawning pit, his voice gentling in a way it rarely needed to, “Alastor? Are you alright down there?”

 

The grizzled Auror’s head lifted, one eye wide with disbelief and fury, the other closed over the empty hole. His lips curled into a humorless sneer.

 

“’Bout damn time you found me,” his voice was rough, cracked from thirst, but laced with his usual bite.

 

“How long have you been trapped?” Flitwick pressed.

 

Moody let out a gravelly chuckle that rattled like broken glass, “Long enough. I never even made it to Hogwarts, Flitwick. Barty Crouch Junior’s alive—been parading ‘round in my skin all year with Polyjuice.”

 

The words hit the room like a spell blast. Neville gave a sharp gasp, “Barty Crouch Junior? But he—he was supposed to be dead!”

 

Luna, calm as ever, rested a steadying hand on his sleeve, grounding him with quiet certainty.

 

Theo’s eyes narrowed, his voice low and sharp with restrained fury, “He’s the one who hurt you, isn’t he?” His gaze flicked toward Castor, but the boy said nothing. Castor’s silence was heavy, a wall between himself and the world. Whatever answer Theo sought, he would not give it.

 

But in that moment, silence no longer mattered. The swish of robes and the brisk clatter of heels announced Madam Pomfrey’s arrival, her wand already drawn. She spared only the briefest glance into the pit before declaring, “I’ve seen Mr. Crouch. He’ll need to be transferred to St. Mungo’s at once. His mind is… deteriorated.” Her voice faltered on the word, and her eyes slid instinctively toward Neville. The boy’s face had gone white.

 

Poppy drew herself up, professional mask snapping back into place, “Mr. Creevey told me Castor was also injured.” She swept toward the Malfoy twin without hesitation, her wand already glimmering with diagnostic charms. Castor stiffened under her practiced scan, eyes fixed somewhere far away. His skin was pale, his hand still faintly stained with blood, and though the magic whispered its report into Pomfrey’s experienced mind, it was the boy’s silence that struck her most.

 

She crouched slightly to meet his vacant stare, voice softening, “Mr. Malfoy, you’ll let me see to you now. No arguments.”

 

Castor wordlessly extended his injured hand, the gesture stiff and deliberate, as though that single offering was all he had left in him. Madam Pomfrey accepted it without comment, her sharp eyes softening for just a heartbeat. With a practiced flick of her wand she vanished the crusted blood that masked the cut, revealing the angry slice beneath. She tsked quietly, drawing a small vial of dittany from the emergency kit at her hip.

 

“Hold still, Mr. Malfoy,” she murmured, tilting the liquid carefully over the wound.

 

Flitwick, meanwhile, gestured toward the yawning trunk, “Alastor will require your attention the moment we can get him out,” he said gravely.

 

He turned on his heel and strode back into the classroom, his small stature doing nothing to lessen the authority in his voice. “That will be all for this morning, class. Gather your things and be gone.” When some students hesitated, he added firmly, “Ms. Weasley, kindly return to my Charms classroom and inform the others that their lesson is cancelled.”

 

The room began to clear in a shuffling of feet and nervous whispers. Before the last of them slipped out the door, Draco’s sharp voice cut through the din, “You!” he pointed at a Slytherin, “Go find Professor Snape. Tell him he needs to contact our parents at once. Mother is the only one who’s managed to bring Castor back from… this silence before. Do you understand?”

 

The Slytherin boy paled but nodded, lumbering away on his errand.

 

Pomfrey snapped her case shut and straightened, her expression brisk and brooking no argument. “Can you children see him safely to the hospital wing? Slowly now—no strain. I’ll follow once I’ve looked to Alastor and seen Mr. Crouch properly restrained. Then I can conduct a thorough examination of Mr. Malfoy in a quiet space.”

 

Theo’s arm tightened instinctively around Castor’s shoulders, steadying him before he could so much as sway. Draco immediately moved to Castor’s other side. Hermione, Neville, and Luna exchanged quick glances and fell in just behind, forming a protective barrier of their own. Castor allowed himself to be carried along by the quiet force of people who refused to let him stand alone.

Notes:

Everyone keeps saying they can’t wait to see what happens next—and honestly, same. I lost track of the plot a few chapters ago and have just been throwing words at the page. Judging by the reactions to the last update, it seems to be working, so here’s another one.

Chapter 66

Chapter 66

 

Castor hardly registered the walk across the stone floors; one moment he was shuffling along between Theo and Draco, the next he was being guided down onto the familiar crisp sheets of a hospital bed. The motion was gentle, deliberate—as though they feared he might shatter if handled too roughly. No one pressed him for explanations now. No one dared. They simply settled him against the pillows, speaking in low, cautious voices that washed around him like the murmur of the sea.

 

Castor let the quiet carry him. It was easier than forming words. Easier than meeting anyone’s eyes.

 

It wasn’t long before the relative calm was broken by the arrival of others. Madam Pomfrey swept in briskly, her wand drawn, guiding a floating stretcher that bore Alastor Moody’s battered frame. The man looked ragged but alive, his magical eye swiveling furiously in its socket even in exhaustion. Beside her, Professor Flitwick all but herded a wild-eyed Barty Crouch Sr. through the doors, his muttering fragmented and sharp.

 

The tension in the ward thickened further when the Headmaster himself arrived. Dumbledore’s presence filled the space at once, the air shifting as conversations died away. His gaze swept over the assembled group, sharp and assessing, before settling on the man strapped to the stretcher.

 

“Alastor,” Dumbledore’s voice carried, pitched deliberately to reach every corner of the hospital wing, “what happened?”

 

Moody turned his head, his real eye narrowing with something between relief and grim vindication. “It started before the school year ever began,” he rasped, voice raw but steady. “Barty Crouch Junior is alive. He and Peter Pettigrew came to my home.”

 

Gasps echoed around the ward.

 

“I fought back,” Moody went on, a dark chuckle catching in his throat, “but even I knew when I was beaten. I sent word for back-up, though t was to late. They must’ve had the Polyjuice ready to hand, because I was locked in that trunk immediately. He kept me there—taunted me. Said that when he was done pretending to be me, I’d no longer be of any use.”

 

He paused, his eye flicking briefly toward the students gathered near Castor before returning to Dumbledore. “Then suddenly the lid opened—and it wasn’t him standing over me this time. It was the Professor,” he nodded in the direction of Flitwick. “I don’t know what happened in the classroom.”

 

Dumbledore’s gaze flicked briefly toward Crouch Sr., but whatever answer he might have hoped for crumbled as the man peered owlishly at Flitwick and asked, with utmost sincerity, if Weatherby had always been so short. The muttered nonsense continued, spiraling into incoherent fragments, and the Headmaster abandoned that hope of clarity.

 

Instead, his eyes turned toward the only figure in the room who might still hold the truth.

 

Castor lowered his gaze instantly, feigning distraction in the way his hands twisted in his lap. He fixed his eyes there, willing himself into silence. He would not speak of what had happened—not here, not now, and certainly not with Albus Dumbledore. His parents would hear it before anyone else. They had promised him safety, but after tonight, those promises felt paper-thin, more fragile than ever.

 

The Headmaster drew closer, each step deliberate. His expression was carefully crafted, the same grandfatherly warmth Castor remembered from first year, when he had been summoned after facing Quirrell. That memory, once a lifeline, now tasted bitter. Knowing what he knew now, Castor could not dismiss the suspicion that Dumbledore’s kindly mask had been calculated even then. The recollection soured his stomach, and the repetition of it in this moment only set his nerves further on edge.

 

“Hello, my boy,” Dumbledore said, voice low and deceptively gentle. “It seems you have weathered yet another chaotic night.”

 

Castor gave him nothing. No nod, no word.

 

“I understand you do not wish to speak,” Dumbledore pressed, still calm, though a flicker of irritation edged his tone, “but you are the only one who can give us answers.”

 

Castor’s silence deepened, his gaze glued to the fabric of the sheets.

 

“Did you see Crouch?” Dumbledore continued. “Do you know where he is? Why he came here?”

 

Still nothing.

 

The Headmaster’s composure strained, his eyes narrowing just slightly, and Castor braced himself for the inevitable push. But the moment broke with the arrival of footsteps at the door.

 

Severus Snape entered first, expression taut, with Professor McGonagall just behind. But it was the figures shadowing them that pulled the entire ward taut with new tension: Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

 

Narcissa’s restraint shattered the instant her eyes found him. All elegance and composure fell away as she surged forward, heedless of propriety, her voice breaking the sterile air.

 

“Castor!”

 

She dropped to his bedside at once, her hands fluttering over him, checking, reassuring herself he was whole.

 

Lucius, ever the opposite, did not so much as glance at his son first. He turned sharply to the Headmaster, his voice clipped and cold, “What has happened?”

 

“I am still attempting to decipher that myself, Lucius,” Dumbledore replied, irritation seeping through the veneer of calm. “I was just asking the boy some questions, but he has yet to speak.”

 

Narcissa ignored the exchange, her fingers combing through Castor’s hair as though smoothing away the remnants of nightmare. “Not again,” she whispered, almost to herself. It was not reproach but weary lament, as though fate had singled her child out too many times already.

 

Then, her voice sharpened, rising like steel beneath silk. “What I do not understand,” she said, eyes flashing as she turned on the Headmaster, “is how my son is constantly in danger within the walls of your supposedly safe school! No wonder he suffers these… collapses. No wonder he breaks.”

 

Her voice trembled with fury, but her touch on Castor remained gentle, steady.

 

Castor, for his part, sat mute. He thought it unfair to lay the entirety of blame at Dumbledore’s feet—Lucius himself had caused more of his fair share of those incidents. And besides, Lucius had been the one to know that Barty was impersonating Moody.

 

That truth settled over him like a sheet of ice, heavy and suffocating. Safety, promises, trust—all of it felt cracked down the middle, jagged and fragile. Every time he placed his faith in them, every time he let himself believe he was protected, they seemed to prove him wrong. They tried, yes—they always tried—but their efforts often left the damage worse than before. He loved them still, desperately, fiercely, far too much for his own good. That love was not diminished, but it was burdened now, weighted with the quiet demand for explanations he doubted he would like. They had let this happen. They had allowed the danger.

 

And yet, none of that lessened the ache in his chest for the comfort of his mother’s arms. Love and doubt tangled in him like vines but need outweighed reason. So, he let instinct win. He leaned into Narcissa’s embrace, curling into her as though he could disappear into the shield she offered.

 

The rest of the hospital wing seemed to dim, voices receding into background noise he refused to acknowledge. Castor shut them out deliberately. His friends would never laugh at him for this—Hermione and Theo least of all. And as for the professors… once, he might have worried about Snape’s sharp tongue. But now, with his mother present, even that sliver of unease was gone. Narcissa Malfoy would not hesitate to eviscerate anyone, even Severus, should they dare to make her son feel small.

 

Lucius stood just behind them, his sharp profile angled toward Dumbledore and the other professors, but his eyes kept darting back to the sight of his son folded against Narcissa’s chest. The boy was trembling still, but silent—always silent when the world had demanded too much of him.

 

Lucius’s first instinct was rage. It roared in him, cold and merciless, the same fury that once fueled his every decision in darker days. He wanted to snarl at Dumbledore, to drag Castor out of this cursed school entirely, to shield him with wards and iron and the Malfoy name until nothing could touch him again. He wanted to strike at whoever had dared let his child bleed and break.

 

But then Castor shifted slightly, fingers knotting in Narcissa’s robes, and Lucius swallowed the roar. Anger could wait. Castor needed calm.

 

Lucius stepped closer, careful not to intrude, and rested a gloved hand lightly on his son’s shoulder. “You are safe now,” he said softly. The words came out more like a vow than a comfort. His tone carried none of Narcissa’s gentle warmth—it was steel wrapped in velvet, a promise to stand between Castor and the world until his son could steady himself again.

 

“I am sorry, Mrs. Malfoy, but I need to examine him,” Madam Pomfrey interjected briskly. “He allowed me to tend to his hand earlier, but I had his brother and friends bring him here while Filius and I assisted Alastor and Mr. Crouch back.”

 

Castor pressed his face further into Narcissa’s shoulder, as if burrowing away from the thought of being touched by anyone else.

 

Narcissa exhaled softly, stroking his back in slow circles. “Are you hurt anywhere else, darling?”

 

Castor gave the smallest shake of denial, the movement muffled against her.

 

Wanting to give Pomfrey room without pulling Castor from the safety of her arms, Narcissa angled her body slightly, exposing just enough of him for the mediwitch to work without prying him loose.

 

Pomfrey ran her wand in precise sweeps over Castor’s frame. The tip glowed briefly, then dimmed. She nodded to herself. “The slice on his hand appears to be the only physical injury. However…” Her lips pursed. “The boy is clearly in shock. The bulk of the damage is mental, not physical.”

 

Lucius’s jaw tightened, though he said nothing.

 

“I would recommend,” Pomfrey went on, glancing toward Snape, “adding a mild anxiety draught to his regimen. Nothing heavy—simply enough to take the edge off. His weight has improved substantially, which is encouraging, so we may ease his nutrient potion intake somewhat.”

 

Severus inclined his head, though his eyes flicked toward Castor as though already calculating which combination would least dull the boy’s sharpness.

 

Narcissa’s fingers stilled for a moment in her son’s hair. “Anxiety potion,” she repeated, her voice cool and cutting in its precision. “Tell me, Madam Pomfrey, how often do you prescribe such things because the school cannot keep its children safe?”

 

The air tightened. McGonagall’s lips pressed thin.

 

Before Pomfrey could respond, Lucius’s voice cut low, measured, dangerous: “I would prefer my son not be treated like a potion cabinet, patched together each time your ‘safe walls’ fail him. What I want to know, Headmaster, is how long this school intends to let him bleed in your hallways before action is taken.”

 

Dumbledore’s expression did not falter, but his eyes sharpened, fixed now on Lucius as much as on the trembling boy between his parents.

 

Castor felt the words settle like thunder in the room. He should have felt protected. Instead, the pressure of truth and expectation pressed heavier on his chest.

 

Dumbledore folded his hands before him, his expression carefully schooled into patience. “Lucius, I assure you, no harm was intended—”

 

“No harm intended?” Lucius’s voice sliced across the infirmary, low and precise, each syllable honed like a blade. He didn’t raise his volume—he didn’t need to. Fury rode in the controlled cadence of his words. “You tell me this as my son sits here trembling in his mother’s arms, his blood still drying on his sleeve?”

 

Narcissa’s hand stilled in Castor’s hair, then resumed its gentle motions, deliberately soothing, deliberately steady—as if she could anchor him against the storm of his father’s temper and the Headmaster’s evasions.

 

Dumbledore’s eyes flickered to Castor, softening as though to bypass Lucius and appeal directly to the boy. “Castor, if you would only—”

 

“No.” Narcissa’s word came quick and sharp, like a snap of frost. Her arms curled tighter around her son, shielding him from that piercing blue gaze. “He will not be used as a pawn in your games, Albus. Not while he can barely draw breath without trembling.”

 

Castor pressed his ear against his mothers should so he could hear every heartbeat in her chest, steady and strong, and he clung to it. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled in his throat. Every adult voice in the room seemed like a clash of storms above his head, the air too thick to breathe.

 

Lucius stepped closer to the bed, the measured tap of his cane against the stone ringing like a gavel. He stopped at Castor’s side, every inch of his posture declaring possession and protection. His voice was cool, clipped, yet thrummed with restrained fury.

 

“We will be taking Castor and Draco home. We will repair the damage this school has inflicted, and then—and only then—we will decide whether Hogwarts remains a suitable place for our children.”

 

The words fell heavy, a verdict rather than a suggestion.

 

The silence that followed was taut, stretched thin as a bowstring. Professor McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line, outrage flickering in her sharp eyes, though she bit back any rebuttal. Snape stood in shadow, his expression unreadable, but his eyes glittered with something—calculation, warning, perhaps even a flicker of reluctant agreement.

 

It was Dumbledore who finally broke the stillness. He stepped forward, his robes whispering across the stone, the weight of his presence filling the infirmary. His tone was calm, but there was steel beneath it.

 

“You cannot simply take him, Lucius,” Dumbledore said, voice pitched to carry. “We need to know what occurred last night. If danger lurks still within these walls, if others may yet come to harm—your son holds knowledge that could protect us all.”

 

Narcissa’s arms tightened around Castor at the implication, as though the boy himself were being bartered.

 

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, and when he spoke again his voice cut clean through the air. “As I suggested before—search the school. Call upon the aurors if you must. But do not think to wring answers from my child while he still suffers from your negligence.” His tone rose, thunder masked in silk. “My son was the one harmed here. He owes you nothing.”

 

The words crashed against the infirmary walls. Castor pressed his face deeper into his mother’s robes, his chest tight with something that was half-relief, half-guilt. His father’s fury wrapped around him like armor, a shield that kept Dumbledore’s piercing gaze at bay.

 

For the first time, Castor allowed himself a breath that wasn’t edged in fear.

 

Dumbledore’s eyes moved to him all the same, patient but relentless, like water wearing down stone. “Castor,” he said gently, “I know you are frightened. But if you could tell us even the smallest thing—”

 

Lucius shifted, his cane striking the floor once more, “He will not.”

 

The air grew heavy again, so thick with unspoken words it felt like the very walls were straining to hold them.

 

At last, it was Madam Pomfrey who broke the silence, her voice brisk but gentle, the tone of a woman determined to put her patient first. “You may take Castor home whenever you see fit, Lord Malfoy. Rest and quiet are what he requires most now.”

 

Her words cracked the tension like a chisel to stone.

 

Dumbledore’s lips parted, ready with another protest, his eyes glinting with that frustrating mix of sorrow and authority. But before he could utter a word, Lucius’s voice swept in, controlled and unyielding.

 

“Would it be possible to use your Floo?” His hand rested on the head of his cane, fingers tight around the serpent. “I have no desire for my son to be paraded through the corridors like some spectacle for gawking children. He has suffered enough indignities today.”

 

Pomfrey dipped her head in agreement at once. “Of course. I’ll prepare it immediately.” She glanced toward the small fireplace tucked against the wall of her office. “I’ll need the powder regardless—I must contact St. Mungo’s on Mr. Crouch’s behalf.”

 

She moved briskly toward her office, fussing with her robes and muttering about the state of the evening.

 

Narcissa smoothed a hand down Castor’s hair, her voice low and soothing. “We’ll be home soon, my darling. You’ll rest in your own bed tonight.”

 

Draco, still pale with worry, shifted closer to the bedframe, his eyes fixed on his brother as though afraid he might vanish if left unguarded.

 

Castor could hear his father’s voice still echoing in the room, ironclad and final.

 

Madam Pomfrey returned moments later, a small pouch of Floo powder in her hand. “It’s ready,” she announced, setting the container on the mantel. She fussed briefly with the hearth until green flames roared to life, their flickering glow throwing long shadows across the infirmary.

 

Narcissa coaxed Castor gently to his feet, smoothing his rumpled robes as though he were still a little boy who had toppled in the garden. Draco was instantly at his side, one hand hovering protectively near his elbow, ready to catch him if he stumbled.

 

Lucius stepped forward, his presence commanding, his cane striking the stone floor like a heartbeat. “Narcissa, you first. Draco, stay close to your mother. I’ll bring Castor.”

 

Castor’s throat felt tight. The infirmary—though filled with too many eyes—had at least been familiar. The green fire looked like a wall he wasn’t sure he could walk through. His hand curled tighter in his mother’s sleeve, but Narcissa only kissed his hair and whispered, “It will carry you straight home, sweetheart. I’ll be waiting.” Then, gathering Draco close, she swept into the flames with the practiced grace of someone who had done this a thousand times. “Malfoy Manor!” she called, and in a rush of green sparks, they were gone.

 

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to still. The fire popped and hissed, casting an eerie glow over those left behind.

 

Lucius turned, the set of his shoulders daring anyone to object. “Come,” he said softly, but the word rang with absolute authority.

 

Castor leaned into him. The familiar scent of polished leather and faint cologne surrounded him as his father guided him forward. Lucius crouched, so their eyes were level, his gloved hand steady on the boy’s shoulder. “Look at me, Castor. Only at me. Nothing else matters. Step into the flame, say the words, and you’ll be home.”

 

Home. The word was a lifeline.

 

With Lucius’s arm around him, Castor stepped into the hearth. The green fire licked harmlessly at his robes as his father’s voice carried clear and strong over his shoulder:

 

“Malfoy Manor.”

 

The world spun in a rush of color and ash.

 

When he stumbled out the other side, Narcissa was there, catching him before he could fall. Draco hovered at her side, relief softening his drawn face. Lucius stepped through behind them, dusting soot from his cloak, his expression as severe as ever but his eyes—just for a moment—betraying quiet relief.

 

Lucius shifted his hold, transferring Castor gently into Narcissa’s arms as though he were something fragile that might shatter if handled too roughly. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of command.

 

“You are the one he needs now,” he said, his tone softening only for her. “You take care of him. I will go… and have words with Bartimaeus.”

 

Narcissa inclined her head in acknowledgment, no questions asked, no protests offered. They understood each other perfectly—Lucius would take the burden of strategy and vengeance, and she would bear the weight of comfort and healing.

 

She brushed a kiss to her son’s temple before guiding him forward. Castor clung to her sleeve, silent but compliant, each step heavy as if the floor itself resisted him. Draco fell into place on his other side, watchful, ready to steady him if his legs faltered.

 

Narcissa led them down the familiar corridors of the Manor, past tall windows where the evening light filtered pale and cold. Her pace was measured, not hurried, as though the act of walking itself was meant to coax Castor back into rhythm with the world. At last, they reached the doors of the greenhouse.

 

It was warm inside, the air rich with the scent of damp earth and the faint sweetness of blooming nightshade. Warding charms kept the space comfortable no matter the season; it was always spring here. Narcissa guided him to the small bench near the orchids, the same spot she had brought him to the last time he’d been broken and shaking.

 

“Sit, darling,” she murmured, lowering herself beside him. She smoothed his hair from his face, tucking stray strands neatly behind his ea. Draco, stiff with restless energy, hovered close, unwilling to leave but unsure how to help.

 

“Tea, Mother?” Draco asked at last, his voice unusually quiet.

 

“Yes,” Narcissa said, her eyes never leaving Castor. “The calming blend. And bring a blanket.”

 

Draco walked aside to quietly call an elf to bring the requested items.

 

Narcissa tilted Castor’s chin gently, forcing his gaze up to hers. “You are safe,” she said softly, firmly, as though anchoring him to the words. “Whatever happened, it cannot reach you here. Not while you are under this roof. Not while I draw breath.”

 

Her son’s lips parted as though he meant to speak, but no sound came. Instead, he leaned into her, curling against her side as though he could hide in the folds of her gown. She held him closer, rocking slightly, whispering soothing nothings that only a mother could craft.

Notes:

This bit probably should’ve gone in the last chapter, but I thought I’d make it to the conversation with Barty. Since the chapter was already getting a little long, I’m dropping it here instead—lol.

Chapter 67: Chapter 67

Chapter 67

 

Lucius stormed into Riddle Manor like a tempest contained in fine robes, his cane striking the stone with a sound that echoed down the dim corridors. Rage propelled him forward, sharp and cold, and though he knew the impropriety of what he was about to do, he no longer cared. Only once before had he dared show such open defiance before his Lord—when he had believed the Dark Lord guilty of stealing his child. Then, he had been mistaken. This time, he was certain. His son had been harmed, and the culprits sat under this very roof.

 

The door to the main room flew open with a bang. Inside, the Dark Lord sat in his high-backed chair, shadows coiling around him like smoke, Pettigrew crouched at his feet like some half-starved rat, and Crouch lounged with his usual arrogance, a smirk already forming at being in his master’s good graces.

 

Lucius’s fury honed in on him like a hawk to prey.

 

Without a word, without even a bow of respect, Lucius crossed the room in three long strides and struck. His fist connected with Crouch’s jaw in a sickening crack, sending the other wizard reeling back against the stone wall. The impact reverberated up Lucius’s arm, but the satisfaction was instant, burning through his restraint.

 

Crouch staggered, clutching his face with one hand while his other fumbled for his wand. Blood trickled from his lip, his eyes blazing with disbelief.

 

“What the fuck?!” he spat, voice muffled by the hand over his swelling jaw. “I didn’t even touch the boy!”

 

His words rang with defensive confusion, as though Lucius’s outrage was far greater than the crime he believed he’d committed. He truly didn’t understand the depth of his trespass.

 

Lucius loomed over him, wand drawn now, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “You may not have laid a hand on him, but do not dare insult me by pretending your games had no cost. My son was left broken, terror-stricken, sprawled on the floor of that castle because of you.”

 

The Dark Lord did not move. He did not stop them. He merely observed, crimson eyes gleaming with an unreadable amusement, as though this conflict were nothing more than entertainment.

 

Crouch sneered, baring his teeth like an animal cornered, “The brat got spooked, that’s all. If he can’t handle a little pressure, he doesn’t belong in this war—”

 

Lucius’s wand was at his throat before the sentence could finish. His gloved hand shook, not from fear but from the sheer effort of containing his rage, “He is fourteen! He doesn’t belong in the war!”

 

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Crouch’s expression. He glanced at the Dark Lord for rescue, but Voldemort remained still, silent, lips curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile.

 

The message was clear: You made this bed, Bartimaeus. Lie in it.

 

Barty didn’t flinch again, though the swelling on his jaw darkened. He raised his hands slowly, not in surrender, but in mock reason, his expression slipping into that smug calm that made men want to throttle him all the more.

 

“Lucius, think for one damned moment. We needed his blood. That was inevitable. There are two paths to restoring our Lord: one, drag the boy to us during the final task—by portkey, through the Cup. That was the plan. Quick, clean, done. Blood ripped by force, enemy vanquished, ritual complete.”

 

He tilted his head, eyes glinting, “But fate has a sense of humor, doesn’t it? The Goblet gave us the wrong name. How was I to know Potter was your son? That complication wasn’t mine.”

 

Barty spread his hands wider, a mockery of openness, “So I adjusted. With Moody’s eye, I had no trouble keeping watch. Last night I caught sight of Castor sneaking my father into the castle—my father, Lucius, the man I’ve kept chained under the Imperius for months. He managed to wriggle free. If he had exposed me, the entire plan would’ve gone up in smoke. And what did your boy do? Drew his wand. He was ready to duel me for that shriveled wreck. Admirable in a way, but reckless.”

 

His lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “That’s when I decided on the second path. A rarer one. Blood, not taken, but given. The vanquisher’s blood offered freely, in atonement. Do you see the elegance of it? I gave him a choice. Willingly offer a vial… or face me trying to rip it out by force and watch my father and Moody die while he bled. Which do you think is the better gift for our Lord? The boy’s blood, given of his own accord—or blood wrung from him kicking and screaming?”

 

Barty let the words hang, smug and poisonous, “I never laid a finger on him, Lucius. Not once. That cut was his doing. He gave it. Willingly. And in the end, our Lord will rise stronger for it. You should be thanking me.”

 

Lucius did not move for several long, suffocating moments. His cane rested at his side, his gloved hand still curled around its serpent head, white-knuckled but steady. The silence pressed, heavy as stone, and even Pettigrew seemed to shrink into the wall, desperate not to draw attention.

 

When Lucius finally spoke, it was soft—so soft it forced everyone in the room to lean closer to hear.

 

“You would have me thank you,” he repeated, each word deliberate, precise, dripping with venomous calm. His grey eyes had gone flat, merciless. “You would stand there and tell me my son’s blood was an inevitability… a necessity… and that his terror, his pain, his… sacrifice…” His jaw tightened, “…were an act of grace on your part?”

 

Barty opened his mouth, some half-formed retort at the ready, but Lucius raised his cane a fraction, and the younger man froze.

 

“My son,” Lucius continued, voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp, “is not your pawn. He is not your bargaining chip. He is not your experiment in ritual variants.” He took a slow step forward, each click of his heel ringing like a death knell. “And should you ever—ever—approach him again with threats, with ultimatums, or with your filthy little justifications, you will discover precisely how creative I can be with pain.”

 

His cane pressed against Barty’s chest now, not striking, just resting there, a promise more dreadful than any blow, “Do not mistake restraint for forgiveness. I will remember.”

 

Lucius drew back just enough to give the impression of restraint, though his glare remained fixed on Barty. His voice came low, clipped, and dangerous.

 

“You could have told me what you required,” he said, each syllable precise as a blade’s edge. “I would have found a way—quietly, efficiently—without subjecting my child to terror he has already known too well.”

 

His grip tightened on the serpent head of his cane, “Castor has suffered enough. Not only at the hands of both sides of this war, but in the filth of those Muggles who raised him. He has been torn and twisted by cruelties you cannot even fathom, and yet you dare heap more upon him?”

 

Lucius leaned in, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “This war is not his battlefield. We are striving—fighting—to carve him a place away from all of this, to give him some semblance of peace before something happens from which we cannot bring him back. He needs only to finish his schooling. After that, he will go where he belongs—on dragon reserves, far from this madness. Far from you.”

 

For a moment, only the sound of Lucius’s breath filled the chamber. Barty shifted uneasily, torn between defiance and guilt, but it was not his voice that answered.

 

A low, sibilant laugh uncoiled from the shadows.

 

“My, my…” Voldemort’s tone was silken, amused, but his crimson eyes glittered with something sharper, “The protective father bares his fangs.”

 

“I remember,” the Dark Lord continued watching the man closely, “when you came to me once before, spitting accusations, daring to think I had stolen your son.” His lip curved in something between a smile and a sneer. “And yet here you are again, Lucius—full of righteous fury, as if your grief gives you license to forget yourself.”

 

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Pettigrew whimpered.

 

Voldemort’s voice softened, deceptively kind, “I would not mistake your devotion for disobedience. You love your son. That much is… clear. Even useful.” His eyes narrowed, locking with Lucius’s. “But do remember—Castor’s fate, like yours, is mine to decide. His blood, his survival, his place in this war… all of it lies beneath my hand.”

 

The words slithered into the silence like a curse, a velvet-wrapped reminder of who truly held power.

 

Lucius inclined his head at once, dropping to one knee in a bow that was both practiced and necessary. His cane clattered softly against the stone as he lowered it, a gesture of submission that still carried the weight of restraint.

 

“My Lord,” he said, his voice smoother now, though there was iron beneath the silk, “forgive the… vehemence of my arrival. It was unbecoming. My loyalty to you is not in question, nor will it ever be.”

 

He lifted his gaze, not quite meeting Voldemort’s eyes, but steady all the same, “But understand this: Castor is not a soldier in your war. He is my son. I will give you my wand, my fortune, my life without hesitation—but not the boy’s blood again. Not without my knowledge. Not without my hand in the matter.”

 

He bowed his head once more, this time deeper, “I will find other ways to serve. I will make amends for what you see as my presumption. But Castor has suffered enough at the hands of both enemies and allies. If he is to remain whole, he must be spared from these… methods.”

 

The silence that followed was brittle, dangerous. Voldemort’s crimson eyes narrowed, but there was something faintly amused flickering behind them, as though Lucius’s defiance was a dog baring its teeth at its master—unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome.

 

“Once I have fully recovered,” Voldemort said, his voice low and deliberate, “I will still need to meet the boy myself. To test this connection he has to me. If it is what I suspect… it may prove either a great asset—or a great liability. And such things cannot be left unmeasured.”

 

He leaned back in his chair, pale fingers drumming idly against the armrest, the faintest curve of a smile twisting his lips, “Do not mistake me, Lucius. I am not without appreciation for the bond between father and son. But if Castor carries within him even a fragment of power tied to me… then his future cannot be left solely in your hands. We will need to discuss it further, when the time comes. Perhaps the boy will serve our cause better than you allow yourself to believe.”

 

The words were velvet over steel, promise and threat entwined. Voldemort gave a slow, serpentine blink, crimson eyes gleaming. “Until then, I will allow him his reprieve. But the day approaches when sentiment will no longer be permitted to outweigh necessity.”

 

888

 

When Lucius arrived back at the Manor, an elf quietly informed him that his wife and sons were in the greenhouse. He made his way through the marble halls and glass doors, tension still stiff in his shoulders.

 

Inside, the warmth of charmed sunlight spilled across rows of exotic plants, fragrant blossoms opening despite the season. His eyes went straight to Castor. The boy was seated at the wrought-iron table with his mother and brother, a teacup cradled between pale hands. He was still wan, but some of the color had returned to his cheeks, and the rigid tightness in his frame had eased. Lucius felt his chest loosen just slightly; Narcissa had always known how to coax calm back into their children.

 

He crossed the floor, his cane clicking softly against the stone tiles, and stopped beside the table. Beyond the glass, an ostentation of their peacocks strutted past the gardens, tails fanning, oblivious to human strife.

 

Lucius leaned down, hunching just enough to bring himself to Castor’s level. He placed a careful hand on his son’s shoulder, mindful of the boy’s fragility. His voice was steady, low, and deliberate, “You need not speak of it if you are not ready,” he began. “But know this—I have dealt with the situation. I have made it clear to both Crouch and the Dark Lord that such actions will not be tolerated toward you. Crouch will keep his distance.”

 

He paused, his thumb brushing once across Castor’s sleeve, almost an unconscious reassurance, “The Dark Lord… still wishes to see you, in time. To test the nature of this connection you bear. Ideally, he may even find a way to still the visions altogether. If so, you might yet be removed from this war entirely—free to move on, to live as you should, away from these battles.”

 

He straightened, the words hanging between them, then glanced to Narcissa and Draco. Both were watching him closely, weighing the truths hidden in his careful phrasing. For Lucius, the vow was silent but ironclad: no matter what Voldemort intended, his son would not be made a pawn again.

Chapter 68

Chapter 68

 

Narcissa was profoundly grateful she had thought to expand the window bed for Castor. The addition had proved invaluable last night. It was far easier to sleep with her son this time. Hedwig was there as well, for the snowy owl had appeared just before bed and settled possessively at the foot of the mattress.

 

When dawn crept in, pale and golden through the enchanted panes, Narcissa stirred to find Castor still asleep in her arms. His breathing was slow and even, but she knew how hard-fought that rest had been. It had taken him a long time to settle, his body taut with the remnants of fear. Before that, he had dozed on the sofa in the sitting room after their quiet family supper, only to bolt awake not long after, shaking from a nightmare.

 

This time had been different from the terrifying visions she had learned to recognize; he had not been so violently unreachable. When she finally coaxed words from him, he had muttered it was “just a normal dream.” Narcissa had believed him, but the truth unsettled her more deeply. If nightmares of an ordinary sort plagued him so often, it meant he likely suffered them most nights, with or without the Dark Lord’s shadow pressing into his mind. That thought twisted her heart.

 

Her arm tingled with numbness beneath the boy’s weight, but she refused to shift. She would not risk waking him when sleep was such a precious commodity for him. Rest was the most vital balm, and she would not steal it away for her own comfort.

 

Hedwig, watchful and almost solemn, regarded them from her perch at the foot of the bed. Narcissa tilted her head in silent invitation, and the owl responded with surprising delicacy, stepping into her lap. With her free hand, Narcissa stroked the creature’s soft feathers, grateful for the loyal guardian her son had found in the bird. Together, woman and owl kept vigil, waiting for the boy to wake in his own time.

 

It was nearly an hour later when Castor stirred, shifting against her arm. He blinked groggily, his grey eyes still hazy with sleep. Narcissa’s lips curved into a soft, maternal smile as he peered up at her.

 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she murmured, brushing a strand of silver hair from his forehead. “How do you feel?”

 

For a heartbeat, he only looked at her, wide-eyed in the same owlish way Hedwig sometimes regarded the world. Then emotions flickered rapidly across his face—confusion, vulnerability, and something like hope—before settling into a faint wince of discomfort, as though admitting aloud how he felt might be too great a burden.

 

Narcissa smoothed her hand through his hair again, steadying him with touch as much as words. “You don’t need to answer at once,” she said gently, “You’re safe here. That’s all that matters.”

 

Castor was quiet for a long moment, eyes drifting past her shoulder as though the greenhouse windows might provide answers. Finally, in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, he said,

 

“I don’t know. It—it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever been through. But… it felt like it came out of nowhere. I hadn’t even really paid much attention to Mr. Crouch, not even after I realized his son was here in Hogwarts under everyone’s noses. When I saw him... I just wanted to help.”

 

He swallowed, fingers tightening on the blanket at his chest. “I thought Dumbledore would be the one to stop me, not Crouch Jr. I didn’t even consider he’d… he’d do something like that to his own father. I—” His voice cracked slightly, and he had to force the rest out, “I just can’t stand by and watch people get hurt. But now it feels like I’ve made everything worse.”

 

A soft, disapproving sound escaped Narcissa, and she reached out to brush back the stray strands of silver that clung to his forehead. “No, sweetheart. You haven’t made anything worse,” her tone was firm but soothing, every word deliberate, “The Dark Lord was returning no matter what path was taken. That was beyond your control. What was in your control was how you faced it. And you chose a way that saved not only yourself, but two others as well. That matters.”

 

Her expression softened, though there was a glint of steel in her eyes, “Would I prefer it if you had a bit more self-preservation than to try to match yourself against a grown wizard? Yes, most certainly. But do not twist your bravery into guilt. What you did was not wrong, Castor.”

 

For a moment, silence stretched between them before Narcissa continued, voice quieter but all the more intense for it, “Castor, listen to me. You cannot save everyone, no matter how desperately you wish to. And if you try, you will lose yourself. You may already feel as if the world has taken enough from you, but you have so much yet to live for. You are not expendable, no matter what others may try to make you believe.”

 

888

 

Breakfast was a quiet affair. The clink of silverware against china and the occasional rustle of a page from the Daily Prophet were the only real sounds for a while. Narcissa encouraged soft, inconsequential conversation—remarks about the weather, the orchids in the greenhouse, the peacocks outside the windows—but for the most part, they simply ate together in companionable silence, allowing Castor a rare moment of calm.

 

That calm lasted only until the dishes vanished with a snap of elf-magic. Lucius set down his napkin with deliberate precision, his expression sharpening as he turned to the matter at hand.

 

“We will need to decide what to tell the Professors,” Lucius said smoothly, though the weight in his voice made it clear this was not a subject to be avoided, “As Madam Bones has yet to contact us, it is safe to assume that Dumbledore never reported the incident to the Aurors. While that is—” his lip curled faintly, “—a rather foolish oversight on his part, it does leave us with more room to maneuver. Fewer official eyes, fewer inquiries to manage.”

 

Castor nodded, understanding the subtext: fewer lies to maintain.

 

Draco, however, leaned back in his chair with a faint smirk that did not reach his eyes, “Castor isn’t exactly the best liar, Father.”

 

Castor shot him a glare, but Lucius only raised a brow. “A fair point,” Lucius conceded. “Fortunately, the best lies are those built from the truth. We do not need Castor to invent anything—only to withhold what is… dangerous. You will speak of your concern for Crouch, and how you attempted to help him. That much is true. As for the rest…” His voice grew colder, more precise, “Barty Crouch Jr. will bear the brunt of suspicion. He is the one who attacked his own father, and that is narrative enough.”

 

Narcissa’s hand slid protectively over Castor’s, “He should not be pressed too harshly. He has been through enough.”

 

“Of course,” Lucius murmured, his tone gentling a fraction as he glanced at her before turning back to his son, “You will not need to give Dumbledore more than fragments. Crouch Jr. acted, his father suffered, you attempted to intervene. That is all. Leave the rest to me.”

 

Castor shifted in his seat, shoulders tensing, “And if Dumbledore doesn’t believe me?”

 

Lucius’s eyes sharpened, a flicker of cold steel slipping through the otherwise calm mask. “He probably won’t,” he admitted with unsettling frankness, “But his belief is irrelevant. He would have to prove it, and there is nothing to prove. Still—” his fingers tapped once against the table, precise, deliberate, “—there is another path we might take.”

 

Castor’s brow furrowed, curiosity mingling with unease, “What is it?”

 

“We could remove you boys from Hogwarts altogether,” Lucius said evenly, though the very suggestion carried the weight of finality, “You would need to return for the final task, of course, but until then… we could arrange private tutors, or even consider Durmstrang. Karkaroff owes me favors.”

 

Castor bit his lip, torn between the lure of safety and the thought of losing everything he had fought to keep. The very idea of Durmstrang felt wrong, cold, foreign. Hogwarts had been his home for years, even when it hadn’t always been kind to him. And more than that… it was where Theo was.

 

His voice was quiet, but steady, “I… I want to stay with Theo.”

 

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Narcissa’s gaze softened, her hand drifting toward his as though to anchor him. A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “We had a feeling you might say that,” she murmured warmly, “But hear me, Castor—at any point, if you wish to come home, we can make it so. You are not trapped. There will always be another option.”

 

Lucius inclined his head slightly, the barest concession to her words. “Your mother is correct. Choice is a luxury, but it is also a weapon. Remember that,” his pale eyes settled on Castor, searching, measuring. “If you remain at Hogwarts, you must do so with eyes open. Trust no one you are not certain of. Least of all Dumbledore.”

 

Draco finally spoke, a trace of impatience threading his voice, “And Potter’s friends will only make things worse. You can’t rely on them. At least Nott isn’t an idiot.”

 

Castor narrowed his eyes at his twin but held his tongue. Theo wasn’t just “not an idiot”—he was the only one who made Castor feel like he wasn’t carrying everything alone.

 

Narcissa smoothed a strand of silver hair back from Castor’s forehead and spoke before tension could rise further, “Then it is settled. You will remain—for now. But you will also remember that your family stands ready should you need us. Always.”

 

888

 

Castor sat curled into one of the deep leather chairs in the library, the soft crackle of the fireplace and the occasional rustle of parchment the only sounds around him. His family had given him space deliberately—an unspoken agreement that he needed room to breathe, to steady himself after the whirlwind of revelations and danger. They had extended their stay through the weekend, not pressing him, simply waiting nearby as though to remind him that he wasn’t alone.

 

He tried not to dwell on everything that had happened. The weight of it still pressed against him, but rather than sink into it, Castor forced his mind toward something more practical, something he could control: the final task of the Tournament. Bagman’s too-bright smile had promised “a maze filled with obstacles,” but Castor had caught the casual slip about creatures. Hagrid’s creatures.

 

That clue was enough. After two years of lessons with Hagrid—and more time spent helping him outside of class than most students ever dared—Castor had a fairly strong idea of what might be lurking between the hedges.

 

He rose from his chair and began pulling volumes from the shelves with a focused determination. Bestiaries, handling guides, field manuals on defensive magic—he stacked them into an untidy tower beside him before settling back down. Carefully, he leafed through pages, quill scratching across parchment as he compiled lists of possibilities.

 

Acromantulas—he shivered slightly, recalling the forest and the gleaming black eyes staring out from the dark. Blast-Ended Skrewts—ugly, temperamental things with armor that resisted most spells. Hagrid adored them, of course. Castor grimaced but dutifully jotted down their known weaknesses, however slight.

 

The notes grew into columns of strengths and vulnerabilities, spells that might deter or disable, tricks of behavior that could be exploited. Every now and then his mind drifted, not to the Tournament, but to the greater storm circling outside Hogwarts, to Dumbledore, to the Dark Lord—but he pushed it back. This, at least, he could prepare for.

 

For now, it was easier to imagine facing creatures in a hedge maze than everything else waiting beyond it.

 

Castor was so absorbed in his reading that he nearly jumped out of his chair when a voice spoke just behind him.

 

“You really are obsessed with creatures.”

 

His quill slipped, smudging ink across the margin. Turning quickly, Castor found Draco leaning over his shoulder, eyes scanning the neat columns of notes with thinly veiled amusement.

 

Castor rolled his eyes but chose not to correct him. “Obsessed” wasn’t quite right—though truthfully, he did enjoy the subject beyond simple necessity. Besides, it was easier not to explain that the notes were meant for the looming Task.

 

“You and Theo really are a good match,” Draco went on smoothly, settling into the chair beside him as though he’d been invited. “He’s been that way since we were little. Mother used to take me to the zoo every summer, and more often than not Theo would already be there, trailing after the keepers. His grandfather never required him to help, but Theo always insisted on doing more than his share. Said he was going to beat his grandfather’s record one day,” Draco gave a dry little laugh, “And Merlin forbid anyone tried to tell him otherwise.”

 

Castor’s lips quirked at that, warmth tugging at his chest, “I know. He said as much often enough when I first gave him the basilisk. He couldn’t believe his luck. The pieces have been selling faster than I expected, too. Mr. Nott even sent me a letter saying he’d opened an account at Gringotts for my share of the sales. He’s been sending me updates every week.” Castor shook his head, still baffled, “I knew Theo wasn’t exaggerating when he said the body was valuable, but I didn’t imagine it would be that valuable.”

 

Draco smirked knowingly and leaned back, stretching his legs under the table, “When rare ingredients hit the market, potion masters would sell their souls for them. Sometimes literally.”

 

Castor blinked, eyebrows arching, “Really?”

 

“Of course,” Draco replied, the casual tilt of his shoulders making him look older than his years, “Ingredients like basilisk venom or scales aren’t just rare—they’re the sort of thing that lets a master create something entirely new. Even if they don’t brew with it immediately, most will hoard it away in vaults until inspiration strikes. It’s less about what they can make now and more about the possibilities those ingredients represent.”

 

Castor tapped the feather of his quill thoughtfully against the parchment, a little stunned by the weight of what he’d handed over to Theo so casually. The fortune was one thing, but the influence… the power to give wizards new tools—or weapons—was another entirely.

 

Draco, watching him carefully, added more softly, “You do realize you’ve handed Theo the sort of opportunity most heirs only dream about?”

 

Castor smiled faintly, eyes dropping back to his parchment though the words blurred, “Not at the time, but I’m glad I did. He deserves it. He’s been… so kind to me. When it’s just the two of us, everything is quiet. Peaceful. I can forget all the madness around me.” His voice softened, the admission slipping out before he could stop it, “I think… I think I might love him.”

 

Draco stilled. For a moment, the Malfoy mask slipped—surprise flickering across his face before he quickly schooled it away. He leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. “That’s a strong word, Castor,” he said carefully. Not chastising, but weighing it, testing its weight in the air.

 

“I know,” Castor’s hand tightened around his quill, “But I feel different with him. Like I’m not… broken or lost. Like I don’t have to pretend. I’ve never had that before, Draco. Not with anyone.”

 

Draco let out a quiet breath, studying his brother as though trying to decide how much of this was infatuation and how much was something deeper. “Theo’s steady,” he admitted after a pause, “Always has been. He doesn’t waste words, doesn’t play games. If he’s given you his attention, then he means it. He wouldn’t toy with you.”

 

Castor’s heart lifted at that, though a flicker of doubt still remained, “Do you think Father and Mother would approve?”

 

Draco gave a little smirk, but there was no mockery in it, “Mother would. She already likes Theodore, and she values anyone who brings you peace. Father…” His smirk grew sly. “Well, Father values ambition, power, and cunning. And Theodore Nott is all of those things. Besides,” he added dryly, “it’s not as though you’d listen if they didn’t approve.”

 

That earned him a startled laugh from Castor, who ducked his head, “Maybe not.”

 

Draco tilted his head, watching him with rare gentleness, “Just be sure, Castor. Loving someone means handing them the sharpest knife you own and trusting they won’t turn it on you. Theo’s always been my friend, but if he ever hurt you…” His voice hardened slightly, just enough to cut through the warmth, “He’d answer to me first.”

 

Castor chuckled softly, shaking his head, “I’ll keep that in mind. Merlin help Theo if he ever gets on your bad side.”

 

Draco’s lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile, “Exactly.” He leaned back in his chair, reaching over to idly flip one of Castor’s books shut, “Enough of that, though. If you bury yourself in notes any deeper, you’ll be sprouting feathers or scales yourself. Come on—Mother will be furious if we don’t make it to lunch.”

 

Castor hesitated, glancing longingly at the piles of parchment, but the warmth in Draco’s smirk drew him up from his seat. “Fine,” he relented, “But only because I don’t fancy explaining to Mother why I skipped a meal.”

 

“Smart choice,” Draco said, rising with him. He paused, his voice dropping low as he touched Castor’s arm briefly, “And Castor? For what it’s worth… I’m glad you have someone who makes you feel safe.”

 

Castor’s throat tightened, but he managed a small nod, a quiet smile tugging at his lips, “Me too.”

 

Together, they left the library—the books and parchment abandoned for now, but the conversation lingering, like an ember tucked safely away to glow in the quiet corners of Castor’s heart.

Notes:

I know I've mentioned it before but I have the best comment section! 1000 comments in 2 months! Thank you so much!

Chapter 69

Chapter 69

 

It was decided they would return to Hogwarts on Sunday afternoon rather than wait until Monday morning. Castor had insisted—he wanted one last swim with Kraken before plunging back into the uncertainty that awaited him at school.

 

The morning passed quietly. He and his mother walked down to the stables, as they had so many times before. Narcissa moved with her usual grace, brushing down the horses while Castor worked beside her, comforted by the familiar rhythm of the task. They spoke only in fragments, but there was something soothing in that simplicity: the snort of a horse, the soft swish of a tail, the gentle clink of tack. Afterwards, they shared a quiet lunch together in the solarium, sunlight streaming through the tall glass windows.

 

Peaceful though it was, Castor’s nerves coiled tighter with every hour that passed. The thought of facing Dumbledore again hung over him like a storm cloud, dimming even the warmth of his mother’s presence.

 

When it came time to leave, Lucius and Narcissa made their position clear—they would not let Castor go to Dumbledore alone. Severus had already given his recommendation: that Castor report straight to his office upon arrival, so the situation could be dealt with before more rumors had time to spread. Lucius, coldly determined, and Narcissa, quietly protective, agreed without hesitation.

 

The return through the Floo was as graceless as ever. Castor stumbled out of the green flames and would have fallen flat on his face had Draco not caught his elbow.

 

“Still hopeless,” Draco muttered, though there was more steadiness than mockery in his tone.

 

Severus was waiting, arms folded, his expression sharper than usual. His dark eyes flicked immediately to Lucius, “I trust you have your story in order?”

 

Lucius’s voice was smooth, measured, every syllable honed like a blade, “Castor is innocent of any wrongdoing. We will be telling the truth. But,” his gaze hardened, “Dumbledore does not need every gory detail laid bare.”

 

“He’s expecting you,” Severus said, his voice low but clipped, “I’ll escort you there. The Headmaster made it quite clear—he wanted to see Castor the moment he returned.”

 

Lucius inclined his head in cool acknowledgment, and with that the family of four fell into step behind Snape. The climb from the dungeons felt endless—staircases shifting beneath their feet, corridors stretching on like labyrinthine passages. Castor kept his gaze fixed ahead, but he could feel the stares prickling at his back. Students whispered as they passed, fingers pointing subtly—or not so subtly—at the unusual sight of the entire Malfoy family moving through the castle together under Snape’s lead.

 

Narcissa’s hand brushed his shoulder once, just briefly, a wordless reassurance. Draco walked tight at his side, as if daring anyone to come closer.

 

At last they reached the stone gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster’s office. Snape leaned forward and whispered the password; the guardian leapt aside with a scrape of stone, revealing the spiral staircase.

 

They climbed in silence, the soft whir of the moving steps the only sound until they reached the oak door. Snape lifted his hand to knock, but before his knuckles made contact, a voice rang out from within—calm, clear, and already expecting them.

 

“Come in.”

 

Snape opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing the Malfoys through before following in their wake.

 

The office glowed warmly with the late-afternoon light filtering through tall windows, shelves groaning with books and curious trinkets. Fawkes watched from his perch, golden feathers catching the light like fire.

 

“Ah!” Dumbledore’s voice broke across the space, too bright, too welcoming, “It is good to see you have recovered, my boy.” His twinkling eyes fixed on Castor, though the smile that accompanied them did not quite reach their depths. Then he shifted his attention smoothly to Lucius, “I was not expecting all of you. Is there something I can do for you, Lucius?”

 

Lucius stepped forward, every movement precise, his tone edged with cool civility, “I had a feeling you would wish to speak with Castor. As it was a traumatic event—one from which only his mother was able to draw him back—we thought it best to accompany him. We will not risk him falling into the state he endured only days ago.”

 

The old man inclined his head, the smile never leaving his lips though his eyes sharpened just slightly. “Yes… I see. Quite understandable,” his gaze settled once more on Castor, that piercing blue stare seeming to sift through him like smoke seeking cracks in stone, “Well then. I suppose that means you are ready to explain your side of the evening, my boy?”

 

Castor’s throat tightened. He swallowed thickly, forcing his voice steady. “Bagman had us outside to discuss the third task. There was still a little time before curfew, so I went to visit Kraken and give him a snack. I was on my way back in when I noticed Mr. Crouch stumbling around the grounds—he was muttering nonsense, clearly confused. He needed help, so I brought him inside.” Castor hesitated, the memory flashing sharp and sickly in his mind. “When I was taking him to the hospital wing… I ran into Moody.”

 

Narcissa’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, her touch grounding him, but before he could continue Lucius’s voice slid in, cool and deliberate, “Moody tried to take Crouch away from Castor. Naturally, my son grew suspicious. It was then the Polyjuice wore off, and the imposter revealed himself to be Barty Crouch Jr.” Lucius’s gaze cut toward the Headmaster, the weight of the name hanging in the air like a curse. “He made threats against both his father and the real Moody. Castor intervened, and Crouch Jr. fled.”

 

The office seemed to hold its breath. Even the silver instruments ticking on the shelves grew subdued, their hums fading into near silence.

 

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable, though the faint glimmer in his eyes suggested the cogs of his mind were already spinning ahead. “A remarkable series of events,” he said slowly. “And one you expect me to believe occurred… entirely by chance?”

 

Lucius’s mouth curved, not into a smile but something colder, “It is the truth.”

 

“Convenient truths are still truths, are they not?” Dumbledore’s tone remained mild, but the subtle weight behind it pressed on Castor like a stone. His eyes flicked briefly to Narcissa’s hand on her son’s shoulder before returning to the boy himself. “Tell me, Castor… when you say you intervened, what exactly did you mean?”

 

Castor straightened a little, pulse hammering, but his voice was firm, “I stopped him. He threatened his father—I couldn’t just let him. So, I put myself between them. We had a small scuffle and a verbal altercation until he ran off.”

 

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, studying him with a long, contemplative silence. Fawkes shifted on his perch, the soft rustle of feathers the only sound.

 

Finally, the Headmaster inclined his head again, though this time his smile was thinner, more brittle, “Brave. Very brave indeed. And yet, it is troubling—how often danger seems to find its way to you.”

 

Narcissa’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on Castor’s shoulder. Lucius’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, though his tone remained perfectly measured, “My son does not seek danger. It seems, Headmaster, that danger comes seeking him.”

 

“Did you speak with the Aurors?” Lucius asked smoothly, redirecting the conversation before Dumbledore could press further. His voice was calm, but the deliberate shift of subject was unmistakable.

 

The question gave Castor the chance he needed. He slipped gently from his mother’s grasp and crossed the office, gravitating toward Fawkes’s perch as though the phoenix’s quiet presence might shield him. Every eye tracked his movement—his father’s and brother’s protective, his mother’s concerned, Severus’s unreadable, and Dumbledore’s keenly watchful.

 

Albus inclined his head once, “I did. I had a private meeting with Minister Fudge himself. Unfortunately, the Minister is… reluctant to accept the notion that Barty Crouch Jr. is alive. Even with Alastor’s sworn testimony.” His fingers tapped idly against one another, the sound soft but deliberate. “Fudge is convinced it was far more likely Sirius Black in disguise—seeking out Castor once again.”

 

Castor spun, eyes wide, his expression nothing short of bewildered, “Why would he think that?”

 

Dumbledore’s gaze rested heavily upon him, calm but edged with something sharper beneath. “The Minister remembers his visit at the end of last year, when he refused to consider Sirius’s innocence. He believes Black may be returning—again and again—targeting you specifically. That perhaps he is attempting to manipulate you, to fill your mind with lies.”

 

Castor’s mouth opened, then shut. Lies? His fists curled at his sides, though he forced himself to keep his tone even, “That doesn’t make sense.”

 

The Headmaster spread his hands, weary resignation painted across his face. “Without more evidence—proof beyond the… miraculous return of a prisoner thought long dead—they will not pursue the matter. The Ministry has resolved only to search the grounds again for signs of Sirius Black.”

 

Castor’s stomach dropped, a cold weight pressing into his chest. He forced himself to ask, though dread curled in his throat. “Did they find him?”

 

Albus tilted his head, the movement birdlike, his eyes unreadable behind his half-moon spectacles. “No,” he admitted softly. “No trace. But then… I imagine he is far away now, especially after the revelation of your—” his voice gentled, though the pause was loaded—“true parentage.”

 

Lucius’s cane tapped once against the floor, sharp as a strike. “A convenient conclusion,” he said icily.

 

Turning back to Fawkes, Castor lifted a hand and brushed his fingers gently over the phoenix’s warm feathers, grounding himself in the creature’s steady presence before he spoke.

 

“Actually… he was in Hogsmeade the last weekend we went,” he admitted, his tone quiet but steady. “But he likely moved on after our… talk.”

 

Narcissa’s head snapped toward him, her voice sharp though not unkind, “You saw Sirius again?”

 

Castor nodded once, glancing back at her with a flicker of guilt, “Yeah. I think I made it clear I wasn’t interested so he would move on.”

 

Narcissa rose slightly in her chair, hands gripping the armrests as though to stop herself from seizing him by the shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell us?” she pressed, her voice tight with worry, eyes searching his face for the smallest crack in his composure.

 

He shrugged, gaze falling back to Fawkes, whose bright eyes blinked slowly at him. “Like I said, I figured he would move on. If the Aurors didn’t spot him during their search, then he probably already has.”

 

Lucius let out a slow breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, the gesture a rare slip betraying his frustration. When he lowered his hand again, his expression was carved back into calm marble. He turned deliberately toward Dumbledore, reclaiming control of the conversation, “Did you speak with Madam Bones directly?”

 

Dumbledore folded his hands atop the desk, his expression as serene as ever, though his eyes glittered with something unspoken. “I did not,” he said softly. “The Minister himself wished to handle the matter personally.”

 

Lucius’s lips curved, but the expression was devoid of warmth. “Ah. Then I understand why no proper action was taken.”

 

“Cornelius is under a great deal of strain,” Albus replied smoothly, though the faintest note of rebuke colored his words, “We must be mindful not to push him too far. The Ministry’s cooperation is… delicate.”

 

Narcissa’s gaze sharpened, her tone cold and cutting as a blade, “And what of my son’s safety, Headmaster? Is that considered delicate as well?”

 

Castor let the murmur of sharp, polite words fade into the background. He fixed his attention wholly on the phoenix before him. With careful reverence, he stroked the bird’s gleaming feathers, lowering his voice so the conversation behind him would not be disturbed.

 

“Hey, Fawkes,” he whispered. “You probably don’t recognize me. I used to be Harry Potter—the boy you helped in the Chamber of Secrets. I wanted to thank you again. You were brilliant down there. I would’ve died without you.”

 

The phoenix tilted his head, golden eyes bright with an intelligence that made Castor falter for a breath. Fawkes gave a soft, melodic trill—low and warm—that washed through the office like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The voices behind him faltered, pausing as though the bird’s note had cut clean through their quarrel, before resuming once more with quieter intensity.

 

Castor smiled faintly at the sound, a private smile just for the phoenix, “Did you hear I work with dragons now?” he went on, voice low and conspiratorial. “I don’t know if that interests you at all, but they breathe fire and they’re fierce and dangerous, but also beautiful. You’re a brilliant fire-creature too. I think maybe you’d get along.”

 

Fawkes ruffled his feathers, letting out a sharper, almost amused chirp. Castor chuckled softly, feeling a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the phoenix’s heat.

 

“Castor,” Narcissa’s voice rang lightly but firmly across the office, pulling him from his quiet conversation with the bird.

 

He straightened at once, turning toward her. Her poise was impeccable as always, but there was a faint softness in her eyes that eased his tension. “We are finished here,” she informed him, “The Headmaster has excused us. Come along.”

 

Reluctantly, Castor glanced back at the phoenix. His hand brushed gently over the bird’s scarlet-gold plumage one last time. “I suppose this is goodbye for now, Fawkes,” he whispered, “I’ll see you again.”

 

He stepped away from the perch and started toward his mother. But something in her expression made him pause—she wasn’t watching him at all. Her gaze, like everyone else’s in the room, had dropped to the floor behind him.

 

Puzzled, Castor turned. To his astonishment, Fawkes had hopped down from his perch. The phoenix’s talons clicked softly against the floorboards as he followed, each measured hop carrying him closer to Castor’s heels.

 

A laugh escaped Castor before he could stop it, warm and surprised. He dropped to a crouch, holding out an arm, “Are you following me, Fawkes?”

 

The phoenix tilted his head in that uncanny way of his kind, then leapt gracefully onto Castor’s forearm. The weight was solid but not unpleasant, and Castor steadied him with a careful hand, smoothing over the glossy feathers.

 

“Thought so,” he murmured, his smile tugging wider as the bird trilled softly. “But can you tell me why?”

 

Suddenly, sharp pain shot through Castor’s hand. He hissed softly, looking down to see a bead of blood welling where Fawkes’s beak had nipped hard enough to break skin.

 

The sting was nothing new—Hedwig had given him worse when she was irritated or demanding attention—but it was utterly unexpected from the phoenix. Fawkes had come willingly, warmly, without the aloofness that sometimes accompanied magical creatures. A nip of annoyance didn’t fit the moment.

 

Castor lifted his hand with a crooked smile, affecting a mock-sad expression. “What’d I do to deserve that?” he teased the bird.

 

Fawkes only stared back, eyes bright like burning coals.

 

A sharp gasp from behind made him start. He turned, bewildered, to find his mother’s hand raised to her lips and the others fixed on him with varying shades of shock.

 

“What?” Castor asked, utterly lost.

 

Draco groaned and rubbed at his forehead like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “Seriously? You bury yourself in creature lore day and night, and you don’t even recognize a bonding bite?”

 

Castor blinked, tilting his head as confusion crept over his face, “I’ve been studying creatures that actually want to kill me. Why would I be afraid of Fawkes? He saved my life.”

 

“It isn’t about fear,” Snape cut in, his voice smooth and clipped, lapsing into his classroom tone. His dark eyes glittered with sharp interest. “That bite signifies intent. The phoenix has offered you a bond. He wishes to become your familiar.”

 

Castor’s brows knit tightly together. He looked from Snape to the bird on his arm, incredulity breaking across his face, “I thought he already was the Headmaster’s familiar.”

 

His eyes met Dumbledore’s—and what he saw startled him. For a fraction of a heartbeat, the old wizard’s calm mask faltered. Horror, naked and unguarded, flashed in his expression before vanishing behind the usual twinkling serenity.

 

Lucius noticed it too. Castor felt the tension sharpen in his father, who straightened with predatory satisfaction. “No, Castor,” Lucius said smoothly, clearly savoring the moment, “Fawkes has never been Dumbledore’s familiar. He has always belonged to Hogwarts itself.”

 

 

Castor frowned, “What do you mean?”

 

Lucius’s eyes gleamed with knowledge—and triumph, “It is written in Hogwarts: A History. Fawkes was once bonded to Helga Hufflepuff herself. Creatures, especially magical ones, were drawn to her. She was described as a woman with a pure soul, which is why…,” he paused, and for a rare instant Castor saw genuine surprise flicker over his father’s face, as if a realization was dawning.

 

Snape, clearly recalling the same lore, picked up where Lucius had trailed off. “Which is why creatures followed her so readily. The phoenix was hers—until her death.”

 

Lucius inclined his head, regaining his composure, “When Helga passed, Fawkes remained at Hogwarts. For decades, scholars believed he awaited the one worthy to claim his bond. Yet when no such bond occurred, they decided the truth must be otherwise—that he was one of the rare phoenixes who bond only once, and that he had instead devoted himself to Hogwarts itself, in honor of Helga’s legacy.”

 

His father’s voice grew low, almost reverent as he finished, “Until now.”

 

The silence that followed was suffocating, weighted with history and meaning none of them dared to put into words. Castor shifted only slightly, the phoenix still balanced with regal ease on his arm. A thin line of blood traced over his skin where the bite had broken flesh, drying already, but Fawkes’s soft, resonant trill seemed to dismiss the wound as irrelevant. It sounded almost like a vow.

 

When Castor finally lifted his gaze, he found Dumbledore watching him intently. The Headmaster’s hands were laced so tightly together his knuckles whitened, and the famed twinkle in his eyes had been snuffed out, replaced by a storm-dark glare that measured every movement Castor made.

 

Castor blinked at him once, then deliberately looked away. Meeting the phoenix’s molten-gold eyes instead, he broke the tension with an easy smile. “Well,” he said, stroking along Fawkes’s breast, “I guess that makes us best friends now.”

 

He turned, already heading toward the exit, his words tumbling in a cheerful stream as if they were sharing a private joke, “You’ll have to meet my other best friends. First is Hedwig—my owl. She’s a bit proud, but I think you’ll get along. Then there are the dragons on the reserve, of course. You’ll love them—or at least I hope you do. They’re not exactly cuddly, but they’re magnificent.”

 

His grin widened as he thought of Theo, “And, oh—you have to meet my boyfriend, Theo. He loves creatures more than anyone I know. He’ll absolutely spoil you rotten, I promise. You’ll like him.”

 

The phoenix crooned softly, almost in approval, as if encouraging him to go on.

 

Castor chuckled, “And then there’s Kraken—he’s the giant squid in the Black Lake. Don’t know if you two will get on since you’re a fire bird and he lives I water, but you’ve both saved me before, so at least you have something in common.”

 

Behind him, Narcissa moved at once, her face schooled into serenity but her step quickening to match her son’s. Lucius followed, his lips curved in the faintest, coldest smile as though the turn of events had confirmed something he had long suspected. Draco trailed after them, still staring at Fawkes like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

 

Only Dumbledore remained rooted to the spot, his expression shadowed, his eyes fixed on Castor and the phoenix perched proudly on his arm as they crossed the threshold and left the office together.

Notes:

I got my first real flame/unconstructive comment today, and at first I thought, maybe I shouldn’t write right now. But then I realized—one negative comment out of more than a thousand isn’t exactly the end of the world. So, I reread my last chapter for a little inspiration, and this is what came out.

Chapter 70: Chapter 70

Chapter 70

 

They drew even more stares leaving the Headmaster’s office than they had coming in. Every student, every ghost, even the portraits they passed seemed to freeze and gape. Castor Malfoy walking with his family was striking enough, but now—with a phoenix perched serenely on his arm—it was nothing short of unbelievable. Whispers bloomed in their wake, hushed voices straining to make sense of the sight.

 

Castor, for his part, found it easier than usual to ignore the weight of all those eyes. He had something far more interesting to occupy him. Tilting his head toward Fawkes, he spoke as though they were the only two in the corridor. “You and I should go flying sometime. The Quidditch Pitch is occupied right now but later—oh, that would be brilliant. I’ve done it with Hedwig before. She can come too; she’d like that.”

 

The phoenix shifted slightly and let out a low, approving note.

 

“It’s remarkable,” Lucius’s voice intruded suddenly, his tone soft but edged with thought. “Now that I’ve made the connection I cannot help but see your resemblance to Helga Hufflepuff. You bear more of her than most would expect. Curious, that you weren’t sorted into her house.”

 

Castor lifted one shoulder in a lopsided shrug, careful not to jostle the bird balanced on his other arm. “It wasn’t one of the houses the Hat mentioned to me,” he admitted. “But… a lot has changed since I first came to Hogwarts.”

 

“That it has,” Snape muttered, his words dripping with distaste.

 

Before Castor could reply, Fawkes struck. The phoenix darted his beak toward Snape’s hand, delivering a sharp peck that had the man jerking back with an undignified squawk. “Fawkes!” Snape snapped, glaring at the bird as though betrayed. “That infernal creature has never liked me.”

 

A soft, almost knowing chuckle escaped Narcissa. She regarded the phoenix with a thoughtful air, then turned her gaze to Snape, “Fawkes has always been… particular about the company he keeps. Even among Headmasters.”

 

Turning to Castor, Narcissa continued, “Your Great-Great-Great-Grandfather, Phineas Nigellus Black, was once Headmaster here. The phoenix all but abandoned the castle during his tenure. Rarely was he seen within Hogwarts at all. Some claimed it was a matter of temperament; others believed Fawkes simply refused to abide a man he found unworthy.” Her eyes flicked between Castor and the phoenix, “History, it seems, has a way of repeating itself.”

 

The phoenix trilled again, bright and musical, as though in agreement.

 

Castor smiled at the phoenix perched proudly on his arm, “Well, I still need to keep a promise. Kraken’s expecting me tonight—I owe him a swim. So I’m going to take Fawkes to the room I’ve been staying in, let him settle onto his new perch, and grab my swimming gear.” He pointed lightly down the corridor in the direction he intended to go.

 

Narcissa exhaled a long, measured sigh, her expression carefully composed though the faint crease in her brow betrayed worry. “Very well,” she said softly, “But contact us if you need anything. Promise me that, Castor.”

 

“I’ll be fine, Mum,” Castor shifted Fawkes carefully and leaned in to give her a one-armed hug. “Besides, I’ve got Fawkes now. And I trust Fawkes to protect me.”

 

The phoenix, as though to emphasize the point, flared his golden-red plumage and puffed his chest with an indignant little trill.

 

Castor grinned, “See? He agrees.” With a final wave, he turned and strode away, his voice carrying cheerfully back down the corridor as he talked to Fawkes about everything and nothing, their conversation weaving like old friends reunited.

 

Draco rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful, “Brilliant. Now we know the way to cheer him up is to hand him a new pet.”

 

“With the amount of trouble he stumbles into,” Severus remarked dryly, “you may want to consider expanding your stables.”

 

“We’ll be rivaling the Notts within the year,” Draco muttered. But his sarcasm faltered when he caught sight of his father, who was not amused at all but thoughtful—calculating, even.

 

Lucius began to walk again, his pace smooth and unhurried, though his mind clearly was not. “It would be a wise investment,” he said almost to himself, “in both Castor’s future and that of young Mr. Nott.”

 

Draco frowned, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

By then they had arrived at Severus’s quarters. The Potions Master opened the door with a flick of his wand, ushering them into the quiet privacy of his rooms. Once the door shut, Lucius turned back to them, his expression sharp as he explained further.

 

“Mr. Nott has already made his intentions known—through his mother and grandparents. He wishes to begin an official courting with your brother. A betrothal, if Castor accepts.”

 

Draco’s jaw dropped, “What?! He didn’t even ask me—”

 

Narcissa pinched the bridge of her nose, her patience thinning, “Once again, Draconis, this does not involve you. We told the Nott family that the decision rests solely with the boys. We will not interfere.”

 

Draco threw his hands up in disbelief, “But of course he’ll say yes! Castor told me just the other day he was in love with Theo!”

 

Lucius’s lips curved into the barest suggestion of a smile at that revelation, while Narcissa’s sigh held more fondness than frustration. Severus, meanwhile, arched one skeptical brow, though his silence spoke volumes.

 

“In that case,” Lucius finally broke the silence, his voice smooth and deliberate, “there is even more reason to begin laying the foundation of their future now.”

 

Draco looked unconvinced, his arms folding tightly across his chest. “They already have their futures figured out,” he said with open skepticism. “Castor’s working with dragons, Theo’s got his place in the family business. What more could they possibly need?”

 

Lucius’s lips curved faintly, a glint of amusement sparking in his cold grey eyes, “Have I taught you nothing, Draco? This is business. It is not about what one needs—it is about what one can secure.”

 

Draco scowled, “You make it sound like they’re bartering themselves off.”

 

“In a way, they are,” Lucius replied, tone deceptively light, “Castor is not like us. He has no taste for profit or power, no instinct for acquisition. He gives things away far too freely. The basilisk, for instance—do you recall how much of it he parted with for mere favors? Favors that were worth considerably less than the value of what he surrendered.”

 

Narcissa interjected softly, though there was a trace of pride in her voice, “He has always been generous, Lucius. That is his nature.”

 

“Exactly,” Lucius said, inclining his head toward her, “And such a nature, while admirable, must be protected. Properly guided. If left to his own devices, Castor would bleed himself dry for the sake of others. But paired with Theodore, the boy has stability—an anchor to balance him. Theodore understands the value of an asset, and he is shrewd enough to ensure Castor does not squander what he has.”

 

Draco muttered under his breath, “He’s not an asset, he’s my brother.”

 

Lucius ignored the protest, his mind already moving several steps ahead, his voice calm but edged with intent, “Together, they could command far more than dragons or potion ingredients. With their talents combined, they could build something enduring—a legacy to rival any old name. It is not simply about their happiness, Draco. It is about ensuring that happiness has the means to endure.”

 

“And you think the way to guarantee their happiness is… more creatures?” Draco asked, incredulous. Then he caught himself, remembering his own jab earlier about cheering Castor up with new pets. He groaned, running a hand through his hair, “Alright, fine. I get it now.”

 

Lucius inclined his head as if Draco had finally caught up, “Precisely. Castor will have the creatures he craves—things to love and nurture, to pour himself into. Theodore will handle the practicalities, the ledgers, the sales, the management. Between them, balance. Stability.” He gestured idly, already sketching out the future in his mind. “If we were to expand the stables, as Severus so… thoughtfully suggested—”

 

“Sarcastically,” Snape interjected, his drawl cutting across the words like a blade.

 

Lucius continued as though he hadn’t spoken, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “—then we could take Castor to the Nott’s Zoo. He could see which creatures most capture his interest—and perhaps those for which he has a natural affinity. That will guide us in choosing what to begin with.”

 

Draco snorted, “You make it sound like shopping for a new broom.”

 

“Hardly,” Lucius countered smoothly, “This is an investment in both his happiness and his security. If we are to house more beasts, we will, of course, need additional staff. A few more house-elves to tend the stables while the boys are at school. Nothing extravagant, but sufficient to maintain quality.”

 

He steepled his fingers in thought, his voice sharpening with calculation. “Castor can harvest ingredients from the creatures he cares for—feathers, scales, venom, what have you. Those can be sold through the Nott network, the profits funneled back into expanding his collection. In this way, the stables grow, Theodore profits, and Castor retains complete freedom to use his dragon wages however his bleeding heart dictates.”

 

Narcissa’s expression softened at that, though she said nothing. Snape’s mouth thinned into a line of disapproval, but he did not argue. Draco simply shook his head, muttering under his breath, “You’re turning him into some sort of magical menagerie lord.”

 

Lucius’s lips curved faintly, “If he chooses to be, Draco. The choice will always be his. I merely intend to ensure the ground is prepared for when he makes it.”

 

888

 

Castor had taken the phoenix to the Room of Requirement, giving him a brief tour of the space that had become his refuge. He explained with an almost conspiratorial air how the room worked—how it shifted to meet his needs, and how this particular version was locked down tight. “No one gets in unless I want them to,” he assured the bird, stroking his feathers. “Safety and privacy. That’s what I asked for.” At least, that was what Tilda, the little elf who’d first shown him the room, had told him. And Castor trusted her word.

 

Fawkes had insisted on trailing after Castor when he went down to the lake, golden feathers gleaming as he flew through the halls, perching every time he came across a suitable mount to wait for Castor to catch up.

 

When he finally slipped outside into the cool evening air, Fawkes glided silently at his side, though he hesitated once they reached the Black Lake. The firebird kept to the shore, talons curling against the stones, but when Castor began introductions he let out a ringing squawk perfectly in time.

 

“Kraken, meet Fawkes,” Castor said cheerfully, leaning down at the lake’s edge. He reached to the plate of toast—courtesy of Mipsy, who had obediently popped in to provide provisions—and offered it over the dark waters. With a ripple and a surge, one great tentacle rose from the depths to take the gift, retreating again with surprising gentleness.

 

Castor grinned, shaking his head at the sight, “See Fawkes? He loves toast.”

 

And so, with Mipsy at his side handing him more toast, Kraken eating them just beneath the lake’s surface, and Fawkes perched close by, Castor felt more grounded than he had expected to be on his first evening back at Hogwarts.

 

888

 

At breakfast the next morning, Castor slipped onto the bench across from Hermione and Neville, grateful for the warm familiarity of their company. He had barely reached for his goblet when Hermione spun toward him, her eyes alight.

 

“Castor! You’re back! What hap—” Her question cut off in a sharp gasp as a sudden burst of gold and scarlet descended from above.

 

With a regal sweep of wings, Fawkes landed neatly on the table beside Castor’s plate, his talons clicking against the wood.

 

“Bloody hell!” Dean shouted from farther down the table, nearly knocking over his pumpkin juice.

 

“Is that a phoenix?!” Seamus added, craning for a better view.

 

“I told you I saw him with one yesterday!” another voice rang out.

 

The hum of chatter swelled into a roar as heads turned, whispers hissed, and exclamations echoed across the hall. A sharp flash lit up the air, and Castor didn’t even need to look to know Colin Creevey had captured the moment. He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, Skeeter must love that brat. Another photograph for her collection.

 

A steady hand came down on his shoulder. Castor turned, already smiling, only for the warmth on his face to falter. Theo stood beside him, tall and composed at first glance—but a closer look revealed dark circles under his eyes, tension in his jaw, and the brittle exhaustion of someone who hadn’t truly slept in days.

 

Castor rose immediately, ignoring the curious stares all around. His smile softened as he looked up at Theo, “Hey. Are you okay?”

 

Theo’s answering laugh was humorless, a dry exhale more than anything, “Me? Castor, the last time I saw you, you weren’t even speaking. Draco said you were fine last night, but—” His voice broke off, rougher than usual. “I needed to see for myself.”

 

“Oh, Theo.” Castor reached up, cupping his cheek with gentle fingers. He didn’t care about the crowd, the whispers, or the eyes fixed on them. All that mattered was the boy in front of him, “I’m so sorry.”

 

Theo caught his hand before he could pull away, pressing a kiss to his knuckles in a rare display of tenderness. His grey eyes softened, even as shadows lingered beneath them, “There’s no need for you to apologize, Castor. Just… tell me you’re alright.”

 

Castor’s smile softened into something almost boyish, a rare glow breaking through the shadows of the past few weeks, “I’m fine now. And look!” He gestured proudly to the phoenix at his side, “I brought a new friend. This is Fawkes. He used to be Helga Hufflepuff’s phoenix, but… well, he’s decided to bond with me now.”

 

Theo’s eyebrows shot upward, surprise flickering across his usually composed features, “Oh?”

 

“Yeah!” Castor’s excitement bubbled over as he spoke, his words coming fast, “Last night was brilliant. I set his perch right beside my bed and we stayed up talking until late. He’s a wonderful listener.”

 

The bird in question let out a low trill, puffing his chest as though in proud agreement.

 

Castor chuckled, reaching out to stroke the phoenix’s feathers, “It’s just… nice having someone to talk to. I’ll admit it’s been rather lonely not living in the dormitory. Don’t get me wrong—it’s been perfect for studying—but…” His voice faltered, the smile wavering. He swallowed, unwilling to name the ache of what he missed, “…I do miss late-night conversations with… friends.” He shook his head quickly and forced a grin, “Anyway, it was just nice to talk.”

 

Theo, wordless for a moment, slipped an arm around Castor’s shoulders and guided him gently back to the bench. Only when Castor sat did he lower himself beside him, his tone quieter, steadier, “Well, it’s an honor to meet you, Fawkes. Anyone who can make Castor smile like this is welcome company.”

 

“Fawkes, this is Theo,” Castor added brightly, leaning in as though to share a secret with the phoenix, “The boyfriend I told you about.”

 

The bird turned his head, fixing Theo with a gaze that was nothing short of shrewd. His molten eyes gleamed like embers, considering, weighing. At last, he gave a soft, almost reluctant croon, wings settling neatly against his sides in acknowledgment.

 

Theo inclined his head in return, lips twitching with amusement, “I’ll take that as approval.” He plucked a sausage from a nearby platter and offered it across the table.

 

Fawkes hesitated only a heartbeat before snatching it neatly from Theo’s fingers, swallowing it down in one decisive gulp. The phoenix ruffled his feathers and let out a satisfied note, the previous reluctance quite forgotten.

 

“Suddenly not so hard to win over,” Castor teased, laughter bubbling out of him.

 

“Err—Castor?”

 

Castor glanced up, surprised to find himself face-to-face with a redhead he hadn’t properly spoken to in months, “Oh—uh, hey, Ginny. What’s up?”

 

Her eyes weren’t on him, though, but fixed on the phoenix preening beside his plate, “Is… is that Dumbledore’s phoenix?”

 

Before Castor could answer, Fawkes gave a sharp shake of his head, feathers glinting in the candlelight. Castor chuckled at the display, “He is Fawkes—the same phoenix from the Chamber your first year. But it turns out he was never really Dumbledore’s. Apparently, he belonged to Helga Hufflepuff and has just… been here all this time, helping the school where he could. Waiting, I think, for someone he didn’t mind bonding to.” His voice softened, almost reverent, “And he chose me.”

 

Hermione’s face lit with recognition, “Of course! I read a passage once in Hogwarts: A History that mentioned Fawkes, though it was brief. With the way you described the Chamber, I’d assumed he must have eventually bonded with Professor Dumbledore.”

 

Castor shook his head slowly, still absently scratching the phoenix’s crown. Fawkes leaned into his hand, eyes slipping closed in bliss, “That’s what I thought too. But no. He waited. And—Merlin knows why—he chose me. After all these years.” He smiled faintly, wonder in his voice. “I don’t think I’ll ever deserve him, but I’ll be grateful every single moment we’re together.”

 

Ginny bit her lip, her gaze flicking between Castor and the bird, something unreadable in her expression. At last, she reached across the table, plucking a strip of bacon from a platter. “A small thank-you,” she said softly, her voice steadier than her hand, “For saving me in the Chamber.”

 

Fawkes gave a sweet trill of acknowledgment before darting forward to snatch the offering. Then, with a surprising gentleness, he lowered his head and tapped her knuckles with his beak in what could only be called a blessing.

 

Ginny let out a startled laugh, color rising to her cheeks, “I… suppose he remembers.”

 

The moment hung warmly between them, but Castor caught the weight in Ginny’s eyes—a reminder of a past neither of them could fully forget.

 

“I—I’ll see you later,” Ginny said quickly, her voice catching before she steadied it. She gave a small, polite wave, as though any longer at the table might let too much show.

 

Hermione lifted her hand in farewell, Neville offered a quiet smile, and Castor gave her a small nod of acknowledgment. Beside him, Fawkes tilted his head and then, with deliberate dignity, extended one golden wing to flap in a perfect imitation of her gesture.

 

A ripple of laughter rose from the onlookers at nearby tables. Even Ginny let out a surprised, genuine laugh, one that eased some of the heaviness in her expression.

 

She turned and slipped back down the aisle, leaving Castor with Hermione, Neville, Theo, and the phoenix who, with a self-satisfied trill, tucked his head beneath his wing as if to say: Yes, I know exactly what I’m doing.

 

Castor smiled faintly, scratching Fawkes’ feathers. “Show-off,” he muttered under his breath, though affection laced the word.

 

The laughter around the table slowly died down, and breakfast carried on, but the warmth of that small, strange exchange lingered with Castor long after Ginny was gone.

Notes:

Castor’s apparently getting his own mini zoo now… pretty sure he’s writing this story more than I am.

Chapter 71: Chapter 71

Chapter 71

 

Castor quickly learned that walking the halls with a phoenix at his heels—or rather, swooping and fluttering above his head—was not conducive to blending in. Eyes followed him everywhere that morning, whispers trailing in his wake like shadows.

 

Professor Sprout, at least, had taken it in stride. She had paused mid-sentence when Fawkes circled the greenhouse, then watched silently as the bird selected a sunny perch on her prized dirigible plum tree. For one tense heartbeat, Castor thought she might scold him, but she simply gave a small sniff, muttered something about “if he doesn’t damage the branches”, and carried on with her lecture as though a phoenix in class was an everyday occurrence.

 

Care of Magical Creatures, however, was another matter entirely. The moment Fawkes arrived, the lesson went straight off course. Hagrid’s eyes lit up like lanterns, and before Castor could even sit down, the half-giant had abandoned his carefully prepared introduction to knarls in favor of an enthusiastic tangent.

 

“Phoenixes!” Hagrid bellowed, beaming at the class as if he’d personally invited Fawkes. “Rarest o’ the rare! Yeh won’t find a creature more magnificent! Their tears heal, they’re remarkably smart, an’ they’re stronger than yeh’d ever believe!”

 

As if in perfect agreement, Fawkes gave a piercing trill, then launched himself skyward. The class gasped as the phoenix swooped low, seized a fistful of Castor’s robes in his talons, and—with a mighty beat of his wings—lifted him clean off the ground.

 

Castor yelped, flailing as his feet dangled several feet above the grass. Laughter erupted from the students, echoing across the paddock. Even Theo, who usually watched the world with solemn detachment, allowed himself the faintest smirk as Castor twisted around in midair, his hair whipped wild by the wind.

 

“See?” Hagrid crowed, utterly delighted, “Strong as anythin’! An’ tha’s him just playin’!”

 

“Fawkes!” Castor sputtered, tugging at his robes, “This is not funny!”

 

But judging by the gleam in the phoenix’s eyes as he circled higher, Fawkes disagreed entirely.

 

At first Castor tried to scowl, but the sound of the class laughing and the sheer absurdity of dangling helplessly beneath a legendary creature made his lips twitch. Before long he was laughing too, his voice carried away by the wind as Fawkes banked in a wide, showy arc.

 

The phoenix trilled a note that sounded suspiciously like triumph before swooping down again. With surprising gentleness, he lowered Castor back toward the ground and released him with a final beat of his wings—depositing him directly in front of Theo.

 

Theo, who had risen smoothly from his seat the moment Fawkes began to descend, extended a steadying hand without hesitation. Castor stumbled forward, robes still swaying from the ride, and Theo’s grip caught his arm with quiet firmness, ready to hold him upright if he fell.

 

Castor looked up, still grinning breathlessly, “Thanks. I think I’ve had enough flying lessons for the day.”

 

Theo’s mouth curved in the faintest hint of a smile, “Seems your new friend disagrees.”

 

Fawkes landed beside them with an entirely too-pleased trill, puffing out his feathers as though proud of a successful demonstration.

 

“I think he likes having some younger company,” Castor mused aloud, brushing ash from his sleeve where Fawkes’s talons had caught hold. “He does seem rather young still. Can’t have been too long since his last burning day.”

 

He turned toward the phoenix, who had landed proudly on a nearby fencepost, chest puffed and eyes gleaming like molten sunlight, “Are you having fun?”

 

To the amusement of the watching class, Fawkes dipped his head in a very deliberate nod, feathers ruffling smugly.

 

Castor chuckled, “I thought so. You must have been terribly bored hanging around headmasters and their paperwork for decades. Endless speeches, endless lemon drops…”

 

The bird gave another emphatic nod, and Castor could swear he caught the faintest glimmer of mischief in the golden eyes.

 

“Well,” Castor spread his hands, grin tilting lopsided, “you picked the right wizard to bond with, Fawkes. If there’s one thing I can promise you, it’s that my life is never boring.”

 

The phoenix gave a sharp, almost approving trill, wings flaring wide as if to say at last.

 

888

 

Castor spent the evening going through his regular workout routine. The only days he allowed himself to skip were weekends, though even then he hardly slacked off—swimming with Kraken gave him more than enough of a workout to leave his muscles pleasantly sore.

 

It was paying off. His stamina had improved; he no longer felt winded as quickly, and there was a lightness to his movements that hadn’t been there before. Slowly, he was beginning to notice changes in his body too—his frame was filling out, his arms and chest showing the faint but undeniable signs of new strength. Each small improvement was proof that the effort mattered, and that thought alone pushed him to keep going.

 

Not that he was without encouragement. Fawkes had appointed himself Castor’s trainer for the night, perched imperiously nearby. The phoenix squawked loudly whenever Castor dared to slow his pace or pause longer than a moment, the sound equal parts scolding and smug. Castor could only shake his head, grinning through his exertion.

 

“All right, all right—I’m moving, I’m moving,” he muttered breathlessly, forcing out another set of push-ups as if to prove himself to the bird.

 

Fawkes ruffled his fiery feathers in satisfaction, trilling softly once Castor complied, and Castor couldn’t help but laugh. Having the phoenix there, watching over him with such sharp attention, made the hard work strangely lighter.

 

888

 

Castor was halfway through breakfast with Theo when a familiar snowy blur swooped into the hall. Hedwig landed gracefully on the table, a Daily Prophet clutched firmly in her talons. She dropped it in front of Castor before hopping neatly beside his plate, amber eyes narrowing at the strange, fiery bird perched on the other side of him.

 

“Hedwig!” Castor exclaimed, lighting up with genuine joy, “I’ve been hoping you’d turn up! I wanted to introduce you to someone.” He gestured between them, grinning as though he were presenting two honored guests. “This is Fawkes. And Fawkes, this is Hedwig—my very first friend. Hagrid gave her to me the day I learned I was a wizard, as a birthday present. Best present ever.” His eyes softened, filled with fondness as he looked at her. “Hedwig, this is Fawkes—he’s a phoenix, and he’s bonded with me. Isn’t that brilliant? You can have a bird friend!”

 

If Hedwig was impressed, she didn’t show it. She tilted her head, feathers puffing slightly, and gave Fawkes a look that very clearly said interloper.

 

Castor chuckled awkwardly, “Or… maybe not a friend just yet,” he admitted.

 

Fawkes, however, seemed entirely unbothered by the owl’s cool reception. With a cheeky gleam in his molten-gold eyes, the phoenix darted his beak toward Theo’s hand and snatched away the slice of bacon he had been about to eat.

 

“Oi! Fawkes!” Castor protested, though his voice was more amused than scolding.

 

Ignoring him, Fawkes delicately dropped the bacon in front of Hedwig with a flourish, as if presenting a peace offering fit for royalty.

 

The snowy owl regarded him with imperious suspicion, her gaze flicking from the phoenix to the bacon. Then, with a decisive snap of her beak, she claimed the offering, tearing into it with relish.

 

Castor smirked, “Well… I think that’s the closest we’re going to get to a truce for now.”

 

Theo, who had been watching the entire exchange with thinly veiled amusement, murmured dryly, “You’re turning the breakfast table into a diplomatic summit.”

 

Fawkes trilled proudly, as though announcing the success of his mission, while Hedwig ruffled her feathers, still very much the queen of the perch.

 

Castor unfolded the paper, bracing himself. As expected, his face dominated the front page. He had known it was only a matter of time before one of Colin’s shots of Fawkes landed in print.

 

What Castor hadn’t expected was which moment Colin had chosen to immortalize. It wasn’t just him and Fawkes perched serenely at the Gryffindor table—no, the photograph splashed across the Prophet showed Theo brushing a kiss over Castor’s hand. The angle was almost unfairly flattering, golden morning light slanting through the windows to catch both of them just so. And there, perfectly framed on the edge of the shot, Fawkes stood tall and resplendent, wings half-spread as though the phoenix himself had posed for the occasion.

 

Castor groaned softly, though he couldn’t help but admit the picture was… well, gorgeous. Colin had captured the expression on Theo’s face—calm and intent, almost courtly—and the faint blush climbing Castor’s own cheeks. It was far too romantic to be accidental.

 

“Merlin’s beard,” Castor muttered, running a hand over his face. “Rita must have died when she saw this land in her lap.”

 

He could practically hear her quill screeching gleeful headlines.

 

Fawkes, for his part, gave a smug little trill as though pleased with how well he had photographed.

 

Castor slid the newspaper across the table toward Theo with an apologetic wince. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, already bracing for irritation or discomfort.

 

Theo barely flicked his gaze up from his plate, though his hand stayed firm on his fork as Fawkes edged closer to his last piece of bacon. “It’s fine, Castor,” he said smoothly, as though the front-page photograph were nothing more than a passing inconvenience. “I knew what I was getting into.” His grey eyes flickered with the faintest hint of amusement. “My family’s been in the papers enough times that this won’t rattle me. And besides—” He leaned back slightly, a touch of nonchalance in his posture as he finally gave Castor a proper look. “—I have no problem with anyone seeing us like that.”

 

The words landed with more weight than Theo delivered them, and Castor felt his cheeks burn hotter than the tea in his cup. He ducked his head back toward the article, pretending to study the text as though that had been his intention all along, though his ears betrayed him by turning pink.

 

Meanwhile, Fawkes seized Theo’s distraction as an opportunity, snatching at the bacon. Theo’s hand shot out instinctively, defending his breakfast, and the bird let out a haughty trill—as if to remind both boys who the real celebrity at the table was.

 

Finally, Castor did take in the words before him.

 

The Boy Who Burned Brighter: Castor Malfoy and the Phoenix’s Choice

By Special Correspondent, Rita Skeeter

Photos Provided By, Colin Creevey

 

In a development that has set Hogwarts abuzz, it seems that The Boy Who Lived has gained yet another feather in his already glittering cap—quite literally. Castor Malfoy, previously known under the name Harry Potter, has found himself the chosen companion of none other than Fawkes, the illustrious phoenix, once bonded to Helga Hufflepuff herself.

 

Since the miraculous event, Fawkes has been spotted shadowing young Malfoy at every turn—perching atop greenhouses during Herbology, swooping dramatically into classrooms, and even interrupting lessons to show off the phoenix’s famed strength and healing prowess. Many are whispering what such a choice could mean. Is it a sign of power? Destiny? Or is it, perhaps, a symbol that the tides of Hogwarts’ allegiances are shifting?

 

But the phoenix’s constant companionship is not the only fire burning in Castor Malfoy’s life. Keen-eyed observers (including this humble reporter) could not help but notice another bond forming—a decidedly human one. At breakfast yesterday, young Malfoy was seen seated beside none other than Theodore Nott, heir to an old and storied pure-blood family. While the two had been spotted together before, now they appear inseparable, with Nott openly kissing Malfoy’s hand in a moment so tender it left the Great Hall in stunned silence.

 

One particularly striking photograph, taken by budding photographer Colin Creevey, captures the scene in perfect clarity: Malfoy blushing furiously, Nott composed and unflinching, and Fawkes standing proudly beside them, as though sanctioning the romance himself.

 

Is this, then, the truest revelation? That beneath the fame, the fire, and the feathers, Castor Malfoy is, in fact, just a boy discovering love for the first time? Sources close to the pair insist the affection is genuine, with one Hufflepuff student whispering, “You can just tell by the way they look at each other. It’s real.”

 

Still, some are left to wonder: with a phoenix at his side and romance in full bloom, what will become of Castor Malfoy’s already tumultuous place in the wizarding world? One thing is certain—this boy’s story is far from over, and the flames he stirs burn brighter by the day.

 

—Rita Skeeter

 

Theo leaned over, eyes flicking to the Prophet still in Castor’s hands, “Well? What does it say?”

 

Castor huffed, rolling his eyes, “That Fawkes and I have bonded—and that I’m hopelessly in love with you.”

 

A slow smirk spread across Theo’s face, his gaze lingering on Castor with deliberate amusement, “Hmm. Skeeter is at least partially correct this time.

 

Castor lifted his teacup in mock salute, returning the smirk, “Partially? Be honest, Theo. While she dramatized it—as she always does—I can’t say she lied. Not this time.”

 

Theo’s smirk deepened into something almost smug, though his eyes softened, “Oh? Did she happen to mention whether I returned the sentiment?”

 

Pretending to study the article, Castor took a long, exaggerated sip of his tea before answering with a grin that gave him away, “According to the Prophet, the feeling is mutual.”

 

Theo tilted his head, feigning thoughtful consideration as though weighing the credibility of the article. Then, with a dry sort of amusement, he remarked, “For once, Skeeter’s showing some rare journalistic insight. Almost as if she’s decided to dabble in truth instead of fiction.”

 

Castor laughed into his teacup, warmth rising in his chest, “Careful, Theo, if she hears you say that, she’ll make you her next headline.”

Chapter 72: Chapter 72

Chapter 72

 

Castor decided to take a walk down to the lake to feed Kraken though his mind drifted to the restless energy of Fawkes at his shoulder. The phoenix had been fussing during classes all day, wings twitching and feathers rustling, so Castor figured it was as good a time as any to let him stretch them.

 

After giving the toast to his underwater companion—Kraken’s tentacle darting up to snatch it with eager efficiency—Castor’s gaze drifted toward the Quidditch pitch. His chest tightened with an ache of longing. Flying. He hadn’t been on a broom in far too long, and the sight of the phoenix practically vibrating with pent-up energy made him wonder—could they fly together? If they kept above the hedges of the maze, surely it would be safe enough.

 

Curiosity tugged him closer. The maze loomed, its hedges clearly enchanted—already grown at least half a meter taller since the last time he’d passed by. Their dark green walls shifted faintly in the breeze, whispering secrets he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

 

Fawkes, however, paid no mind to any of that. With a sharp, joyous cry, the phoenix launched into the sky. His wings spread wide, sunlight catching on the scarlet and gold, and he wove through the air with startling grace. He looped in and out of the hedges, climbing higher, then diving low in sudden bursts of speed.

 

Castor laughed out loud, unable to contain his delight. He had never seen the phoenix like this—playful, unrestrained, utterly radiant in the open air. It made him wonder. Why hadn’t Fawkes shown himself like this before? Castor had always seen him perched solemnly in Dumbledore’s office, quiet and watchful, never soaring, never free.

 

Maybe it was age. Or loneliness. If Fawkes truly hadn’t bonded with anyone since one of the Hogwarts founders, then how many centuries had he drifted between perches? That thought hollowed something in Castor’s chest. Was it possible for a phoenix—creatures made of light and flame, embodiments of hope—to feel something as heavy as depression?

 

And yet… it seemed possible. He thought of the first time he met Fawkes, on the bird’s burning day, feathers falling like sparks, body frail and weary before bursting anew. Perhaps that was why the phoenix stayed close to Dumbledore’s office—he needed a safe place to fall apart and be reborn again.

 

Castor frowned slightly. Was that what Fawkes was doing all along? Treating Dumbledore like he had once treated Castor’s great-great-great-grandfather? A perch. A caretaker rather than a friend. Avoiding him whenever possible.

 

Watching Fawkes wheel overhead, brilliant against the sky, Castor couldn’t help but feel both honored and saddened. If the phoenix had chosen him, then maybe he was Fawkes’s first real choice in centuries.

 

Castor leaned back on the grass, eyes following Fawkes’s arcs through the sky, and felt a pang of regret. If only he had thought to bring his broom. Flying alongside the phoenix—really flying with him—would have been exhilarating. But he pushed the thought away. Fawkes deserved this moment of unrestrained freedom, and Castor wouldn’t steal it with his own impatience.

 

Instead, he let himself sink into the quiet of the grounds, the hum of the breeze through the hedges drawing his attention. Up close, the maze was even more imposing. The hedges stretched tall and thick, their surfaces shimmering faintly with enchantments, and as Castor studied them he realized something important.

 

There weren’t just one, but four distinct entrances. One for each champion. His mind ticked through the possibilities. He couldn’t simply walk in ahead of time and memorize the route; each path would be different. But… unless he managed to learn all four. A challenge, yes, but perhaps not impossible.

 

“Hey, Fawkes?” Castor called out as the phoenix swooped low, his wingtips brushing the air above Castor’s head.

 

The bird landed with effortless grace, tilting his head to one side, golden eyes bright and curious.

 

Castor hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you think… it would be possible to show me the way through the maze?”

 

For a moment Fawkes just stared, and Castor wondered if the request was too foolish to even warrant a response. But then the phoenix spread his wings and rose again, circling high above the maze. He hovered there, observing, as though genuinely considering the question. His flight became more purposeful, weaving along the tops of the hedges, tracing the shifting corridors. Minutes passed before he returned, landing with a soft rush of air in front of Castor.

 

Fawkes straightened, let out a low, musical trill, and gave a firm, unmistakable nod.

 

Castor’s lips curled into a smirk. “Well then,” he murmured, eyes glittering with determination, “I suppose we’ll have to come back soon—with something to write with.”

 

The phoenix ruffled his feathers in approval, as though already plotting the aerial reconnaissance to come.

 

888

 

Castor couldn’t help but feel a flicker of curiosity about what Defense Against the Dark Arts would look like now that everything had unraveled with Crouch Jr. The real Professor Moody was still recovering in the hospital wing, and for that reason alone Castor had half-expected the week’s lessons to be postponed. Cancelled even. But no such reprieve had come, and so he fell into step with the Slytherins as they made their way down the corridor.

 

Fawkes, ever contrary, had decided Theo’s shoulder was the best perch in the world, and the phoenix rode there with smug satisfaction. Theo tolerated the weight with his usual composure, though Castor noticed the occasional twitch of irritation when Fawkes leaned down to nip at his sleeve or investigate his hair. It had become an odd sort of routine—Theo sitting with Castor in every shared class, Fawkes inserting himself into the mix whether wanted or not.

 

But all that comfortable rhythm shattered the instant Castor reached the classroom doorway.

 

He froze.

 

There, standing at the front of the room where Moody should have been, was not a substitute professor nor some harried Ministry official, but Dumbledore himself.

 

The old wizard filled the space without trying—an air of quiet command settling over the desks, his half-moon glasses catching the lamplight, his expression mild in a way that only made Castor more wary.

 

Dumbledore.

 

Of all people.

 

The headmaster looked utterly at ease, speaking softly to a Ravenclaw who had edged closer to the front row. His robes were simple for once, almost understated, the kind of detail Castor knew was never accidental. Nothing about Albus Dumbledore ever was.

 

Theo shifted beside him, and Fawkes gave a curious little trill, as though sensing Castor’s sudden tension. Castor forced his legs to move, crossing the threshold, but he felt as if every step pulled him deeper into a snare he couldn’t quite see.

 

Castor slid into a desk beside Theo, his jaw tight. He refused to let Dumbledore see him rattled. Still, he kept his eyes forward, pretending to listen as the headmaster called for order, while inside he braced himself for whatever game was about to begin.

 

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Dumbledore said as the students settled uneasily into their seats. “As Professor Moody is… indisposed, I have the privilege of leading you for this lesson. Today we shall explore a subject that underpins much of this course: the nature of the hero.”

 

A ripple of interest went through the room.

 

Dumbledore paced slowly, his voice calm but carrying, “History has given us countless figures who inspire us still. Courageous, noble, willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. But what, I wonder, do you believe defines such a person?”

 

Several hands rose hesitantly.

 

Ernie Macmillan declared, “It’s bravery, sir. Facing danger head-on.”

 

Pansy Parkinson smirked and added, “Or cunning. Heroes are the ones who outwit their enemies before dying pointlessly.”

 

A few Slytherins chuckled.

 

Dumbledore nodded politely to both, “Bravery. Cunning. Important qualities, yes… but I might suggest something deeper: the willingness to lay down one’s life for others. That, perhaps, is the highest virtue.”

 

His eyes flicked across the room — and landed on Castor. The look was steady, almost pointed.

 

Castor felt heat coil in his chest. He leaned back deliberately, folding his arms.

 

“Or,” he said coolly, “maybe heroes are just the ones who survive long enough for people to write their names down. Being alive doesn’t make you noble. It just means you were stubborn… or lucky.”

 

The words hung in the air. A few Slytherins smirked; some Hufflepuffs exchanged nervous glances. Theo gave the faintest curl of a smile, approving.

 

Dumbledore chuckled softly, though his eyes sharpened, “An interesting perspective, Mr. Malfoy. But would you deny that destiny sets some apart from the rest?”

 

Castor tilted his head, pretending to consider, “Destiny sounds like an excuse to stop thinking for yourself.”

 

A ripple of laughter ran through the room. Dumbledore allowed it, though his smile had grown taut.

 

“And yet,” he said mildly, “history shows us again and again that some are called, whether they wish it or not. Do you think Merlin chose to be a savior of Britain? Did the Founders choose the burdens history placed upon them?”

 

Now other students leaned forward, eager for the debate.

 

Hermione raised her hand, her brow furrowed, “But surely choice matters too, Headmaster. Even the greatest witches and wizards made decisions that shaped their legacies.”

 

“Indeed, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said with a faint twinkle, “But perhaps it was their very destiny to make those choices.”

 

“Convenient, that,” Castor said bitterly, “If everything is destiny, then mistakes don’t matter. No one is ever responsible for anything — they were just… fulfilling their role. I think destiny is what people say afterwards, when they want to turn someone into a story.”

 

For a long moment, the room was silent. Even Fawkes gave a low, approving trill.

 

Dumbledore’s smile never wavered, but the air seemed colder somehow. “Wise words, in their way,” he said softly. “Though one wonders if you will think the same when destiny calls upon you.”

 

Castor leaned back further in his chair, deliberately casual, “I don’t plan to wait around for destiny to do the deciding.”

 

888

 

When the bell finally rang, and students began shuffling out in a noisy stream. Castor gathered his things slowly, deliberately making Theo wait so they could leave together. Fawkes fluttered impatiently back to Castor’s shoulder, clearly bored of the debate.

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore’s voice cut through the chatter, calm but impossible to ignore. “Might I have a word before you go?”

 

Theo gave Castor a questioning glance. Castor shrugged, his expression lazy, though his pulse had quickened. “I’ll catch up,” he murmured. Theo lingered a fraction too long before finally heading out with the others.

 

The classroom emptied, leaving only the two of them.

 

Dumbledore moved to stand by the window, his hands folded behind his back. His tone was softer now, almost grandfatherly, “You speak with conviction, Harry. I admire that. Not many your age would challenge me so boldly.”

 

Castor set his books down on the desk, pretending indifference, “I just said what I thought. You asked the question.”

 

“Yes.” Dumbledore smiled faintly, though his eyes searched Castor’s face, “And yet… I wonder. Do you speak to convince your classmates, or yourself?”

 

Castor narrowed his eyes, “I don’t need convincing.”

 

“Don’t you?” Dumbledore turned fully now, his gaze piercing. “You have been… set apart, whether you wish it or not. You are bound to great forces, forces older than either of us. You may reject the word destiny if you like, but the truth remains: some paths are chosen for us.”

 

Castor leaned against his desk, deliberately casual, “If you’re hoping I’ll play your hero, Headmaster, you’ll be waiting a long time. I’m not your weapon. I’m not your story.”

 

Dumbledore’s expression flickered, just for a moment — frustration, quickly smoothed over. He inclined his head, almost indulgent.

“Every young man believes he can shape his own fate. Some succeed, for a time. But eventually…” His voice dropped. “…eventually, we all meet the part of the world that refuses to bend.”

 

For a moment, silence pressed between them. Fawkes gave a low trill, almost protective, and Dumbledore’s eyes flicked to the phoenix briefly — unreadable.

 

At last he sighed, as if letting the moment pass, “Very well, Harry. That will be all for today.”

 

Castor smirked faintly, shouldering his bag, “Good talk, Professor. I’m sure destiny and I will have a riveting discussion later.”

 

He left without looking back, Fawkes taking off to circle overhead as though to escort him.

 

888

That afternoon, while Castor, Hermione, and Neville had claimed their usual corner of the library to work on homework, Castor leaned back in his chair, quill hovering idly over his parchment. He glanced at Hermione, who was bent over her Arithmancy text, and tried to make his voice sound as casual as possible.

 

“Hey, ’Mione?”

 

“Mhm?” She didn’t look up right away, though her quill paused mid-scratch.

 

“You wouldn’t happen to have a pen, would you?”

 

That earned her attention. Hermione raised her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “A pen?” she echoed, as though he had just asked her for a dragon egg.

 

“Yes,” Castor said with exaggerated patience, “A pen. The Muggle kind. Writes ink.”

 

Hermione gave him a look, then reached into her bag, “I know what a pen is and of course I do. I like them for jotting quick notes. Easier than uncapping ink and fussing with blotting paper.”

 

Castor grinned as she set two sleek pens on the table, “Exactly what I need. Can I borrow one?”

 

She sighed in a way that made Neville glance up from his Herbology notes. “Castor Malfoy,” Hermione said, folding her arms, “I don’t know what you’re plotting now, but I’ve reached the point where I’ve decided it’s less stressful not to ask. Whatever it is, you’re going to do it anyway. And if it’s idiotic, Draco and Theo will scold you enough for all three of us.”

 

Neville chuckled and Castor leaned back in his chair, the pen already inspiring ideas, “Theo doesn’t scold me. He loves my madness and would join me if I asked. Thanks though. This will make my life so much easier.”

 

888

That evening, Castor tucked a slim journal under his arm and slid the borrowed pen into the spine before turning to the phoenix perched on the back of a chair.

 

“Alright, Fawkes,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, as if plotting with a friend rather than a legendary creature. “Here’s the plan. We’ll stop by the lake first to feed Kraken—he’ll sulk if I don’t—and then we sneak over to the maze like we did last night. We’ll start at the first entrance, and you can guide me through while I write down every twist and turn. Sound fair?”

 

The phoenix gave a dignified nod, golden eyes gleaming with uncanny intelligence. Castor grinned, about to head toward the door, when he felt the sudden, unmistakable weight of talons closing gently around his arm.

 

“Oi—what’re you—”

 

His words cut off as a wave of heat swept through him, not painful but overwhelming, like being wrapped head to toe in fire that refused to burn. A blinding light burst around them, searing against his closed eyes. He sucked in a startled breath—

 

—and the next instant, the world shifted. The cool evening air brushed his face, carrying with it the scent of lakewater and reeds. Beneath his boots was the damp sand of the little beach where he always met Kraken.

 

Castor blinked rapidly, squinting as the last sparks of gold and crimson faded from his vision. Then, realization hit, and he let out a bark of startled laughter that turned quickly into a cackle.

 

“Well, that is convenient!” he exclaimed, spinning in place to take in the shoreline. “You mean to tell me I’ve been sneaking around like a common criminal when you can just—” He flailed his hands in mimicry of wings. “—teleport me wherever I want to go? Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.”

 

Fawkes preened, chest puffing up as though proud of the display.

 

“Kraken!” Castor called toward the water, still chuckling, “You are not going to believe the trick my new friend can do!”

 

After a short but pleasant visit with Kraken, Castor nodded toward the phoenix, “Alright, then. Time for work.”

 

In a heartbeat, Fawkes had transported them again, flames licking away the night and setting them down before one of the looming hedge-arched entrances to the maze. The air here was different—darker, heavier, charged with a kind of waiting silence. Castor adjusted his grip on the journal and pen, slid his wand into his free hand, and took a steadying breath.

 

He doubted the maze contained anything dangerous yet—it was still weeks before the Third Task—but he had learned never to assume Hogwarts was safe.

 

“All right, partner,” he murmured to Fawkes. “Let’s see where this rabbit hole leads.”

 

The phoenix launched into the sky, wings catching the moonlight like molten bronze. High above, he circled, almost as if considering which path was the true one before giving a piercing trill and banking left. Castor hurried after, pen scratching furiously as he whispered aloud to anchor the directions in his head.

 

“Left… right… straight… straight again… left at the fork…”

 

The hedges towered over him on either side, thick and impenetrable, cutting off any sight of the outside world. Shadows pooled in the corners where torchlight hadn’t reached, and though the maze was empty for now, there was something unnerving about the way the leaves rustled in the night breeze—as if the maze itself was breathing.

 

Still, every time unease crept into his chest, Fawkes’s warm cry drifted down from above, steadying him. Castor allowed himself a small, crooked grin. He wasn’t wandering lost—he had a guide.

 

By the time they reached what felt like the heart of the maze, his journal pages were already filling with neat lines of arrows and notes. He paused, catching his breath, before looking up at Fawkes circling patiently overhead.

 

“You’re brilliant,” he whispered with real gratitude, lifting the pen like a salute. “With this, I might just survive.”

 

Fawkes swooped lower, brushing him with a wingtip that radiated comfort and approval before soaring upward again.

 

With that reassurance burning warm in his chest, Castor turned back the way they’d come, determined to record every last twist and turn until he had the entire maze mapped, one entrance at a time.

 

 

Chapter 73: Chapter 73

Chapter 73

 

When Castor finally returned to his room that night—Fawkes delivering him in a warm flare of firelight—he wasted no time in pulling off his shoes and sinking into the desk chair. His journal lay open where he’d left it, the neat maze notes inked across several pages, but it wasn’t the maze that weighed on his mind.

 

All through dinner, and even during his late-night trek, the memory of Defense Against the Dark Arts had gnawed at him. The way Dumbledore’s blue eyes had bored into him, the too-casual phrasing that carried the weight of command, the subtle insistence that Castor accept a “destiny” he had never asked for. It unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite shake.

 

He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him and dipped a quill in ink. There was no avoiding it—Lucius would want to know. Draco would surely dramatize the matter in his own letter, railing against unfair favoritism and perceived insults. But Castor, he decided, would be blunt. Straight to the point.

 

The quill scratched across the parchment in his steady hand:

 

Father,

 

Draco has likely mentioned that Dumbledore has taken over Defense Against the Dark Arts for the time being.

 

Today’s class was… unusual. It felt very deliberately focused on me. His “lesson” was an extended discourse on what it means to be a hero. In his view, a hero is essentially a martyr—someone who sacrifices themselves for others. Naturally, I disagreed. We debated it, and I could tell he didn’t like my answer.

 

Afterward, he held me back and attempted to convince me that I have some destiny I am meant to fulfill. I found the whole conversation manipulative and more than a little strange. I thought you should be aware of it.

 

Castor

 

He leaned back in the chair once the ink dried, blowing on the page absently. Short and factual. No dramatics, no whining. That was Draco’s territory, and if his brother hadn’t already composed a three-foot tirade about the injustice of Gryffindor favoritism, Castor would eat his wand.

 

Folding the letter crisply, he set it aside for the morning owl post. Then, at last, he let himself fall back onto the bed, staring up at the canopy with a frown tugging at his lips.

 

Dumbledore was watching him too closely. And Castor couldn’t shake the feeling that the old man wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

 

Castor had half expected the night to stretch on sleeplessly. His nerves were still humming from the confrontation with Dumbledore, and the weight of everything he had written to his father pressed heavily in his chest. More often than not, that kind of tension bred the kind of dreams he dreaded.

 

But as he settled beneath the covers, Fawkes hopped gracefully onto his perch. The phoenix’s golden eyes gleamed softly in the candlelight before the bird released a long, low trill. The sound was warm and steady, wrapping around Castor like an unseen blanket. His body, tense and restless, loosened with every note. The music didn’t banish his thoughts so much as quiet them, carrying him away from the sharp edges of memory.

 

Sleep claimed him faster than he would have believed possible. And when dreams finally came, they weren’t jagged or frightening. Instead, he found himself once again in the Chamber of Secrets, but rather than a nightmare of the night he slayed the basilisk, it was him with Theo at his side. The basilisk’s massive body lay stretched before them, not as a threat but as a puzzle to solve, a challenge to unravel. Theo’s calm, precise instructions mixed with Castor’s eager curiosity as they worked shoulder to shoulder, harvesting gleaming scales and glistening fangs.

 

The dream was suffused with a strange, simple contentment—almost domestic in its own way. Just the two of them working together, their hands brushing now and again as they shared tools and notes. Castor woke only briefly in the night, smiling faintly at the memory of it, before Fawkes’s song carried him back under again.

 

888

 

At the end of Transfiguration, Castor lingered as the rest of the class began to file out, books snapping shut and chairs scraping across the floor. He sent Hermione, Neville, and Theo on ahead with a quick excuse, then turned toward McGonagall’s desk. She glanced up from the parchment she had been marking, one eyebrow lifting in polite inquiry.

 

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?”

 

Castor shifted his weight, suddenly conscious of how ridiculous his request might sound. Still, he pressed on, “Do you remember when you told me that if I was going to remain… in hiding, I had to make a point of attending every meal?”

 

“I do,” she replied crisply, though there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes, “And I must commend you, you have kept to that rule with admirable consistency.”

 

“Precisely,” Castor said quickly, latching onto her approval like a lifeline, “Which is why I was hoping you might excuse me from dinner this evening.”

 

Her quill paused mid-stroke. “Excuse you?” she repeated, “You aren’t planning on eating this evening?”

 

Castor’s ears warmed, “I am! Just… not in the Hall.” He rubbed the back of his neck, words tumbling out in an awkward rush, “Theo and I—we haven’t had much time together since we finished with the basilisk project. At least, not just the two of us. I thought… well, I thought he might like a date night.”

 

McGonagall’s eyebrows climbed a little higher.

 

Flustered, Castor hurried on, “I was thinking a picnic. Down in the Chamber. Like old times. Only this time, we wouldn’t even need to sneak in on my broom, because—well, did you know phoenixes can teleport?” He gestured vaguely toward Fawkes, who was preening himself nearby, as though the bird could vouch for his plan.

 

For a long moment, McGonagall simply looked at him, her lips pressed into their usual thin line. Castor braced himself for a sharp refusal. Then, to his astonishment, the corners of her mouth twitched ever so slightly—something between amusement and resignation.

 

“I cannot say,” she murmured, “that I ever envisioned having this particular conversation with a Malfoy.” She set down her quill neatly. “Very well. You may miss dinner,” her eyes sharpened, “provided you take something from the kitchens so that you and Mr. Nott are both properly fed.”

 

Castor grinned despite himself, bowing his head in gratitude, “Thank you, Professor. I promise we will eat. Mipsy will make sure of that.”

 

McGonagall gave a brisk nod, but her gaze lingered on him a heartbeat longer. There was something almost soft in her expression, though she quickly masked it with her usual sternness, “Off with you, Mr. Malfoy. Before I change my mind.”

 

Castor practically skipped out of the classroom, already planning the evening ahead. Fawkes gave a trill of approval, and Castor couldn’t help but feel a ripple of excitement.

 

When Castor slid onto the bench beside Theo at lunch, there was an unmistakable light in his eyes and a broad grin tugging at his lips. Balancing his tray with far more cheer than usual, he leaned in and asked, almost conspiratorially, “Do you have plans for supper?”

 

Theo blinked, caught off guard mid-bite. “Other than the usual?” he asked, setting down his fork.

 

Castor gave a quick nod, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he could barely contain his excitement.

 

Theo studied him for a beat, curiosity sparking. “Not particularly,” he admitted slowly. “Why?”

 

“Meet me by the Potions lab at six instead,” Castor said, his voice brimming with anticipation.

 

One of Theo’s eyebrows arched in quiet suspicion, though the amusement in his gray eyes betrayed him. By now, he knew his boyfriend well enough to recognize when Castor was up to something—and even better, he knew those schemes usually turned out to be memorable. With an easy shrug, Theo answered, “Alright.”

 

Castor’s grin widened until it was almost radiant, his whole expression alight. That smile, brighter than anything else in the noisy Great Hall, gave Theo a quiet pulse of pride—because he knew that somehow, he was the reason behind it.

 

888

 

Once the final class of the day had ended, Castor lingered only long enough to make sure no one would notice his absence. Then, with a quick glance around, he asked Fawkes for help. The phoenix trilled softly in response, and in a flare of golden fire they vanished from the corridor, reappearing in the cool, echoing depths of the Chamber of Secrets.

 

The place looked strangely bare now. Without the basilisk’s hulking corpse, the crates of harvested ingredients, or the constant bustle of work he and Theo had poured into it, the Chamber seemed hollow, its silence pressing in on him. The stone serpent heads lining the walls watched mutely, and Castor found himself imagining how different it would feel once it was transformed into something warmer, more welcoming—even if only for one night.

 

Drawing a breath, he called, “Mipsy.”

 

With a pop, the little elf appeared, bowing low. “Master Castor calls for Mipsy?” she squeaked.

 

Castor offered a small smile, “Hello, Mipsy. I was hoping to have… well, a sort of romantic evening here with Theo later, and I was wondering if you’d be able to help.”

 

Mipsy’s enormous eyes grew even wider, practically glowing, “Of course! Mipsy will be helping Master Castor. Did Master Castor have something in mind?”

 

“I was thinking a picnic,” Castor said thoughtfully, glancing around the cavernous stone floor. “Something comfortable for just the two of us. Nothing too grand—just… cozy.”

 

The elf clapped her hands together with a little squeal, “Mipsy can be doing that! Does Master Castor have a menu in mind?”

 

Castor tapped his quill against his palm, brow furrowing, “Theo isn’t overly picky. Anything will do, really. Just nothing pumpkin—he’s not a fan.”

 

Mipsy nodded vigorously, already brimming with ideas, “Mipsy will make the perfect date! Master Castor and Master Theodore will be liking.”

 

Castor let out a relieved laugh, “Thank you, Mipsy. I told Theo to meet me at six. Will that be enough time?”

 

“Plenty of time,” Mipsy assured him, puffing out her little chest proudly.

 

Castor crouched to meet her eyes, his expression softening. “I knew I could count on you.”

 

Mipsy’s ears wiggled, and with another eager bow she disappeared in a pop, already off to prepare.

 

Left alone in the echoing Chamber, Castor paced a little, imagining Theo’s reaction.

 

888

 

Castor had Fawkes carry him back to the Room of Requirement, where the phoenix left him with an encouraging trill before vanishing in a flash of light. The room, ever accommodating, had already supplied him with a mirror, a chair, and the neatly pressed outfit he’d chosen earlier—one of Valentin’s more polished designs, waistcoat and all. He ran his fingers over the fabric, suddenly nervous.

 

After changing, he sat before the mirror with A Wizard’s Guide to Looking Your Best propped open on the desk. The book was as condescending as ever but buried between the insults were tips that actually help.

 

Finally satisfied Castor rejoined Fawkes. Together, they flashed to the corridor outside the potions classroom, where he leaned against the wall to wait. His stomach twisted with anticipation.

 

Theo arrived only a few minutes later, his stride steady as ever. But the moment his eyes landed on Castor, he paused mid-step, glancing down at his own plain Slytherin robes and then back up again.

 

“I didn’t realize there was a dress code,” Theo deadpanned.

 

Castor’s lips curved into a smile, “There isn’t.” Pushing away from the wall, he crossed the space between them and slipped his arms around Theo’s middle. “Besides, you always look great.”

 

Theo let out a soft chuckle as he returned the embrace, his hand resting comfortably against Castor’s back. “So, what’s the plan? Aren’t you supposed to be in the Great Hall for meals?”

 

“Professor McGonagall authorized this date, so no worries,” Castor said with a touch of pride.

 

“Ah,” Theo murmured, a knowing smirk tugging at his mouth, “So that’s why you lingered after class.”

 

Castor’s blush gave him away, though he didn’t try to hide it, “I wanted to make sure we wouldn’t get in trouble… but also—I had a dream about you last night. And it made me realize how much I’ve missed just spending time with you. So, I planned us a date. Even if it is just something small and in the castle.”

 

Theo’s composure slipped just enough for Castor to catch the faint flush creeping up his cheeks. For someone usually so difficult to rattle, it was immensely satisfying.

 

“Then, shall we?” Castor asked softly.

 

Before Theo could answer, Fawkes swooped down, alighting on Castor’s shoulder with a dignified air. The phoenix extended one gleaming talon to grasp the edge of Theo’s robe.

 

Theo’s brows shot up. “Wait—” he began, but his protest was cut short as the world exploded into blinding flame.

 

The blaze of phoenix fire faded, leaving Theo and Castor standing in the Chamber of Secrets. Theo blinked rapidly, adjusting to the dim, green-tinted glow of the enormous underground space—and then stopped dead.

 

Castor let out a laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth as his eyes swept the scene, “Oh, Mipsy…”

 

The little elf appeared instantly with a loud pop, bouncing on her toes, ears twitching with excitement, “Master Castor! Mipsy did everything just right, yes? Does Master Castor and Master Theo likes it?”

 

Like it was… an understatement.

 

The chamber was utterly transformed. The cold stone floor had vanished beneath a thick carpet of soft moss and charmed grass. Floating lantern-orbs drifted lazily through the air like captured stars, bathing the serpent-carved pillars in warm gold light. A picnic blanket embroidered in silver and green lay spread at the base of Salazar Slytherin’s statue, and it was buried beneath an impossible feast: golden roast pheasant, a bubbling cauldron of stew, baskets of warm bread, towers of sugared fruit tarts, trays of cheeses, and steaming silver mugs of cocoa.

 

And if that wasn’t enough, Mipsy had somehow conjured a fountain shaped like a coiled snake. Crystal water poured into a basin where enchanted fish darted about in glimmering loops.

 

Theo’s jaw dropped, “This… this is your idea of ‘something small’?”

 

Castor gave a helpless, delighted shrug, his grin wide enough to hurt, “I may have underestimated Mipsy’s definition of ‘picnic.’”

 

“Mipsy made it beautiful!” the elf squeaked proudly, eyes shining. “Master Castor only deserves the bestest, most romantic date with Master Theo!”

 

Instead of looking embarrassed, Castor laughed again, shaking his head fondly, “You really outdid yourself, Mipsy. This is brilliant.”

 

Theo turned toward him slowly, one brow raised, “Brilliant? It looks like you planned a wedding reception.”

 

“Exactly!” Castor said cheerfully, slipping an arm through Theo’s and tugging him forward, “And just think—we don’t even have to share it with the rest of the school. Tell me you’re not impressed.”

 

Theo tried to hold on to his unimpressed expression but failed miserably; his smirk gave him away, “Alright. Maybe I’m impressed.”

 

Mipsy squealed and clapped her hands, vanishing with a loud pop before Castor could reassure her further.

 

Shaking his head, Theo allowed Castor to pull him closer to the lavish spread. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, though there was warmth in his voice.

 

Castor grinned at him, eyes alight with amusement, “Impossible? Maybe. But admit it—this is going to be fun.”

 

Castor tugged Theo toward the blanket, his grin refusing to fade. “See? Mipsy outdid herself, but honestly—it’s kind of perfect. I don’t think even Valentin could have staged this.”

 

Theo sank onto the edge of the blanket, still looking a little overwhelmed, but Castor noticed the faint upward tug at the corner of his mouth. He sat down beside him, brushing his fingers against Theo’s hand until they laced together.

 

“I wanted it to be… just us,” Castor admitted softly, his earlier amusement mellowing into something more vulnerable. “No basilisk parts, no dragons, no professors breathing down our necks. Just you and me for once.”

 

Theo’s eyes flicked to him, curious and intent in the dim light. “And firebirds,” he pointed out dryly, nodding toward Fawkes, who had perched like a jewel at the edge of the chamber, casting a golden glow over the scene.

 

Castor laughed quietly. “Alright, you, me, and the world’s most meddling phoenix.”

 

They settled onto the blanket, and Castor poured them both some of the sparkling cider Mipsy had left. He lifted his glass slightly, his eyes gleaming in the flicker of enchanted lanterns, “To us?”

 

Theo clinked his glass against Castor’s with a simple nod. “To us.” He took a sip, then hesitated before adding in a low voice, “I didn’t think you’d go to all this trouble for me.”

 

Castor tilted his head, studying him, “You’re worth the trouble. Every bit of it.”

 

Theo flushed, looking away as though the cavern walls suddenly held great interest, but his hand squeezed Castor’s tighter, grounding him. Castor leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder, and let the silence linger—not awkward, but warm, filled with the quiet crackle of lanternlight and the faint, content trill of Fawkes.

 

When Theo finally turned back, his expression was softer, unguarded in a way Castor rarely got to see, “Thank you, Castor. For this. For… wanting this.”

 

Castor smiled and rested his head briefly against Theo’s shoulder, “I always want this.”

 

Theo took a slow, steadying breath, his gaze softening as he tucked a loose strand of Castor’s hair behind his ear, “In that case… there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. And honestly, you’ve given me the perfect setting to do it.”

 

Castor’s brow furrowed in mild confusion, “Oh?”

 

“I know you were raised in the Muggle world, so I just want you to hear me out. There’s no right or wrong answer here, and you can ask anything you want, okay?”

 

Castor’s stomach fluttered, but he nodded, trying to steady his voice, “Of course.”

 

Theo set his glass down carefully and reached out to take Castor’s free hand, fingers intertwining with his own, “You know how Draco’s been betrothed to Astoria since they were kids?”

 

Castor’s eyes went wide, “Wait—are you betrothed?”

 

“No! No, nothing like that,” Theo said quickly, letting out a soft chuckle at Castor’s expression.

 

“Oh… sorry,” Castor muttered, cheeks pinking.

 

Theo squeezed his hand reassuringly, “It’s fine. I just meant that while many pureblood families arrange betrothals early, mine is… a little different. My family believes in earning what you get—kind of like how I had to earn my place in the family business.”

 

Castor nodded slowly, still trying to connect the dots.

 

“In the same way,” Theo continued, his thumb brushing over Castor’s knuckles, “we don’t usually do early betrothals. The idea is that we should earn our partners through courting.”

 

“Courting?” Castor echoed, eyes wide with curiosity.

 

“Yes,” Theo said, a small, soft smile tugging at his lips, “Formal dating. It means exchanging letters, spending time together, giving thoughtful gifts, and meeting each other’s families. In practice, it’s not that different from what we’ve already been doing, but in my family, it’s a traditional next step in a serious relationship.”

 

Castor’s heart skipped a beat. The warmth of the enchanted chamber wrapped around him, and he blinked up at Theo, “Like… like your boyfriend? I’m already your boyfriend.”

 

Theo’s smile deepened, a quiet affection in his gaze, “It’s more than that, Castor. To me, this is almost as serious as a proposal.”

 

Castor’s eyebrows shot up, wide with surprise, “B-but… we’re fourteen!”

 

Theo gently rubbed Castor’s arm, his touch grounding, “I’m not asking for that kind of commitment. Not yet. What I’m asking is a formal betrothal—on our terms, when we’re ready. Please let me explain.”

 

Castor leaned closer, his curiosity piqued, as Theo continued.

 

“In traditional betrothals arranged by families, the children often have little say. Either person could call it off without repercussions, because the decision isn’t really theirs to begin with. But when we’re old enough to make a betrothal ourselves, if we find someone we’re truly sure about… I can ask to formally court you.”

 

Theo’s thumb traced small circles on Castor’s hand, “I’ve already gotten your parents approval, which is customary in our families. They’ve granted me permission, and they assured me they won’t protest if you choose not to accept. But if you do say yes, it means I will court you properly, the traditional way—earning your hand, showing you my dedication, and proposing when the time comes. And even then, you would have the final choice: to accept or decline. No harm, no scandal, no repercussions either way.”

 

Castor’s head spun a little at the weight of it all, but Theo’s calm, steady presence made it feel safe.

 

“There is one thing,” Theo added, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “If I ever chose to break it off, it would be considered a serious insult—blood feuds have started over less. That’s why the Malfoys have historically hated Weasleys, though your actions are already beginning to change that as you did rescue one. That does strange things to old grudges.”

 

Theo gave a small shrug, his cheeks tinged faintly pink, “Anyway, tangent over. The question is simple: Castor, will you allow me to formally court you as my betrothed?”

 

Castor’s heart leapt. Every instinct in him wanted to scream yes. To grab Theo’s hand and never let go. To seal the promise here and now.

 

But the word caught in his throat. Something heavy—something dangerous—held him back.

 

Theo didn’t know everything. He didn’t know about Voldemort rising again. He didn’t know about Dumbledore’s manipulations, or the tangled web Castor found himself trapped in. If Theo bound himself to him like this, he’d be stepping into the fire blind.

 

“I want to,” Castor whispered, his voice rough, “I mean—I really, really want to. But…”

 

Theo closed his eyes as if bracing for rejection, his lips pressing together in quiet resignation.

 

“…But there’s something you should know before you do something you can’t take back.”

 

Theo’s eyes snapped back open, surprise flickering there, “What is it?”

 

Castor dropped his gaze, shame burning his cheeks. He couldn’t bear to look Theo in the face, “Voldemort is coming back… soon.”

 

Theo’s expression tightened, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then, to Castor’s shock, he simply said, “I know.”

 

Castor’s head jerked up, “What?”

 

“I know,” Theo repeated calmly, “Your parents told my family while we were being tailed by Draco. They explained it all once we got home.” His voice softened, “I already know. But what does that have to do with anything?”

 

Castor’s throat went dry, “He could come after you. If he decides he doesn’t want me alive, if he thinks I’m in the way… he could use you to hurt me.”

 

Theo shook his head, slow and steady, utterly unshaken, “No. That’s not going to happen. Neither of our families would allow it.” His hand slid to Castor’s, fingers curling around his own, “You don’t understand, Castor. The Dark Lord may be powerful, but even he knows which alliances he can’t afford to jeopardize. Our families are woven into his inner circle. Your father, your grandfather, your aunt—they weren’t just followers. They were his foundation.”

 

He spoke with quiet authority, but not pride.

 

“Your father and grandfather brought him money, political influence, connections that no spell could conjure. My father supplied him with rare ingredients, with weapons no one else could provide… and when needed, he was an assassin.” Theo’s tone didn’t waver, but his grip on Castor’s hand grew firmer, “And your aunt… she was his warrior. His fiercest, his most unbreakable blade. He used to say the Black Madness made her unstoppable.”

 

Castor swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat at the reminder of his family’s crimes.

 

Theo noticed. He softened instantly, brushing a hand through Castor’s hair in the way he always did when he sensed him unraveling. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to burden you with that. I just… want you to understand. The Dark Lord wouldn’t dare come after us without a reason he considers worth the risk.”

 

His thumb stroked along Castor’s temple, grounding him.

 

“And even if the worst happens,” Theo said quietly, his voice dropping to something more tender, “I would happily run away with you. To Romania. To the reserve. To anywhere. As long as it’s with you, Castor, I don’t care what we’re running from.”

 

“Okay,” Castor said, the word leaving his lips before he even thought it through. It was simple, instinctive, certain. If Theo was truly willing to run away with him—to choose him over everything else—then none of Castor’s fears could matter anymore. The reserve was heavily warded for good reason; if the worst happened, they would be safe there. He knew the dragon tamers would take them in, no questions asked.

 

“Okay?” Theo echoed, a spark of amusement flickering in his eyes, though his smile betrayed nothing but delight.

 

Color rushed to Castor’s cheeks, his resolve softening into shy warmth, “Yes. I accept. I… I will court you.”

 

Theo’s low chuckle vibrated in the space between them, affectionate and teasing all at once. “Technically,” he corrected gently, “I am the one doing the courting, my betrothed.” His voice caressed the word like a promise.

 

Then, with deliberate care, Theo took Castor’s hand in his own. He lowered his head, brushing his lips across Castor’s knuckles in a kiss so tender it made Castor’s heart stutter. The simple act felt older than either of them, steeped in tradition and something fiercely personal at the same time.

 

Theo’s lips curved into a smile that was more a promise than a joke, “One day, Castor Malfoy, I’ll make that proposal for real.”

 

Castor flushed hot, burying his face against Theo’s shoulder. The thought should have terrified him—but instead, it lit something steady and bright in his chest. Whatever storms were coming, at least he wouldn’t be facing them alone.

 

 

 

Notes:

Sorry I vanished for a few days—I had a dramatic mental vacation where I stared at a wall for five straight hours (highly recommend, five stars, very minimalist). But then my brain apparently decided to make up for lost time and won’t shut up today.

Also, purely hypothetically, if I were to write an original novel about a delightfully eccentric artist named Valentin Noirveil, whose mentor was murdered and who’s convinced the police nabbed the wrong person so now he’s hell-bent on finding the real killer… would that make me completely insane? Because, um, I may have already written chapter one. And I can’t tell if I’m just being creative or if I’ve officially joined Castor in the madness club.

Chapter 74: Chapter 74

Chapter 73

 

Castor was still dripping from his swim with Kraken as he padded up the slope toward the castle, hair plastered to his forehead, boots squelching faintly. Halfway up the path, he nearly collided with Neville, who was emerging from the greenhouse with dirt still on his hands.

 

“Hey, Neville!” Castor grinned, bright and careless, “How’s it going?”

 

Neville brushed soil from his sleeves and gave a small but genuine smile, “Good. Luna and I made plans for next Hogsmeade weekend—we are going to hunt for Livera Sprouts so I can pot a few. Apparently Blushing Hucklewings are drawn to them, so she’s going to keep watch.”

 

Castor laughed, shaking water from his silver hair, “I love her.”

 

“Me too,” Neville said, almost absently, and Castor froze mid-step.

 

“That’s great!” he blurted, heart leaping.

 

“Yeah,” Neville admitted with a soft chuckle, “you were right. I just needed to give her a chance.”

 

Castor’s grin spread wide, warmth bubbling up inside him like sunshine. His steps were lighter as they fell into stride together toward the castle.

 

“You’re in a good mood,” Neville teased, eyes flicking toward the puddles Castor was leaving behind.

 

Castor nearly squealed, “Last night Theo asked me if I was okay with him courting me!”

 

Neville’s jaw dropped, “Oh, Merlin, Castor! That’s brilliant! You said yes, right?”

 

“Of course, I said yes!” Castor said, cheeks burning with delight.

 

“I’m so happy for you,” Neville said sincerely, tugging the still-damp boy into a one-armed hug despite the wetness, “I know you’re crazy about him.”

 

“I am!” Castor beamed, practically glowing.

 

Neville’s smile softened, “It really is good to see you this happy. I was worried about you last week. After… everything with Crouch Junior. It’s just… good to see you recover.”

 

Castor’s flush turned self-conscious as he rubbed at the back of his neck, “It was stupid. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

 

Neville shook his head firmly, all warmth gone from his voice, “Castor, don’t say that. You don’t need to explain your reaction to anyone. Whatever happened—it must have been awful. I know better than most what that man is capable of.”

 

Castor blinked, startled, and looked up into Neville’s suddenly shadowed face, “W-what do you mean?”

 

Neville hesitated only a moment before answering, voice quieter now, “It was always hard to prove which Death Eaters did what—since they wore masks—but one of the few crimes Crouch was actually confirmed to have taken part in was the attack on my parents.”

 

The blood in Castor’s veins went colder than the Black Lake, “…Oh, Neville.”

 

Neville shrugged, but it was a hollow motion, his gaze distant, “It happened the day after You-Know-Who went after you. Crouch and a few others tortured them. They survived, but… their minds didn’t. They’ve lived in St. Mungo’s Hospital ever since. They never came back from the Cruciatus.” He turned to Castor suddenly, searching his face. “He didn’t use it on you, did he?”

 

Castor’s throat closed up, guilt pressing heavy against his ribs. He should have turned Crouch in. He should have done something. Instead, all he could do was shake his head, stammering, “No. No… I-I probably just overreacted. I just—didn’t know what to do. My parents… they likely knew him once. Maybe even called him a friend. And there I was—trying to protect Moody, trying to protect Crouch Senior, and knowing I couldn’t duel him. All the while I kept thinking about Lucius, and…” Castor trailed off, frustrated and ashamed. “I just don’t know who to trust with what anymore.”

 

Neville’s expression softened, the weight in his eyes shifting from pain to understanding. He reached out, steadying Castor with a firm hand on his shoulder.

 

“Castor,” he said gently, “don’t blame yourself. Crouch chose what he did. Not you. He’s the monster in this—not you for surviving him.”

 

Castor swallowed hard, eyes stinging, “But I—”

 

“No,” Neville cut in, his voice steady with quiet conviction, “You didn’t overreact. You were scared, and that’s normal. You’ve always tried to carry the weight of everyone else on your shoulders—worrying about what’s best for everyone but yourself. If you weren’t that way, Castor, we probably wouldn’t have a phoenix circling us right now.”

 

He lifted a hand and pointed upward. High above, Fawkes wheeled lazily through the crisp air, letting out a soft, approving trill that made the hairs on Castor’s arms rise.

 

Castor let out a watery laugh, brushing at the lone tear that had slipped free, “Thanks, Nev.”

 

Neville gave him a crooked, apologetic smile, “Merlin, I didn’t mean to drag down your mood. Come on, brighten me up again—what did Theo get you for your courting gift?”

 

Castor blinked, surprised, then shrugged with a little sheepishness, “Nothing yet. He only asked me last night if it would be okay.”

 

“Ah.” Neville’s face lit with realization. “Then technically you’re not quite betrothed. Don’t worry—it’s only a formality. See, the old tradition says it doesn’t begin until the first courting gift is given and accepted. That’s when the bond officially starts. Honestly, Theo probably just wanted to make sure you were comfortable before springing the ritual on you. Very thoughtful of him.”

 

Castor’s lips curved in a soft smile, “Yeah… he’s great like that. Still, he didn’t mention the whole first-gift thing.”

 

Neville chuckled and waved it off, “Probably because it doesn’t really matter once you’ve already said yes. The rules are simple—you don’t return the first gift unless you want to end things. If you do reach the proposal, you keep everything, whether you accept him or not, as proof you gave him a true chance. And Theo? He knows you. He probably already trusts that you’d never return something from him. Not when you care for him this much.”

 

Castor’s smile widened, warmth blooming in his chest, “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

 

Neville gave a firm nod, his expression softening into something almost brotherly, “Then you’ve nothing to worry about. Let Theo take care of the rest. You’ve already given him the most important thing—your yes.”

 

Above them, Fawkes trilled once more, the sound bright and rich, echoing like a blessing through the crisp air. Castor tilted his head back to watch the phoenix wheel against the pale winter sky, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks. Between Theo’s promise, Neville’s steadfast friendship, and the watchful flame-bird soaring overhead, for the first time in a long time, Castor felt safe enough to believe in happiness.

 

He laughed quietly to himself, nudging Neville as they started toward the castle, “You know, if this is what courting feels like… I think I could get used to it.”

 

Neville smiled, his arm slung easily around Castor’s shoulders, “Good. Because you deserve every bit of it.”

 

And with that, they walked on together, two friends side by side beneath the phoenix’s circling song.

 

888

 

Narcissa unfolded the parchment of a letter she had received at breakfast, immediately knowing it was from her youngest as it had been sent via Hedwig.

 

Mum,

 

I know you’ve already heard from the Notts that Theo was considering courting me, but last night he actually asked if I would be open to the idea of becoming his betrothed.

 

I said yes. I hope that’s all right with you. Theo seemed certain that neither you nor Father would object, but it would still mean a great deal to me if I knew I had your blessing. I really do like him—more than I know how to put into words. Sometimes I think I’m far too gone already, but he’s just… so kind to me, in ways that make it hard not to fall deeper every day.

 

I’m truly happy, Mum. He hasn’t given me a courting gift yet—Neville explained to me how important that tradition is—but I think Theo only wanted to be sure I was comfortable before he made anything official. I thought that was very thoughtful of him, and very like him too.

 

I know this is a big step. And I know I could still turn back if I ever needed to. But, honestly, I can’t imagine Theo ever giving me a reason to return what he’s given me, least of all his heart.

 

With love,

Castor

 

“It seems,” Narcissa said softly, folding the parchment with deliberate care, “that young Theodore has finally approached Castor about a betrothal.”

 

Lucius set down his fork and regarded her, pale brows arching, “And Castor’s answer?”

 

“He agreed,” Narcissa replied, her tone warming despite herself, “Our youngest is in love.”

 

Lucius inclined his head, a faint but genuine note of satisfaction in his voice, “Good. Very good. It is fortunate he managed to choose such a suitable partner without interference. Merlin forbid he had set his sights on a Weasley.”

 

A quiet laugh ghosted across Narcissa’s lips, “Indeed. But no—we needn’t worry about that. Whatever may come, Castor will be in capable hands with Theodore.”

 

Lucius leaned back in his chair, studying her expression, “And the letter? Did he mention anything further about Dumbledore in this one?”

 

Narcissa shook her head, “No. Every word was about Theodore. His joy… it all but spilled off the page.”

 

Lucius’s mouth tightened slightly, “Mm. Curious. Castor's last letter only mentioned Dumbledore in lessons but I received another letter from Draco late last night. Perhaps Castor is too distracted—or too trusting—to notice, but Draco insists he’s seen Dumbledore about the castle far more often of late. Not merely in lessons. He says the man always seems to be nearby when Castor is about—walking to classes, down by the lake, even between corridors. Draco swears it is no coincidence.”

 

“You think he is right? That Dumbledore is following Castor?” Narcissa asked carefully.

 

Lucius gave a short, humorless laugh. “Draco is convinced of it. As for myself…” He let the words hang, his gaze dropping to the untouched teacup before him. A faint crease formed between his brows. “I cannot fathom what the old man hopes to discover by skulking about the halls like a vulture. But whatever his purpose, I find I do not like it in the slightest.”

 

Narcissa’s lips pressed thin. She set her spoon gently against the rim of her saucer before asking, “Have you heard anything from Barty?”

 

Lucius inclined his head, voice low, “Yes. The potion to restore our Lord has… shifted somewhat. Since Castor gave his blood willingly, the balance of the ritual has altered. The core remains the same, but adjustments are required. It is taking time to secure the final ingredients, though Barty assures me all will be ready before the boys return home from school.”

 

Narcissa stirred her tea slowly, the delicate clink of silver against porcelain betraying the restlessness she would not allow into her expression, “The sooner that meeting happens, the better,” she said quietly. “Castor’s mind gnaws on fears he cannot name, and I would see them calmed. If he could face our Lord, see the truth for himself, he might finally let go of these worries—and step back from the war entirely.”

 

Lucius considered her words, then gave a measured nod, “You are right. The closer to the beginning of summer, the better. If the meeting unsettles him—and I suspect it will—he can retreat to the reserve. The dragons soothe him. They will steady him again.”

 

888

 

Breakfast with Neville, Fleur, and Hermione felt unusually light that morning. Between bites of toast and sips of pumpkin juice, Castor and Neville had explained the whole story of Theo’s proposal to the girls—how it had unfolded, what it meant, and how Castor had accepted. Hermione, predictably, was enchanted.

 

“Oh, Castor!” Hermione exclaimed, clasping her hands together in delight, “The way he’s so certain about you—that he’d never dream of leaving—it’s just so romantic. Honestly, it makes my heart melt.”

 

Castor’s cheeks warmed, but he laughed softly, unable to hide how much her enthusiasm pleased him. “Mine too,” he admitted, grinning, “I can’t stop thinking about it, really. I was even wondering if I could ask Dane over the summer if Theo might come visit the reserve for a few days. You know, just so he can see it for himself—what my life there might look like. In case he ever does decide to move there with me someday.”

 

The words tumbled out in a rush, and Castor ducked his head into his cup, as though trying to hide his smile in the steam.

 

From a little further down the table, Castor caught the sound of an exaggerated sigh. Lavender leaned in, her chin propped on her hand, and declared dreamily, “Honestly, you two are the perfect couple. You have to show us your first courting present once you get it. I simply insist.”

 

Parvati, who had been listening with wide eyes, gave an eager nod, “Oh, definitely! It’s so romantic. I doubt I’ll ever get to experience it myself—I was betrothed as a child, you see. So I’ll never really know what it’s like to be asked.”

 

Lavender tossed her hair, looking smug, “Well, I’m just waiting for the right man to come along and sweep me off my feet.”

 

Parvati smirked, “You mean any man.”

 

Lavender’s playful kick nearly toppled her pumpkin juice, but she only laughed and tossed her hair, “Oh, hush. Unlike Castor, I’m in no rush. Besides”—her smile turned positively wicked—“it’s endlessly entertaining living vicariously through him. He and Theo are the couple to watch now.”

 

Before Castor could retort, the sudden flutter of wings drew every gaze upward. Hedwig swooped gracefully into the hall, landing neatly in front of him with a medium-sized package tied securely to her leg.

 

Lavender let out a delighted squeal that turned heads from neighboring tables, “Oh! Is that it? Is it your courting gift?”

 

Castor blinked in surprise as he reached for the package, carefully untying it from Hedwig’s leg. “No,” he said after a moment, tilting the box in his hands, “This looks more like something from Valentin.”

 

Parvati clapped her hands together, “Even better! Open it!”

 

Lavender was practically bouncing in her seat, leaning so far across the table that Hermione had to tug her back by the sleeve. “Yes, open it right now!”

 

With a long-suffering sigh, Castor pushed his plate aside and set the box in front of him. He could feel half the table—and several curious eyes from across the Hall—watching intently. Even Fleur, usually so composed, had leaned slightly closer, her gaze fixed on the package with keen interest.

 

Peeling back the wrapping, Castor lifted the lid to find crisp tissue paper, neatly folded, with a letter resting atop it. His heart gave a small flutter.

 

“Read it out!” Parvati urged eagerly.

 

Blushing under the attention, Castor cleared his throat, carefully unfolding the letter. His voice stumbled and faltered whenever he reached a French word, and each time his eyes flicked helplessly toward Fleur, whose faint, amused smile only made him turn redder.

 

“Dearest Castor,

 

You cannot imagine the gift you have bestowed upon me. Mon chéri, you are a treasure. I worked tirelessly to shape the basilisk hide into something worthy of you, unwilling to let even a single centimeter go to waste. And then—when my mind was nearly at its limit—fate intervened. I opened the paper and saw you. You, with your love beside you, and your magnificent new flying companion.

 

It was as if inspiration struck me like lightning. In that instant, I knew exactly what I was meant to create.

 

The ensemble within is my finest work. The pieces not crafted from basilisk leather have been enchanted with growing charms, so that they will remain with you as you grow into the man you are destined to become.

 

This has been the greatest honor of my career. You will never understand the depth of my gratitude for the chance to create something so extraordinary, a true once-in-a-lifetime gift.

 

And, mon cher, I expect—no, I insist—that you wear this for your final task.

 

With all my thanks,

Valentin”

 

When Castor lowered the letter, cheeks flushed, the entire table seemed to lean closer, hungry to glimpse what lay beneath the tissue paper.

 

Castor’s hands trembled slightly as he peeled back the final layer of tissue. Inside lay a carefully folded robe, glinting faintly in the morning sunlight streaming through the Great Hall windows. The material was dark, almost iridescent, and the subtle sheen made it clear this was no ordinary fabric. Basilisk hide.

 

He gingerly lifted the robe, running his fingers along the shoulders. Beneath the basilisk leather, a lighter, enchanted fabric peeked out. “It… it grows with me,” he whispered, a mix of awe and disbelief in his voice.

 

And then he gasped. On the back, stitched with fine golden thread and softly glowing enchantments, was a phoenix. Fawkes squawked happily, hopping closer as if inspecting his likeness. The detail was exquisite: the wings looked mid-flap, feathers alive with a shimmer of magic. A tiny spark of fire danced along its tail, harmless yet mesmerizing.

 

Nestled beside the robe were matching boots, a vest, and a belt, all crafted from the same dark basilisk hide, but with faint lines and stitching that would allow them to adjust as Castor grew. A wand holster, elegantly curved and lined with soft leather on the inside, completed the set. It could clip to the belt or strap across the chest, designed for both practicality and style.

 

Below these, in a separate compartment, were pants and a long-sleeved shirt. They were not basilisk, but Valentin had matched the color and subtle sheen perfectly, the fabric enchanted to remain crisp and resilient even under intense magical duress. The entire ensemble had an effortless elegance, simultaneously protective and sleek, built for mobility, growth, and a hint of intimidation if needed.

 

Castor’s eyes were wide, practically glowing with excitement, “This… this is incredible. Valentin really… he thought of everything.”

 

Lavender squealed from across the table, “Oh my Merlin! That phoenix on the back! It’s so you!”

 

Parvati clapped her hands delicately, “It’s… it’s perfect. The way he made it grow with you? That’s genius!”

 

Even Fleur, usually composed, leaned in slightly, her voice soft but impressed, “Monsieur Valentin has captured both elegance and power. Truly magnifique.”

 

Fawkes hopped onto Castor’s shoulder, nuzzling his cheek as if approving the work personally. Castor couldn’t help but grin, “I can’t wait to wear this.”

 

“You really should try it on,” Neville added with a playful grin. “Fawkes approves, so it’s officially endorsed by a very important critic.”

 

Castor gave the phoenix a gentle scratch behind the head, smiling warmly at the little creature. Then, with a final glance at Valentin’s letter and a soft, heartfelt smile, he carefully refolded the robe. “I think I will… but I’ll do it in my room,” he said, his voice tinged with excitement.

 

“No fair!” Parvati protested, leaning forward as if she could reach through the air and insist on seeing it now.

 

Castor chuckled, lifting a hand in mock warning, “Patience. You’ll see it in action during the third task,” he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “And trust me—it’ll be worth the wait.”

 

With that, he tucked the letter and the carefully wrapped ensemble under his arm and started walking away, Fawkes fluttering beside him, leaving Parvati and Lavender staring after him in a mix of awe and envy.

 

“Merlin, that boy…” Lavender muttered, shaking her head with a fond smile, “And that phoenix! I swear they have more style than I do without trying.”

 

Neville just laughed, shaking his head, “He’s happy. That’s all that matters. And really… can you blame him? Look at that smile.”

 

Castor’s steps were light as he made his way toward the Room of Requirement, already imagining the moment he’d finally slip into the basilisk hide, feel the magic settle around him, and see the phoenix emblazoned across his back.

Notes:

I stayed up late finishing this one since I might not get much writing time over the weekend. I’m heading to a concert with a couple of friends, and with the drive into the city, I’m not sure when I’ll be able to sneak in some writing.

Chapter 75

Notes:

I was supposed to post this earlier, but then my brain grabbed the wheel, swerved into left field, and decided, “Let’s Get Creative!” (insert Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared meme). Now it’s twice as long as I intended, and honestly, who keeps letting me near a keyboard unsupervised?

Chapter 75

 

Castor was halfway through his toast at breakfast with Hermione and Neville when Hedwig swooped gracefully into the Hall, a neatly wrapped parcel clutched in her talons. Castor blinked in surprise as she landed neatly in front of him, offering out the package with a sharp nip of affection to his knuckles.

 

He frowned, brushing a few crumbs from the paper before noticing the handwriting on the front. His heart gave a little start—his mother’s delicate script stared back at him.

 

“Huh… this isn’t from Valentin or Theo,” he murmured, running a finger over the familiar letters. “Mum sent this.”

 

Before he could turn it over again, a very familiar, long-suffering sigh came from behind him.

 

“It’s for our birthday,” drawled a dry, exasperated voice.

 

Castor turned in his seat to see Draco approaching, several small gifts in his arms and his usual air of faint disdain firmly in place.

 

“Our birthday?” Castor asked, startled.

 

“Yes,” Draco replied flatly, setting the parcels down with an almost theatrical thud. “Honestly, you’d think you’d remember that part. I suppose this also means you didn’t get me anything.”

 

Castor flushed, ears pinking as he stammered, “Oh—er—sorry. I guess I… forgot I wasn’t born in July anymore.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes, “Pathetic. But fine. I’ll forgive you this year. Next year, however, if you forget again, I’m keeping whatever I get you. Consider that fair warning.”

 

“You didn’t have to get me something either way,” Castor muttered.

 

“Yes, yes, spare me your Gryffindor humility,” Draco said impatiently, waving a hand.

 

Despite himself, Castor smiled faintly, “Thanks… Draco.”

 

Draco didn’t push further. Instead, his expression softened just slightly—no smirk, no jab, just a simple, “Happy birthday.”

 

And then, in a move that startled everyone at the table—including himself—he slid into the empty seat beside Castor, as though joining his brother and his friends was the most natural thing in the world.

 

To Castor’s surprise, Draco ended up sticking close to him for the entire day. Castor assumed his twin was merely determined to spend as much of their first birthday together as possible—perhaps out of some sense of tradition, or maybe even guilt. Whatever the reason, Castor didn’t mind. Far from it, in fact; it was rare to have Draco’s undivided attention as his friends were always around and Castor found he actually enjoyed the novelty of it.

 

They had opened their parents’ parcels side by side earlier in the day. Each contained a carefully chosen book from their father, along with a neat selection of Honeydukes’ finest sweets from their mother—chocolate cauldrons, sugar quills, and the sort of delicate truffles Narcissa favored for special occasions.

 

Draco pulled two more packages from the pile and passed one over, “These are from Sev. He always gets me something potion-related—tradition at this point. Apparently, you’ve made the list.”

 

Draco’s gift turned out to be a neat collection of rare potion ingredients. Nothing outright dangerous, but the kind of stock only a Potions Master usually had access to. Castor, by contrast, unwrapped a thick volume detailing the properties of ingredients and how subtle changes in them could alter a brew.

 

He just stared at it, startled. Then warmth crept into his chest. He hadn’t expected Snape to acknowledge him like this, let alone with something so thoughtful.

 

Draco finished the pile with his own personal gift to Castor. When he tore back the paper and uncovered a carefully wrapped container of extra Gillyweed, Castor couldn’t help it—he burst out laughing.

 

“Thoughtful,” Castor said, still laughing as he tucked it away.

 

By the time supper rolled around, the two of them had settled together once more at the Gryffindor table. Castor didn’t care—there was something comforting about Draco choosing to stay at his side.

 

It was in the middle of the meal, as Castor was halfway through a plate of shepherd’s pie, that a shadow swept over the table. With a soft thud, Theo’s sleek owl, Hades, landed gracefully in front of him, amber eyes glinting as he extended one leg bearing a small parcel tied with dark green ribbon.

 

Hades dropped gracefully onto the table in front of Castor, nearly upsetting his pumpkin juice. The owl’s talons clutched a long, narrow parcel, wrapped in dark green cloth and tied neatly with a cord.

 

Castor blinked at it in surprise, fingers brushing over the bundle. “From Theo,” he murmured, recognizing the careful handwriting on the tag.

 

Draco leaned in to peer, but kept quiet.

 

When Castor untied the cord and pulled back the cloth, his breath caught. Nestled within was a dagger — the blade carved from a basilisk fang, its gleaming white edge catching the light menacingly. The hilt was wrapped in supple black basilisk leather, fitted so seamlessly it seemed grown into place. Along with it came a sheath, also fashioned from the same scaled hide, runed subtly in Theo’s fine, deliberate hand.

 

Castor reached out reverently, lifting the weapon. It was perfectly balanced, cool in his grip, and radiated both danger and meaning.

 

A folded note slipped from the wrappings, and Castor caught it just in time. He opened it, reading Theo’s unmistakable script:

 

For when words aren’t enough. For when you need to fight, or simply to remember that you already survived the worst. You’ll never be unarmed while I’m with you. — Theo

PS: It felt right to give you your first of many gifts on your birthday.

 

Heat rushed into Castor’s face, equal parts pride and tenderness, and he quickly slid the dagger into its sheath before anyone else could gawk too much. The basilisk leather holder was fitted with clever straps, adjustable so it could be worn on his belt or strapped to his arm beneath his robes.

 

Hermione, eyes wide, whispered, “Oh, wow… Castor, it’s—”

 

“Beautiful,” he interrupted softly, unable to keep the smile tugging at his mouth, “Dangerous and beautiful. Just like Theo.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes but smirked all the same.

 

Castor folded the dagger back into its green cloth with deliberate care, though his hand lingered on the smooth leather sheath, reluctant to let go.

 

“I’ll catch you lot later,” he said, rising from the bench. “I need to thank Theo properly.”

 

Draco watched his twin stride away, then turned to find himself alone with Longbottom and Granger. His lips curled into a thin line as he stood.

 

“Nope,” he announced flatly, standing and brushing off his robes, “That’s quite enough Gryffindor company for one year.” With that he strutted off as well.

 

888

 

Castor found Theo on the path leading back from the Owlery, thanks to the Marauder’s Map in his pocket. It looked as though Theo had sent Hades straight to him and was only now making his slow return.

 

The taller boy froze the moment he spotted Castor barreling toward him. But when he realized he wasn’t just walking—he was running, breathless with excitement—Theo gave a low, surprised laugh and shook his head. Of course Castor had come straight to him.

 

Before Theo could say a word, Castor launched himself forward, arms flung tight around his neck. The momentum nearly knocked them both off balance, but Theo steadied them with a firm hand at Castor’s waist.

 

“Theo!” Castor’s voice cracked with unrestrained joy as he threw his arms around him, burying his face in Theo’s shoulder. His words tumbled out in a rush, breathless and bright, “I love it! It’s perfect—it’s the best reminder of how we got together.”

 

Theo leaned back slightly, just enough to see his face. A faint, rare smile curved his lips, and the cool steel of his grey eyes softened into something warm and steady. “I thought you might,” he said simply, but the quiet satisfaction in his tone made Castor’s heart stumble.

 

Castor laughed, shaky and breathless, his eyes shining, “I’ll never take it off.”

 

Theo’s hand shifted from Castor’s wrist to settle firmly on his shoulder, grounding him with a gentle squeeze. “Would you like to take a walk, my betrothed?” he asked, his voice low and even, though a trace of warmth lingered beneath the formality. A corner of his mouth tugged upward, “Maybe feed your overgrown lake puppy while we’re at it?”

 

Castor sniffed, wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve, but the grin that followed was uncontainable. He slid his hand into Theo’s without hesitation, the touch natural now, instinctive, “I’d like that.”

 

They fell into step together, their hands brushing until Theo shifted his arm around Castor’s shoulders with ease. “Happy birthday,” Theo murmured at last, the words simple but threaded with meaning.

 

888

 

Castor sat cross-legged on his bed that evening, the flickering firelight glinting off the dagger in his hands. He turned it over carefully, still marveling at the gleam of basilisk fang and the sleek leather-wrapped sheath. For the third time, he fumbled with strapping the sheath onto his belt properly, only half-successful before giving up with a soft huff of laughter. Still, just holding it made his chest feel light.

 

Eventually, he set it aside and pulled parchment toward him, dipping his quill to write a letter to his mother—thanking her for the thoughtful gifts and recounting the strange but wonderful experience of his first real birthday with Draco.

 

But halfway through the letter, the quill hesitated in his hand. A twinge of guilt crept in, souring the edges of his smile.

 

The truth was, today had felt more like his birthday than Draco’s. Draco had gone out of his way—sitting with him at the Gryffindor table, tolerating his friends without complaint, even getting him a present. Draco’s teasing aside, he’d focused on Castor more than himself. And Castor… Castor had done nothing in return.

 

He chewed his lip, staring at the parchment. Draco had joked about him forgetting their shared birthday, but the sting lay in the fact that it wasn’t really a joke. Castor truly had forgotten.

 

He needed to fix this. He needed to do something, something real, to show Draco that he wasn’t ungrateful—that he cared too. Something that would set them on more even ground.

 

But what?

 

Castor frowned, ticking through ideas. Draco already had everything money could buy, so gifts were tricky. What did Draco actually like?

 

Dragons. Drawing. Potions. His endless pride in Slytherin…

 

Slytherin.

 

Castor’s eyes lit faintly as an idea began to form. His gaze drifted to the clock. Not quite curfew yet. Not that it would matter where he was thinking of going—no one would see him there.

 

Slowly, he turned his head toward the golden bird perched nearby. “Hey, Fawkes?” Castor whispered.

 

The phoenix tilted his head, bright eyes curious.

 

“Would you mind taking me down to the Chamber of Secrets?”

 

At once, Fawkes gave a delighted trill and hopped forward, wings half-unfurled as though eager for another adventure.

 

Fawkes flashed them into the Chamber in a burst of golden light, leaving Castor standing on the slick stone floor beneath Salazar Slytherin’s looming statue. His footsteps echoed faintly in the vast silence, broken only by the occasional drip of water.

 

Castor squinted up at the massive stone face, the beard curling in frozen arrogance, and muttered under his breath, “Honestly… who builds a statue of themselves for a snake?”

 

The question itched in his mind. If Salazar had put this much effort into the Chamber, then surely it wasn’t just a basilisk’s lair. The man had been brilliant, calculating, and proud. He must have spent time here—a lot of time. Which raised the question: doing what?

 

He began at the most obvious place: the gaping mouth of the great stone statue, where the basilisk had once slithered forth at Riddle’s command. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and something older—like a cellar untouched for centuries.

 

Remembering the words Tom Riddle had once used, Castor slipped into Parseltongue. The effect was immediate: the carved maw yawned wider, stone grinding on stone. Fawkes launched himself forward with a bright trill, wings stirring the dust as he dove into the opening. His golden fire burst to life in the darkness, washing the interior in a warm glow. A sharp caw echoed back, as if giving permission.

 

Castor climbed in after him and found himself inside Slytherin’s head. The chamber was surprisingly vast, a dome with a sand-strewn floor broken only by a narrow water channel at the back wall. At its center lay what could only have been the basilisk’s nest, a crude mound of bones—mostly rats, but larger fragments here and there made Castor’s stomach tighten.

 

The rest of the space was bare, deliberately so, no doubt to give the serpent room to move. Yet tucked against the walls stood several immense metallic cabinets. Their once-smooth surfaces were pocked with dents and deep scratches, as though the basilisk itself had struck them repeatedly in irritation.

 

He tugged at the first door, but the hinges resisted. After straining against it uselessly, Castor stepped back and muttered a quick “Accio.” The door sprang open with a protesting groan.

 

Inside were rows of bottles and vials—perfectly intact, not a hint of dust or tarnish. Preservation charms, he realized immediately. Ancient ones, still holding strong. But the contents were utterly unfamiliar to him: liquids that shimmered strangely, powders that shifted color like they were alive. Without proper study he wouldn’t dare guess. He shut the door with care, resolving to return with parchment and quill to catalog everything properly.

 

The second cabinet yielded much the same—a treasure trove of arcane substances, clearly meant for someone with the knowledge to use them. Castor frowned, half-excited, half-frustrated. Maybe something in here could work as a gift for Draco… if only I knew what any of it was.

 

At the third, his luck changed. This one contained tools: travel-sized cauldrons, crystal vials, delicate scoops, gleaming ladles. The kind of equipment that would have been invaluable for potioneers in the field but also many pieces reminded him of Theo’s kit. What really caught Castor’s eye was a set of silver stirrers, perfectly polished despite their age. Each one was capped with a slender emerald handle, and engraved in curling script down the side was a single word: SLYTHERIN.

 

“Merlin,” Castor muttered, holding them up to the firelight. He glanced at Fawkes, who tilted his head as if amused. “You were around in Helga’s time, right? You probably met Slytherin himself. Was he always… this dramatic?”

 

The phoenix gave a theatrical nod, puffing his chest and spreading his wings in exaggerated solemnity.

 

Castor snorted, “Thought so. Man builds a giant snake statue of himself and engraves his name on his equipment. That tracks.” Turning the stirrers over in his hands, his grin softened, “But then again… Draco’s the same way. These will be perfect.”

 

Closing the cabinet with care, Castor turned his attention back to the room itself. The only ways out were the basilisk’s old entryway or the dark water channel at the back. He crouched near the edge, inhaling. After months of dives in the Black Lake, he recognized that sharp, mineral scent immediately—lake water. A reckless part of him pictured swallowing Gillyweed and threading his way through the pipes just to see where they spat him out. A stupid, dangerous thought, maybe, but one that appealed to the part of him that only ever felt alive when he was doing something reckless. He filed it away for the kind of day when he needed to be reminded he still could feel alive.

 

For now, he retraced his steps back through the mouth and into the main chamber. The silver stirrers in his bag might serve as a gift for Draco, but they hadn’t answered the bigger question now gnawing at him: why had Salazar Slytherin spent so much time down here? What he’d seen so far—nests, cabinets, storage—looked more like a glorified stable than a sanctum. Salazar hadn’t carved a monument to himself just to babysit a snake. There had to be something else.

 

So he began to search. Fawkes tilted his head and trilled curiously as Castor paced, moving slowly, methodically, eyes skimming every line of stone. He crossed and re-crossed the chamber, tracing circles like a hunter tracking prey. On his second pass, something caught his eye—a section of wall that wasn’t quite right.

 

Intricate serpentine carvings wound across the stone. The chamber itself was perfectly symmetrical, every wall a mirrored twin—except this one. These patterns were too deliberate, too ornate to be simple decoration.

 

“Lumos,” Castor murmured. The glow of his wand-tip spilled across the wall as he pressed his hand along the carvings, feeling grooves worn smooth with age. For long minutes, nothing revealed itself. Then, as his light angled lower, he noticed faint scarring along the floor. Thin scratches in the stone—marks left by something heavy being dragged, then forgotten beneath centuries of dust and slime.

 

His pulse quickened. Dropping to his knees, he brushed the floor clean with his sleeve, following the lines until they terminated against the wall. There—an engraving so subtle it vanished if you weren’t searching for it. The outline of a serpent, its jaws slightly parted.

 

“Parseltongue,” Castor muttered, heart hammering.

 

Leaning close, he hissed, “Open.”

 

The stone quivered under his palm. The serpent engraving rippled, slithering aside as the wall split soundlessly. A narrow passage yawned open, exhaling a draft of cool, stale air. It smelled of the lake.

 

Castor swallowed hard, excitement and dread tangling in his chest. A study? A vault? A hidden workshop?

 

Clutching his wand tighter, he drew a steadying breath and stepped through the threshold.

 

The moment Castor stepped fully into the chamber, flames roared to life along the walls. Torches flared in sequence, followed by the steady crackle of a grand fireplace that filled the space with wavering golden light. He drew in a sharp breath, awestruck.

 

The cavern was immense, easily the size of a professional basketball court, and half of it was swallowed by a wide pool of water. It wasn’t pristine or clear—the surface rippled in shades of murky green and shadowy black, the unmistakable waters of the Black Lake. A narrow waterfall spilled from a fissure high in the stone wall, its dark current cascading with a hollow, echoing sound. The constant motion caught the firelight, scattering warped reflections that shimmered and writhed across the cavern ceiling like restless spirits.

 

The other half of the chamber was a deliberate masterpiece. Smooth marble, veined with silver, stretched beneath his boots, lending the place a stately, almost sacred air. Towering bookcases rose like silent sentinels, filled to brimming with ancient tomes whose spines gleamed in the firelight. At their heart stood a vast desk of dark, polished wood—sleek and commanding, its edges carved with intertwining serpents whose eyes gleamed faintly as though alive.

 

Along one wall, shelves displayed rows of vials and jars, each preserving potions ingredients in liquids that glimmered faintly even in shadow. Small cauldrons, crystal phials, and gleaming tools rested in immaculate order, the entire space humming with purpose and intent. Castor felt his stomach tighten at the scale of it all. This wasn’t merely a hidden room—it was a sanctum, a workshop, and a vault all at once. Taking stock of it would take weeks, maybe months.

 

Overhead, Fawkes let out a ringing trill as he swept into the cavern, his feathers catching the flicker of torchlight. Gold and scarlet shimmered against the black water, bright against the gloom, like sunlight breaking through a storm. Castor’s chest tightened. The room was beautiful in its own strange way, not pristine, not welcoming—but grand, terrible, and utterly unforgettable.

 

A warm, amused voice drifted through the cavern, rich with nostalgia.

 

“My word… Fawkes. After all these centuries, I wondered if I would ever see you again. What are you doing here, old friend?”

 

Castor jolted, wand raised in an instant as he scanned the chamber in panic. The flames in the hearth danced, the waterfall churned into the pool, shadows swayed along the marble walls—but no one was there. His breath quickened, skin prickling.

 

Then the voice came again, softer, tinged with wonder.

 

“So you’ve chosen another. My heir. How curious. How very curious…”

 

Castor’s eyes tracked upward, and at last he saw it: a portrait nestled high between towering bookcases. The painted figure was tall and austere, robes of deep green spilling around him like living shadow. His dark eyes gleamed with intelligence, but it was the faint, aching smile on his lips that caught Castor’s breath.

 

“Salazar Slytherin…” he whispered, his pulse hammering in his ears.

 

The painted man inclined his head, a ghost of amusement flickering across his face, “So you know my name. Good. That will make things… simpler.”

 

“Oh—er—I’m sorry, sir,” Castor stammered, lowering his wand but not quite able to relax, “But I’m not your heir.”

 

Salazar’s painted brow arched with deliberate slowness, his voice smooth as running water, “You must be. After all, only a Parselmouth can open my chamber.”

 

“I am a Parselmouth,” Castor admitted, shifting uneasily on his feet, “but… I didn’t inherit it the way you think. I only have the ability because of… well, let’s just call it a very strange set of circumstances.”

 

The founder’s keen eyes flicked between the phoenix wheeling above and the boy standing below, his gaze sharp enough to pin Castor in place, “And what may those circumstances be?”

 

Castor rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly wishing the ground would swallow him. “It’s… a long story.”

 

“I have nothing but time,” Salazar replied smoothly, the faintest curl of intrigue at the edge of his mouth. He inclined his head toward the high-backed chair behind the desk. “Sit.”

 

Castor swallowed hard, legs heavy, but he obeyed. The leather creaked as he lowered himself, feeling like a child being called to account. Fawkes landed beside him on the desk, pressing warm feathers against his arm. Castor’s hand found them instinctively, grounding himself in the soft rustle as the phoenix crooned low in his throat.

 

Trying to find the shortest path through the mess of his life, Castor began haltingly, “When I was born, it was during a war. Light against dark. My birth parents… they were on the dark side. But I was taken from them, stolen, and given to a Light family. The leader of the dark—your heir—came for us.”

 

His voice wavered, but he pushed on, “He tried to kill us all. But he couldn’t kill me. He had sworn an oath to my birth father never to harm me, and the vow bound him. When he turned the Killing Curse on me anyway, it… rebounded. Destroyed him. At least, for a while. But I didn’t walk away untouched. I got a scar and some of his abilities clung to me, like Parseltongue. And he—he’s been trying to come back ever since.”

 

Salazar leaned forward slightly within the frame, his expression sharpened with hunger for knowledge, though his voice remained measured. “And now?”

 

“This year,” Castor said, throat dry, “I finally learned the truth of who I really am. That I was stolen. That I am Malfoy by blood. He doesn’t know what to make of me now. I’m not the child he thought I was. And I don’t know what I am supposed to be either.”

 

For a long moment, the cavern was filled only with the sound of the waterfall and the faint crackle of firelight. Salazar studied him as though peering through the layers of his very soul.

 

At last, the founder’s lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. “Fascinating,” Salazar murmured, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Then, with a note almost too casual, he asked, “And were you down here in search of my dear Maria?”

 

Castor blinked, thrown by the unfamiliar name. “M–Maria?” he echoed, his voice catching.

 

“My basilisk,” Salazar clarified, tone softening with something like fondness. “My companion. She may be hibernating.”

 

Castor’s throat tightened. He swallowed, fingers tightening in Fawkes’s feathers, “I’m sorry, sir. She’s… she’s dead.”

 

For the first time since their conversation began, the painted founder’s expression cracked—his composure slipping into shock. “Dead?” he repeated, voice a sharp whisper. “How?”

 

Eyes downcast, Castor forced the words out, “One of the times your heir was trying to kill me, he used her. I—I didn’t want to, but… I had no choice. I had to kill her.”

 

Salazar’s features shifted, grief flickering across his painted face. But then his eyes narrowed, studying Castor with a sharpness that made the boy’s skin prickle. “Did this just happen?” he demanded.

 

“No,” Castor said quickly, shaking his head. “A couple of years ago. I’ve avoided coming back since, but… my boyfriend’s family trades in rare potion ingredients. And I thought… rather than letting her go to waste…” His voice faltered, but he forced himself to continue. “We harvested what we could. With care.”

 

Much to Castor’s surprise, Salazar didn’t look angry. In fact, he nodded slowly, with the air of a teacher correcting a student who had, against all odds, found the right answer, “Yes. Yes, that is proper. A good potioneer never lets such rare material rot unused. Maria would have understood.”

 

“Er—right,” Castor said, blinking at the unexpected approval, “Well, we finished a few months ago, but I… I came today for another reason.”

 

His face warmed, words tumbling out before he could censor them, “It’s my birthday. I’ve got a twin brother. It’s the first birthday we’ve shared since we were born. And I… completely forgot. He was so good to me today, and I wanted to… I don’t know. Give him something. Something special. I may be a Gryffindor, but he and the rest of my family have always been Slytherin. He is huge admirer of yours. I thought maybe I could find… something of yours. To give him.”

 

By the time he finished, his ears were scarlet, and he ducked his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. Fawkes gave a soft, sympathetic trill.

 

Salazar regarded him in silence, the weight of that sharp green gaze pressing heavily down on him. Finally, the founder’s lips curved once more—not into a smile, but into something subtler, layered with meaning.

 

“You are a strange one, boy,” he said at last. “A Gryffindor, by your own admission. Yet here you sit, stroking the feathers of Helga’s bird, speaking Parseltongue in my chamber, harvesting my basilisk with care, and seeking a gift for your Slytherin brother. Strange indeed.”

 

He leaned back in his frame, fingers steepled as though in deep consideration, “Very well. If it is a token you seek… perhaps I can oblige.”

 

Castor held up the silver stirrers, guilt and excitement mingling in his expression. “I… I found these in the cabinets in Maria’s den,” he admitted, “But I kept exploring. I had a feeling there was more to this place than just a snake. I mean… the Chamber itself—look at it. It’s beautiful. Too ornate for a serpent, don’t you think? Marble statues, elaborate carvings, a waterfall… I’d do anything to give a proper habitat to my dragons, but I doubt they’d care much about a marble floor or a marble statue.” He thought on it for a second picturing Ashara, “Actually, some of them might … they can be a bit egotistical.”

 

He turned back to Salazar, words tumbling out before he could stop himself, “I just… I can’t believe how much effort went into this place. Whoever—no, you—must have spent so much time down here. It feels personal, like you left pieces of yourself scattered throughout the Chamber. There had to be more than just the basilisk.”

 

He paused, sweeping his gaze over the vast cavern, torchlight glinting off the marble walls, the bookshelves, and the still, dark water. “It’s… beautiful in here,” he murmured, “So quiet, so peaceful. I’ve become fond of the lake these days—its air, the calm water. I can see why you would want to spend time somewhere like this.”

 

Salazar’s painted eyes softened, a rare warmth in his gaze, “Yes. This had long been my main office. Whenever I sought peace from all witches and wizards, I could retreat here… to my gifts from Helga.”

 

“Gifts?” Castor tilted his head, curiosity piqued.

 

“Yes. Helga Hufflepuff,” Salazar said, his voice quiet, reflective. “She was a remarkable woman. She knew of my fondness for large and unusual creatures, and when she encountered them, she would send them my way. Over the years, this Chamber housed far more creatures than you see now. Most did not live long—short lives compared to Maria and Voryn—but it was designed with them in mind.”

 

Castor’s eyes went wide. “Voryn?” He felt a chill. “There’s been another creature here this whole time?”

 

Salazar inclined his head toward the pool, dark water rippling faintly. “You have seen him, I presume. He still visits my portrait through the water’s opening. That is why I placed my portrait here. Voryn requires far more attention than Maria ever did—she preferred solitude.”

 

Castor’s mind raced as he took a step closer to the edge of the pool, “Do you mean… Kraken? The giant squid in the lake?”

 

Salazar raised a brow, intrigued, “He has been renamed?”

 

Castor’s cheeks flushed, “By me. He’s… well, he’s become a friend. I needed something to call him. That’s why I spend so much time in the lake. I feed him toast most nights, and on weekends I swim with him using Gillyweed. It’s… comforting. He’s… he’s protective too, in a way. My boyfriend calls him my lake puppy.”

 

Salazar’s gaze softened further, almost wistful, “Ah… the bond between human and creature. It is a rare gift. Helga would have been pleased to know that her gift continues to thrive—and that you, young one, understand the trust and care required.”

 

Castor swallowed, staring down at the swirling water. The enormity of the Chamber, its history, and the creatures within it pressed upon him.

 

“I’m sorry about Maria,” Castor asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

 

Salazar’s expression darkened briefly, “Her time ended, as all must. But what you have done—collecting her remains for use in your potions—is a sign of respect, of ingenuity. You honor her, as you honor Voryn and the life you give him. He has seemed rather chipper as of late.”

 

Castor nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of it all. He looked at Fawkes, then back to Salazar, heart thudding with awe.

 

Just then, the water erupted in a series of splashes, and the massive shape of the giant squid they had been speaking of broke the surface.

 

“Kraken!” Castor squealed, his eyes lighting up with delight. He practically bounded across the cavern, holding out a hand to gently stroke one of the enormous tentacles, which quivered in surprise and curiosity, “I know it hasn’t been long since Theo and I gave you a snack, but… would you like some toast?”

 

The tentacle whipped the water in a joyful spray, sending ripples across the cavern. Castor laughed, clapping his hands together at the creature’s excitement, “Alright, alright, hold still!” He called out, “Mipsy!”

 

The little elf appeared with a shake of her head, clearly exasperated, but obediently held out a small basket filled with slices of toast. Castor handed them to Kraken one by one, marveling as the squid skillfully plucked each piece from his fingers.

 

Once the last morsel was gone, Castor turned back to Salazar, still grinning, “This is brilliant! You didn’t need to walk all the way to the lake just to give him a treat. You’ve made it so much easier—and more magical—for him to stay here.”

 

Salazar’s painted eyes glimmered with faint amusement, as though he approved of Castor’s affection for the creature, “Indeed. It pleases me to see the bond continues, even after all these years. It seems my sanctuary has found a new keeper—one who understands the creatures I cared for so deeply.”

 

Castor looked down at Kraken, who had draped a massive tentacle lazily over the edge of the pool, his bulbous eyes blinking with a quiet, almost human intelligence, “He’s a gentle giant,” Castor murmured, running his hand along the slick surface, “He just gets lonely sometimes… I guess we all do.”

 

Settling onto the damp floor, he let the water seep into his robes as he continued to stroke the tentacle absentmindedly. His gaze flicked to Salazar’s portrait, voice soft but curious, “You said I’m a new keeper… so does that mean you don’t mind me coming back? Exploring… using your things… learning from all of this?”

 

The founder’s eyes gleamed with a mix of pride and amusement. “Much like with potions ingredients, nothing of use should go to waste,” Salazar said, his voice steady and thoughtful. “You are the first to find the entrance to these chambers. Who knows if anyone ever will again. Make use of it—or find someone who can.”

 

A gentle warmth spread through Castor’s chest at the portrait’s words. “Thank you,” he murmured softly, fingers lingering on Kraken’s slick tentacle, “I’ll make sure to keep you updated on everything I do down here… and how I use the chamber. But, honestly? Most of the time, it’ll just be so I can hang out with Kraken without standing in the rain or snow.”

 

His eyes lit up as an idea struck him, “Oh! What if we start our swims from here, Kraken? We can meet in the chamber on weekends, I’ll bring a bunch of Gillyweed, and we can swim as long as we want! And Fawkes can wait by the desk where it’s warm and dry, safe from all the splashes!”

 

Fawkes gave a soft, approving trill, gliding lazily above the pool in graceful loops, while Kraken gave a low, contented rumble. Castor’s grin widened as he surveyed the magical room around him, every marble surface, torchlit corner, and hidden cabinet seeming to hum with potential adventures.

 

888

 

Castor should have been exhausted after the long night, but his mind buzzed with excitement, making him feel almost invincible. He barely noticed the occasional whispers of students remarking that he looked half-mad, or the amused glances sent his way. He couldn’t stop the wide, uncontainable smile spreading across his face.

 

How could he not be happy? He was officially betrothed, he’d uncovered a hidden treasure in the Chamber, and he had made a new, safe place for adventures. Truly, it felt like the best birthday he’d ever had.

 

And now, to make the day even brighter, he carefully wrapped the Slytherin stirrers and practically sprinted down to breakfast. He needed to give them to Draco before Potions class so his brother could use them—and Castor could see the reaction firsthand. The thought alone made his chest warm, filling him with a mixture of pride and anticipation that made every step feel lighter than air.

 

Castor skidded to a stop at the Slytherin table, planting a quick kiss on Theo’s cheek before plopping down beside his brother. He bounced in his seat like he’d just swallowed a dozen Chocolate Frogs.

 

Draco blinked at him, fork halfway to his mouth. “What the hell?” he muttered, staring at Castor as though he’d suddenly sprouted antlers, “What’s got into you?”

 

“I forgot our birthday!” Castor blurted, practically vibrating with energy.

 

Draco set his fork down with a slow sigh, turning fully toward his twin as if bracing himself for yet another episode of Castor’s particular brand of chaos, “And that excites you because…?”

 

“Because I felt awful!” Castor rushed on, words tumbling over each other. “It was our very first birthday together, and I completely blanked! So I couldn’t just give you anything—I had to make it up to you properly.”

 

Draco arched an unimpressed brow, “So this is your way of telling me you’ll get me a belated present? Castor, I was only teasing yesterday. Honestly, I probably should’ve reminded you it was coming up. You can’t be expected to know everything I do.”

 

But Castor waved his hand as though batting away Draco’s words like a pesky fly, “Draco, shut up. I already got you something. It’s just one day late.”

 

He shoved a small package into Draco’s hands, nearly bouncing out of his chair with anticipation. “Go on! Open it, open it, open it!”

 

Draco gave him a long, skeptical look, clearly debating whether humoring his twin was worth the effort. Finally, with a resigned huff, he began peeling back the wrapping.

 

The moment the stirrers came into view, his eyes widened. He turned one over in his hand, silver glinting in the torchlight, the serpentine engravings catching every flicker.

 

“These…” Draco’s voice faltered as he traced the details with his thumb. “These are potion stirrers. Antique ones.”

 

Castor whispered, “They belonged to Salazar himself.”

 

Draco froze nearly dropping the stirrers, “Castor, where on earth did you—?”

 

“Don’t worry about that part,” Castor interrupted, leaning so far forward he nearly toppled into Draco’s lap. “Do you like them?”

 

For a heartbeat, Draco just stared at him, mouth slightly open, stirrers trembling in his hand as though he was afraid they might vanish. His eyes flicked from the antique silver back to his twin, disbelief etched across every line of his face.

 

“Do I—” he stopped himself, cleared his throat, and tried again, quieter this time. “Do I like them? Castor, these are priceless. They should be in a vault, or a museum, not… not shoved into my hands at breakfast.”

 

Castor grinned, unbothered by the weight of Draco’s words, “Exactly! What better place than your hands? Salazar’s stirrers belong with a Malfoy, and last I checked, that’s you. Well… us. But you’re the one who actually cares about potions.”

 

Draco’s fingers tightened instinctively around the stirrers. He glanced around the table as though expecting someone to leap up and snatch them away. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper, “You can’t just say things like that out loud. Salazar’s stirrers? Do you have any idea what Father would do if he heard—?”

 

Castor shrugged, eyes twinkling with mischief, “Probably faint. Or lecture me. Either way, you’d get to keep them.”

 

Draco sighed, “Thank you, Castor.” The words were soft, reluctant—yet sincere in a way that made Castor’s grin widen until it nearly split his face.

Notes:

I have absolutely no idea what’s happening anymore… but anyway, the concert was awesome! Fun fact about me: I am, in fact, that person who unapologetically jams out to country music. 🤠🎶

Chapter 76

Chapter 76

 

Castor hung comfortably off Theo’s arm as they strolled down the corridor. Draco was bounding ahead of them, practically glowing, his usually cool demeanor abandoned in favor of boyish excitement. The sight alone made Castor grin; it was rare to see his brother this unguarded.

 

Theo bent close, murmuring so only Castor could hear, “Those stirrers—you pulled them out of the Chamber, didn’t you?”

 

Castor smirked, “You know me too well. Went exploring last night.”

 

Theo chuckled softly, giving his waist a squeeze, “Of course you did. Find anything else?”

 

Castor tilted his head, eyes glittering with mischief, “Maybe. But if I told you, it would ruin the surprise for another time.”

 

Theo gave a low laugh. “Life’s never dull with you, my love.”

 

Castor flushed at the endearment but was spared answering when they reached the potions classroom. Draco had already flung the door open.

 

“Uncle Sev! You’ll never believe what Castor got me for our birthday!”

 

Snape, hunched over his desk with parchment spread before him, groaned as if in pain, “Here I was under the impression he’d forgotten.”

 

“He did!” Draco admitted gleefully, “But he made up for it this morning in the biggest way.” He thrust one of the stirrers forward with the flourish of a showman.

 

Snape’s head lifted. He took the silver rod from Draco’s hands, turning it slowly between his fingers. His eyes sharpened as he traced the emerald handle, the serpentine etching, the silver’s sheen.

 

“This alloy hasn’t been used in potion work for centuries,” Snape murmured, half to himself, “Too rare. Too costly. The craftsmanship alone is remarkable. These are not just antiques—they are… heirlooms. Whomever sold them to you likely did not know what they had.”

 

Castor tried not to look too smug, “That’s because I didn’t buy them. I found them in the Chamber of Secrets. They belonged to Salazar Slytherin.”

 

Snape’s gaze flicked to him, unreadable, though not surprised, “I see.” A pause. “You’ve gained a small fortune through that Chamber, Castor, but this… this is a treasure even I might envy.”

 

Draco practically glowed under the praise, running his thumb along the stirrer as though it were a holy relic. “Told you it was the best present ever,” he said to Castor with a satisfied smirk.

 

Snape returned the stirrer with rare gentleness, then turned back to Castor, his expression unreadable, “If you find anything else of this… caliber, I would like to see it.”

 

Castor gave him a cheeky grin, “No promises.”

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed, but he let it go.

 

Castor worried at his lower lip before speaking, “I also wanted to thank you, Professor. For the book.”

 

Snape gave the barest incline of his head, acknowledgment without a word. Taking the hint, Castor slipped into the seat beside Theo.

 

When lessons began, Snape wasted no time in rolling his eyes at the sight of Draco proudly employing one of his gleaming new stirrers. At least Draco had the sense not to announce their origin to the entire class, though the glint of antique silver and the distinctive emerald handles did not escape notice. A few of the old families in Slytherin exchanged impressed looks, their gazes lingering on Draco with muted envy. Draco, of course, all but preened under the attention, every precise flick of the stirrer a performance.

 

By the end of class, he was practically bursting. The moment Snape dismissed them, Draco excused himself with a breezy wave, clearly intent on putting quill to parchment. Castor didn’t need to guess—Draco would be writing Lucius the moment he reached the common room, eager to boast about his unexpected, priceless birthday gift.

 

Castor didn’t mind. For once, his own desk was blissfully clear of homework. Instead, he seized the chance to squeeze in more practice for the final task. He had a list of spells copied neatly into his notebook—charms for illumination, jinxes to ward off creatures, and a handful of clever tricks that might tip the scales against whatever horrors Hagrid planned to stock the maze with. That evening, he and Fawkes were scheduled to continue mapping the maze.

 

Life felt like a whirlwind. Between tournament preparations, regular studies, keeping up with exercise, and juggling a growing circle of friends, Castor barely had time to breathe, let alone think. His explorations of the newly discovered rooms in the Chamber had stalled to hurried visits. Each night, he’d drop in with Fawkes to deliver Kraken a quick snack and say a quick ‘hello’ to Slytherin before retreating back upstairs, promising the squid that weekends would still mean swims together. The grand task of cataloging Salazar’s forgotten troves would have to wait until next year.

 

Yet the thought of the school year ending weighed heavily. The idea of leaving Kraken behind gnawed at him in quiet moments. The squid had grown used to their companionship—used to him—and the thought of Kraken sinking back into lonely silence was unbearable. Castor resolved to speak with Hagrid soon, to make sure daily visits would continue in his absence. Perhaps even twice a day, he thought, to make up for the void his leaving would create.

 

888

 

As the final task drew nearer, Castor’s nerves wound tighter with each passing day. He had trained, studied, and planned until his mind felt raw, but still—there was no real way of knowing what awaited him in that maze. He had a rough understanding of the layout from his clandestine scouting with Fawkes, but maps could only tell so much. Creatures and enchantments had a way of turning a clear path into a dead end, and the idea of stumbling face-first into something he’d never studied for made his chest constrict.

 

This, more than either of the previous trials, left him feeling unsteady. He had trust that the dragons would not harm any of them in the first task and Kraken wouldn’t have let anything happen to him in second task. The maze, though… the maze was unpredictable, filled with traps, monsters, and gods knew what else. Castor felt the gnawing certainty that no amount of preparation could make him ready. He had done everything he could think of—studied jinxes and counter-curses, practiced curses, drilled light and shield charms until his arm ached—but all of it felt like pebbles against the looming mountain.

 

On the morning of the task, his stomach lurched so badly he could barely swallow his toast. He had his nose buried in yet another Defense text, wandless hand sketching precise motions with the butterknife he’d nicked from the table. The repetitive movements calmed him, grounding him when his thoughts wanted to spiral.

 

That was when McGonagall appeared beside the Slytherin table, her tartan robes as sharp as her expression. She cleared her throat pointedly. “Mr. Malfoy,” she began, her tone brisk but softer than usual around the edges, “for the final task, all of the champions’ families have been invited to spend the day with them. They are congregating in the chamber off the Great Hall as we speak.”

 

Castor pushed back from the bench with a nod, setting his butterknife down, “I’m done anyway. I’ll head there right now.”

 

McGonagall’s eyes skimmed to his still-full plate, a brief flicker of concern breaking through her usual composure. For a moment, it looked as though she might insist he eat something, but then she gave the barest nod and swept away, tartan robes trailing in her wake.

 

As Castor gathered his things, he caught Cedric waving him over from the doorway. His fellow champion called out, “You might want to hurry, kid, before things get more uncomfortable.”

 

Castor frowned, scrunching his nose in confusion, “Why is it uncomfortable?”

 

Cedric only grimaced and muttered, “You’ll see,” before giving him a sympathetic clap on the shoulder.

 

Unease prickling down his spine, Castor made his way toward the side chamber. The moment he stepped through the arched doorway, he understood exactly what Cedric had meant.

 

The room was thick with tension. His parents and Draco stood in a neat cluster, their expressions frosty and aristocratic, Lucius’s cane gleaming under the enchanted sconces. But instead of their usual poised calm, all three Malfoys were glaring daggers across the room—at none other than Bill and Charlie Weasley, flanked protectively by their parents.

 

Mrs. Weasley looked fit to burst, hands planted firmly on her hips, while Mr. Weasley wore an expression of quiet but firm resolve. Bill, the eldest, hovered near his parents like a shield, his eyes narrowed in professional politeness. And Charlie—Charlie at least seemed to be trying, his hands raised slightly in a placating gesture, shoulders squared but relaxed as though he’d spent the past several minutes prying barbs out of both sides before they escalated further.

 

Castor’s eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. Brilliant. Just brilliant. His stomach flipped nervously, but he forced a polite smile onto his face, hoping it would act like a smoothing charm over the jagged tension.

 

“Hi, everyone,” he said brightly, the word everyone carrying more weight than usual.

 

The result was immediate—seven pairs of eyes snapped to him at once.

 

Draco visibly relaxed, his glare melting away into a wide-eyed sort of relief. Narcissa’s posture softened just a fraction, though her hand stayed primly folded at her waist. Lucius’s eyes narrowed, assessing, as though silently asking why his son had chosen this circus as his entourage.

 

And the Weasleys—well, Mrs. Weasley’s expression shifted from battle-ready to motherly in an instant. “Harry—oh, I mean, Castor, dear,” she corrected herself quickly, though the slip hung in the air, “you look thin. Have you been eating properly?”

 

Castor’s smile twitched, but before he could answer, Charlie cleared his throat meaningfully and stepped slightly forward, planting himself like a solid bridge between the two families. “Right then,” he said warmly, eyes flicking between both sides. “Why don’t we all take a breath? Today’s supposed to be about supporting Castor, yeah? Not starting another war.”

 

“What’s everyone doing here?” Castor asked at last, his brow furrowing as his gaze swept over the unexpected gathering. He couldn’t quite keep the confusion—or the slight edge of suspicion—out of his voice.

 

“Dumbledore invited the family,” Charlie explained, tone even and measured as though he’d rehearsed this line several times already. “Since everything’s been running smoothly at the reserve, Dane sent me along to show support on his behalf.” He cast a quick glance toward Lucius and Narcissa, then back to Castor, his voice softening. “And Dumbledore thought… well, that it would be good for Mum and Dad to see you again. Said this was as good an opportunity as any.”

 

“I had some time off, so I decided to tag along,” Bill added, his grin a touch forced, the humor in his voice leaning toward self-defense.

 

Castor’s chest gave a little squeeze, the tension in the room pressing against him from both sides. But he mustered a small, genuine smile all the same, “Well, it is good to see you all.”

 

Turning toward his parents, he crossed the room in a few quick steps and wrapped his arms around his mother. Narcissa stiffened at first, but the hesitation melted quickly, her cool composure softening into something rare and private. She pressed a hand to the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair.

 

“My son,” she whispered, almost possessive, her voice too low for the Weasleys to overhear. “How are you feeling?”

 

“I’m fine, Mum,” Castor reassured, stepping back to glance up at her. His words were meant to soothe, but his smile wavered a little under her sharp, searching gaze.

 

“How about we go for a walk outside,” Charlie suggested, his voice light but purposeful, “Someplace less crowded. Fresh air might do us all some good.”

 

Castor perked up instantly, “Yes, that sounds like a brilliant idea. Oh! Charlie—we can go see Kraken!” His face lit like the sun, and for a moment the heaviness in the room cracked.

 

Charlie chuckled, ruffling the boy’s hair, “That sounds great, kid. Lead the way.”

 

With an enthusiasm that was almost contagious, Castor tugged him toward the door. The two slipped easily into talk of dragons—reserve stories, training methods, the odd quirks of particular breeds. Their voices created a pocket of lightness, a buffer against the simmering tension trailing in their wake.

 

The rest of the group followed more slowly. Narcissa glided with regal composure, Draco stayed close to his brother’s side, and the Weasleys kept politely behind. But the quiet didn’t last long.

 

Arthur leaned slightly toward Lucius, lowering his voice so only the blond could hear. “We’re here for Castor today,” he reminded gently, “Not to sharpen old grudges.”

 

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, his glare sharp as a blade. He gave the faintest tilt of his chin, aristocratic even in restraint. “Fine,” he conceded, though the word was bitten off. “I will allow civility—for his sake. But mark me, Weasley… if you cross a line with my son, you can kiss your position within the Ministry goodbye.”

 

Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose, not rising to the bait, “Your threats don’t frighten me, Malfoy. They never have. But for Castor’s sake, I’ll let that pass.”

 

The two men walked on in tense silence, their restrained animosity sharp enough to be felt by everyone near them. Narcissa shot Arthur a cool glance, as though daring him to test Lucius further, while Molly pursed her lips, her hands twisting in front of her in silent disapproval.

 

Up ahead, Castor turned, oblivious to the undercurrent, waving them forward with bright impatience, “Come on, you’ll love him! Kraken’s the best!”

 

The sight of his enthusiasm tugged at the edges of even the most guarded expressions, leaving the adults no choice but to follow.

 

Bill, Charlie, Draco, and Castor leaned over the water’s edge offering toast over the water where Kraken’s tentacles rose eagerly to snatch them. The squid’s great golden eye blinked up at them with what almost looked like fondness, and Castor beamed, running his hand along one damp limb as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

 

Their parents stood a few paces back on the bank, an awkward semicircle of tense silence. Narcissa’s hands were folded neatly in front of her, eyes cool and assessing; Lucius watched with narrowed suspicion; Arthur and Molly stood shoulder to shoulder, watching in fascination.

 

Charlie broke the quiet with a gentle nudge, “So, do you feel ready for the task?”

 

Castor let out a long breath, his smile faltering. “I suppose I’m as ready as I can be,” he admitted, flicking a piece of bread into the water. “But I’m not nearly as confident this time. The last tasks… they felt clearer. I had help—creatures. But the maze? I’ll be alone. No dragons, no Kraken.” He hesitated, softer now, “Though… I know if I’m truly in mortal peril, I can call Fawkes.”

 

Draco gave an exasperated huff, “Speaking of, where is the fire chicken anyway? He’s usually glued to your side.”

 

Castor shrugged, eyes flicking skyward as if expecting a flash of crimson wings to appear, “Who knows. The last few days he hasn’t been interested in sitting through classes with me. I think he’s been entertaining himself. This morning I caught him being chased down the corridor by Fred and George—he’d stolen their bags.” Castor chuckled at the memory, “He’s just… having fun, I guess. Probably bored after decades perched on the shoulders of Headmasters.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward, “Only you could end up with a delinquent phoenix.”

 

With Mipsy’s assistance, the unlikely gathering of Malfoys and Weasleys somehow turned into a picnic along the lake shore. The elf conjured blankets, cushions, and trays of food with crisp little snaps of her fingers, though no amount of effort could soften the tension that lingered in the air. The parents kept mostly to themselves, their conversation clipped and sparse, eyes drifting more often to each other than to the sandwiches on their plates.

 

The gathering did not go unnoticed. Passing students slowed their steps to gape at the sight of Lucius Malfoy sitting stiffly across from Arthur Weasley, or at Molly and Narcissa both delicately sipping the same pot of tea as if it were the most precarious truce in the world. Whispers trailed in their wake, though none dared linger too close.

 

The younger generation, however, fared far better. Castor, Draco, Bill, and Charlie carried the weight of the conversation, their voices brighter and freer as they steered away from politics and into safer territory—creatures. Draco scoffed at Bill’s fascination with curses, only for Bill to tease back about Draco’s fussiness in caring for potion scales. Castor found himself laughing at Charlie’s dragon-handling stories, and before long, even Draco had relaxed enough to ask sharper, more pointed questions about rare breeds.

 

For a fleeting while, it almost felt like a family outing. Almost.

 

At length, Castor rose, brushing crumbs from his robes. “I should get ready for the task,” he announced, though his voice carried a ripple of nerves he tried to hide beneath a smile.

 

Narcissa rose immediately, gathering him into a graceful but fiercely protective hug. “We will see you after the task,” she whispered into his hair, her hands tightening for just a moment before letting go.

 

Molly, unable to help herself, pulled him into a hug of her own, her warmth nearly smothering compared to Narcissa’s poised restraint. “Be careful, dear,” she murmured.

 

Flushed, caught between two worlds, Castor gave them both a small nod. Then, with a deep breath, he lifted his hand and called.

 

In a flare of golden fire, Fawkes appeared, filling the air with heat and the scent of wild air and ash. Clutching a handful of brilliant feathers, the world melted into flame.

 

He reappeared in his room. Heart pounding, he crossed to where Valentin’s gift lay carefully folded. He would be debuting the one-of-a-kind basilisk leather uniform that night. It would also provide extra protection as it was as tough as armor.

 

Catching his reflection in the mirror, Castor couldn’t help but think that Valentin would be smugly pleased with his handiwork. The uniform gleamed, every stitch of phoenix embroidery and the faint shimmer of basilisk leather giving him the look of someone far more formidable than he felt. He even attempted to style his hair into something halfway respectable.

 

Before stepping out of the safety of his room, he double-checked his pockets, slipping in the neatly folded cheat sheets he’d drawn for the maze—one for each entrance, and added his dagger to the basilisk belt. For a moment, he just stood there, listening to the silence, heart hammering. Then, with a long, steadying breath, he squared his shoulders, turned on his heel, and set off toward the Quidditch pitch.

 

Notes:

Sorry my updates have been all over the place lately—apparently when it rains, it pours. My laptop decided to have a full existential crisis, so I had to factory reset it. But hey, silver lining: this is exactly why I posted this online. Can’t lose the first 75 chapters if they’re floating around on the internet, right?

Chapter 77: Chapter 77

Chapter 77

 

When Castor reached the Quidditch pitch, the sight that greeted him was overwhelming. The stands had been transformed into a sea of banners and noise, every house and visiting school clamoring with excitement. Music from the school band swelled across the pitch, blending with the roar of the crowd. For one dizzying heartbeat, Castor felt less like a competitor and more like a performer stepping onto a stage.

 

He was quickly waved over by Bagman, who stood beside Professors Flitwick and McGonagall, with Hagrid looming behind them like a gentle giant.

 

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall greeted him, her smile tight but earnest, a faint crease of worry in her brow. “We will be circling the maze’s perimeter to keep watch for danger. You were meant to have Professor Moody close at hand, but—” her lips pressed into a thin line, “with everything that has happened, he has left the school. Professor Dumbledore has taken over his classes, but it does mean we won't have an eye inside the maze. Should you find yourself in danger, you must send up a red flare. One of us will come to your aid at once.”

 

Castor nodded solemnly, his fingers tightening on his wand.

 

Bagman clapped him on the shoulder with almost comical enthusiasm, “Splendid! Splendid! Well then, time to get you in place, eh?”

 

He ushered Castor toward the looming hedges. Up close, the maze was even more imposing—towering walls of greenery that seemed to stretch higher than the Quidditch goalposts, dense and impenetrable. The air inside the entrance shimmered faintly with enchantments, the kind that made Castor’s skin prickle as though the maze itself were watching him.

 

Bagman gestured toward the first opening, “Now, as you’re currently in the lead, you’ll enter here. You’ll have a head start, mind you—Mr. Krum will follow after, then Mr. Diggory, and finally Ms. Delacour.”

 

Castor swallowed, forcing his nerves down as the cheers of the crowd swelled again. He tightened his grip on the small folded parchments in his pocket.

He cast a glance at his fellow champions, the faces of his rivals—no, his peers—lit by torchlight. For a fleeting moment, Castor hesitated. The tournament had always been painted as a competition, a fight to the finish, but as he looked at Cedric, Fleur, and Krum, something inside him hardened. He couldn’t bring himself to treat them as enemies.

 

Sliding a hand into his pocket, he brushed his fingers against the folded parchments he’d prepared—one for each entrance. Decision made, he drew out the sheet marked with a small number four. With an air of casual bravado, he strolled over to Fleur, who stood beside Madame Maxime, her posture elegant despite the tension radiating from her.

 

“Good luck,” he said with a polite smile, extending his hand.

 

As their palms met, he let the parchment slip neatly into hers. Fleur’s eyes widened just slightly, her brow lifting in surprise before she masked it with poise. Castor leaned in as though offering nothing more than a word of encouragement.

 

“I don’t know what obstacles you’ll meet,” he murmured, voice so low only she could hear, “but that’s the fastest path from your entrance. Use it if you need it.”

 

For the briefest heartbeat, her eyes softened. She closed her fingers around the parchment and gave the faintest nod, slipping it into her robes with the grace of someone used to keeping secrets.

 

“Merci,” she whispered, almost reverent.

 

Castor gave a faint, crooked smile and moved on. One by one, he found his way to the others, repeating the same small ritual—a handshake, a whispered word, a folded map pressed into waiting hands. To anyone watching, it looked like nothing more than polite gestures between competitors. But to Castor, it felt like leveling the field, like making sure none of them walked into the dark alone.

 

He forced his steps steady as he returned to his entrance, where Dumbledore stood waiting like some pale sentinel. Castor kept his eyes carefully away from the Headmaster’s, unwilling to give the man the satisfaction of a glance. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the looming hedge wall, its shadows yawning wide like the jaws of some waiting beast.

 

He knew this path—had walked it in quiet practice runs guided by Fawkes and his maps. But those times he had been alone with Fawkes, the maze nothing more than twisting corridors of hedge. Tonight, it pulsed with danger, alive with whatever horrors the organizers had seeded within. His pulse quickened, hammering in his chest, a drumbeat against the hush of the crowd.

 

Bagman’s magically amplified voice rang out above the stands: “On my whistle, Castor Malfoy will enter the maze!”

 

The roar of cheers pressed in on him, muffled as though heard underwater. Castor bent his knees, ready to spring forward, his butter-knife wand gripped tight. The sharp whistle pierced the air, and he bolted into the dark.

 

The world shifted instantly. Outside, the pitch had been golden with torchlight and music. Inside, the maze swallowed light whole. Each step sank him deeper into the cold hush of the hedges. Without Fawkes’ warm glow circling overhead, it felt darker, lonelier. For a heartbeat, Castor almost called for him—but no. That would be cheating. He had promised himself he would only summon Fawkes if death was reaching for him.

 

He followed his guide’s path, nerves prickling higher with every turn. Nothing barred his way yet. No skittering monster, no enchantment, no trap. The silence stretched too long, and just as he let out a shaky breath—

 

A cloaked figure glided toward him from the corner of a dead-end path, skeletal hands reaching, a shroud of ice pressing into his chest.

 

Castor froze, bile rising in his throat. A dementor. They put a dementor in here? Have they gone mad?

 

His wand came up instinctively. “Expecto Patronum!” he shouted, summoning thoughts of James and Lily.

 

But only a silvery wisp leaked from his wand, too weak, too thin. The dementor’s rattle deepened, pressing closer.

 

It’s not enough. His chest tightened. Not anymore. They don’t shine the way they used to. Not since I learned the truth.

 

The cold pressed harder, his knees threatening to buckle. But then, in the midst of his fear, warmth flared. He thought of Theo—of his steady presence, his quiet words, the way he looked at him like Castor wasn’t broken or lost, but whole. That always made him happy. That was his light.

 

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

 

This time the magic surged, bursting from his wand in a flood of silver. But it was not a stag that thundered forward. A basilisk, massive and sinuous, poured from the light. Its great coils smashed into the dementor, knocking it off-balance—

 

Off-balance? Castor’s eyes widened. Dementors didn’t stumble. They floated.

 

His lips curled in sudden realization. “You’re not a dementor at all,” his voice was sharp, sure now, “You’re a boggart.”

 

Raising his wand, he snapped, “Riddikulus!”

 

The shadow creature collapsed in on itself with a hiss, dispersing into smoke and vanishing. The silver basilisk blinked once, gave a slow ripple of its coils, then faded into nothingness.

 

Castor lowered his wand, his breath coming fast. His chest ached with a sudden pang. Prongs was gone. That tether to James and Lily was no longer his Patronus. He felt the loss like a fresh cut, another step separating him from the people that had volunteered to raise him.

 

But at the same time, he couldn’t deny the power that had replaced it. A basilisk. Fierce, ancient, his own. Not a relic of the past, but a creature tied to his present, to his bond with Theo and to the truth of who he was.

 

Castor pressed a hand to his chest, steadying himself, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips. “Remarkable,” he muttered. Then, squaring his shoulders, he ran deeper into the maze.

 

The next obstacle appeared sooner than he expected, though to his surprise, it was less terrifying than the boggart. A sinuous, winged serpent uncoiled across the path, scales glinting green-blue under the faint torchlight. Its feathered wings, though smaller than its body, gave it an odd, almost ethereal majesty as it raised its head and hissed low in warning.

 

Castor froze, rifling through memory. He had never seen one in person before, but his late-night studying tugged a name from the back of his mind. An amphiptere. Venomous, fast, and dangerous—but distant kin to dragons if the texts were right.

 

It blocked the very path he had marked as the most efficient route. He tightened his grip on his wand, then forced himself to relax. Maybe, just maybe, it would respond the way a dragon might.

 

In a steady voice, he hissed in Parseltongue, “Hello there. If I pass, will you please not bite me?”

 

The serpent jolted upright, wings rustling. Its golden eyes widened in surprise, “You speak?”

 

“Yes,” Castor confirmed, careful to keep his tone calm, respectful.

 

The creature swayed, tasting the air with its forked tongue, “Where am I?”

 

Castor’s stomach sank remembering when he had to explain this to the girls. He exhaled slowly, “In a foolish human game. I’m trying to finish it so you—and the others—can go back home.”

 

The amphiptere hissed sharply, the sound edged with anger, “Why bring me here if this is a human—” it spat the word with scorn, “game?”

 

Castor spread his hands helplessly, “I couldn’t tell you. Honestly, I don’t understand half of what my own species does.”

 

For a beat, silence stretched between them. Then, unexpectedly, the serpent released a hissy, rattling laugh, wings folding back against its sides. It slithered out of the path, coils rippling like water.

 

“Thank you,” Castor said sincerely, dipping his head, “Hopefully this will end quickly.”

 

He pressed forward, relieved to still have his skin intact, when the faint sound of scales against earth followed him. Frowning, he glanced back. The amphiptere was trailing after him, wings brushing the hedge as it kept a careful distance.

 

Castor tilted his head, “Is something wrong?”

 

The serpent hesitated before hissing, quieter now, almost uncertain, “I… I am not a solitary creature. Can I stay with you until I can go home?”

 

The words pierced him. Castor’s chest tightened, an ache blooming where his fear had just been. For all its venom, for all its strangeness, it was lonely. Just like Kraken. Just like himself, sometimes.

 

His voice softened, “Of course you can come with me.”

 

The amphiptere flicked its tongue in thanks, keeping pace at his side as he turned deeper into the maze.

 

Castor felt far more comfortable with a creature at his side. He began in the direction he had jotted down but was startled to find a hedge growing as if to block his path. Quickly running forward he cast Immobulus on it to stop the hedges growth as he ran through the gap that was left. The amphiptere merely flew over the thing.

 

“Show off,” Castor chuckled before picking up the pace wanting to get through as much of the maze as possible before it began to move again. He knew he was getting close to the finish when he ran into a Sphinx. He would recognize such a unique creature anywhere. A human’s head on a lion’s body.

 

Castor froze at the beauty of it. “Wow,” he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You are magnificent!”

 

The sphinx seemed to preen at the compliments. Thinking back Castor realized that all the creatures he had interacted with seem particularly fond of compliments. Hippogriffs, the dragons, Fawkes... Even Hedwig loved being told how beautiful she was.

 

Tucking that thought back he paid all his attention to the sphinx before him. They are truly wonderous creatures. Brilliant but dangerous. A lot like Hermione.

 

Summoning what he hoped passed for Malfoy charm—the kind of silver tongue he’d supposedly inherited but rarely managed to use—Castor offered a bright, earnest smile. “I mean it. I’ve no doubt all sphinxes are magnificent, but you… you’re more breathtaking than I imagined. I’ve studied magical creatures, but I never thought I’d be lucky enough to meet an actual sphinx face-to-face.”

 

The great beast tilted her head, her sleek lion’s body shifting with effortless grace. Her almond-shaped eyes gleamed as though amused, and her lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk.

 

“Well,” she purred, her voice resonant, “thank you for the courtesy. Flattery, while rarely original, is not unwelcome. And you, little wizard, are closer to your goal than you think.”

 

Castor’s heart thumped. He nodded firmly, “I know. The quickest path runs right past you. Would you… allow me through, please?”

 

The smirk deepened into something sharper, “No. Not yet. You must first solve a riddle. Answer correctly, and I will permit you to pass unharmed. Answer wrongly…” She extended one set of claws, flexing them lazily against the earth, “and I shall maul you. If you choose silence, you may turn away freely and attempt another route.”

 

Castor exhaled slowly, forcing his nerves down. At least she’s fair, he thought. If he didn’t know, he could walk away and circle back, even if it cost him precious time.

 

He straightened his shoulders, “Very well. May I hear the riddle, please?”

 

The sphinx’s smirk softened into the faintest of smiles, as though humored by his politeness. Her tail swished lazily behind her as she intoned:

 

“I shall give you an easy one, since you remembered your manners. Some try to hide, some try to cheat; but time will show, we always will meet.”

 

Her golden eyes fixed on him, unblinking, the riddle hanging heavy in the air between them.

 

Castor chewed the inside of his cheek, the words circling in his mind. Some try to hide, some try to cheat; but time will show, we always will meet.

 

He tapped his fingers nervously against his thigh. “Okay… not sleep. Definitely not professors, though Merlin knows they always catch up eventually. No… this sounds bigger than that…”

 

The sphinx’s tail flicked again, her eyes narrowing with something between amusement and impatience.

 

Castor frowned, pacing a few steps, then back again, “Something everyone has in common. Something you can’t run from.” His mind flashed to James and Lily, to the way even great serpents like Maria hadn’t lasted forever. His throat tightened. “It’s… it’s death, isn’t it?”

 

The sphinx’s expression shifted, her smirk melting into the barest ghost of a smile. She dipped her head once, solemn and regal, “Correct.”

 

Relief flooded through him so suddenly he nearly laughed aloud. His knees wobbled, and he ran a hand through his already messy hair. “Oh, thank Merlin. I was terrified I was going to say something stupid and end up mauled on a technicality.”

 

The sphinx chuckled softly, a low, musical sound that echoed off the hedge walls, “Few answer so directly, and fewer still without trembling. You may pass, little wizard.”

 

She stepped aside, her leonine body moving with liquid grace, and with a final flick of her tail, she gestured toward the path beyond.

 

Castor gave her a respectful bow—half because she deserved it, half because he was grateful to still be alive—and hurried past, heart still hammering. One step closer. Just a little farther…

 

Castor’s eyes locked on the final clearing—the Triwizard Cup gleaming like a beacon in the center. His pulse kicked into a sprint of its own, and he bolted forward.

 

The sudden clash of hissing and chittering behind him made him whip around. His stomach lurched when he saw the amphiptere coiled around an acromantula, fangs flashing as the spider tried to drag the serpent down.

 

“No!” Castor shouted, his voice cracking, “Fly—get clear! I’ll handle it!”

 

The serpent gave a final lash of its tail and shot skyward, beating its wings to rise out of reach. Castor’s wand was already up.

 

“Arania Exumai!” he roared.

 

A jet of light slammed into the acromantula, hurling it into the hedge with a sickening crunch. For a moment, Castor thought it might be down for good—until it twitched, legs scrabbling, and righted itself with stubborn determination. It clicked its mandibles menacingly but apparently thought better of another attack; it turned and skittered into the darkness, vanishing between the hedges.

 

Breathing hard, Castor lowered his wand. He glanced skyward, relief loosening his chest as the amphiptere dipped low again, circling protectively. “Thanks for having my back,” Castor called, and meant it. The creature hissed softly, almost like acknowledgment.

 

At last, he turned toward the Cup. The glow seemed to beckon him, whispering of victory, of glory. He stepped closer… then froze. His hand hovered inches above the handles, trembling.

 

He shouldn’t take it.

 

This tournament wasn’t supposed to be his. He hadn’t earned it—not like Cedric, Fleur, or Krum. He’d been dragged into the chaos because Voldemort had wanted his blood, and he already succeeded.

 

His throat tightened as he stared at the Cup. What’s the point? The gold, the glory—it was nothing. Nothing compared to what he’d gained when his name had spilled out of that cursed Goblet. A family—stressful, imperfect, but his. Theo, steady and quiet and the best damn thing that had ever happened to him. A career he had barely dreamed would actually happen. Even a measure of safety from Voldemort’s shadow.

 

He didn’t need the spotlight. He didn’t want it. Let the world look at Cedric, Fleur, or Viktor for once—Merlin knew they deserved it more.

 

The amphiptere settled nearby, eyes scanning the hedges, muscles taut. “What now?” it asked, hissing low and wary.

 

Castor let out a shaky laugh, sinking down to sit cross-legged beneath the pedestal. He rested his wand across his knees, the Cup gleaming temptingly above his head, and kept his eyes sharp on the maze beyond. “Now,” he said quietly, “we wait.”

 

“Wait?” the amphiptere tilted its sleek head, tongue flicking curiously, “These human games are… odd.”

 

Castor gave a quiet chuckle, the sound edged with nerves, “I’m with you there.”

 

“Then why play at all?” the serpent pressed, its scales rippling as it shifted.

 

Castor sighed, leaning his head back against the pedestal, “Sometimes, we don’t get to choose. We’re told to play, and so… we do.”

 

The amphiptere studied him with unblinking golden eyes, tail curling and uncurling in slow agitation, “So humans are weak.”

 

The bluntness stung more than Castor expected. He straightened, frowning, “Why would you say that?”

 

“Because,” the serpent hissed, voice low and matter-of-fact, “a fierce foe does not bow when commanded. A true adversary may be persuaded, bargained with, or even outwitted. But never forced. If you are forced, you are prey.”

 

Castor swallowed hard at the words. He knew the amphiptere didn’t mean them cruelly—it was simply stating a truth as it saw the world. Still, the weight of it hit too close. All year he had been pushed, manipulated, shoved around by choices not his own. Maybe, just maybe, the creature was right.

 

Before Castor could fully turn over the amphiptere’s words in his mind, the sharp sound of voices and pounding footsteps broke through the quiet. He tensed, wand at the ready, as Cedric and Viktor came barreling around the corner, shoulders colliding as they tried to trip each other or shove the other off course.

 

Both of them skidded to a halt at the sight before them—Castor sitting cross-legged beneath the pedestal with the cup gleaming just above his head, a winged serpent coiled protectively nearby.

 

Cedric blinked, “Castor… why are you just sitting there?”

 

“You ‘ave clearly been here vor some time,” Krum said slowly, tilting his head in suspicion, “Is something wrong?”

 

Castor shook his head, forcing a small smile, “No. Nothing’s wrong. I just… don’t want it. You two can keep racing if you like.”

 

The boys exchanged a startled look, the aggressive tension between them dimming. With a newfound caution, they approached more slowly, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the maze.

 

Cedric frowned, “Look, Castor… if anyone should take the cup, it’s you. Honestly, Viktor and I wouldn’t have even gotten this far so fast without your little cheat sheets.”

 

Viktor gave a firm nod, “It vould be unsportsmanlike to take vhat you earned. You are… very strong competition.”

 

Castor bit his lip, looking down at his hands, “I still don’t want it, though. Not really. I just wanted us all to survive.”

 

Cedric crouched a little, his expression steady but kind, “Then we wait. But neither of us is going to take the win from you. I’d rather tie Viktor for second place than steal what’s yours.”

 

Viktor let out a low chuckle and clapped Cedric on the shoulder, “He is honorable. I respect this.”

 

Castor’s lips tugged into a reluctant smile, “Awe, look at you two! Becoming friends already. Two minutes ago you were trying to beat each other into the dirt.”

 

Viktor’s grin widened, “Ah, ve are both competitors. No ‘arm in a little roughness. But respect? That lasts.”

 

Castor was just brushing dirt from his robes when a sharp, panicked squeal split the air. His head whipped toward the sound—Fleur. Heart pounding, he sprinted a few steps into the maze before she came tearing around the corner, the Acromantula hot on her heels.

 

“Arania Exumai!” Castor bellowed, his wand flashing. A blast of light hurled the spider into the hedge, legs flailing before it thudded back to the ground in a daze.

 

This time it was slower to recover, but when it finally hauled itself upright it seemed to turn its many eyes directly on Castor in something like… indignation.

 

Feeling absurdly insulted, Castor shouted, “Don’t glare at me! If you didn’t want me to hex you again, you shouldn’t have come back!”

 

The Acromantula gave what looked uncomfortably like a disdainful strut before scuttling away, its huge legs rattling against the hedges.

 

Fleur slumped against the hedge wall, hand pressed to her chest, “Merci, Castor. I ‘ate spiders.”

 

Castor let out a breathy laugh, trying to cut the tension, “Join the club. You okay?”

 

“Oui, oui. It just startled me. Eet came out of nowhere.”

 

“Same trick it tried on me,” Castor admitted as he walked with her back toward the clearing. He gestured to the winged serpent circling lazily above. “Good thing I had Mr. Amphiptere here watching my back.”

 

With casual familiarity, he reached up and let the serpent coil over his shoulders like some regal ornament, the creature flicking its tongue contentedly.

 

Cedric raised a brow, voice dry, “Do I even want to ask? Is that your pet, or did you just meet it in the maze and—surprise, surprise—it fell in love with you like every other creature seems to?”

 

Castor sniffed, feigning offense, “For the record, that Acromantula definitely doesn’t love me. So no, not all creatures.”

 

Fleur shook her head in exasperation before gesturing at the pedestal, “Alors, why are we all standing around the cup like it’s on display? Who will take it?”

 

Cedric answered for them, his tone steady, “Castor got here first. He won, fair and square. Viktor and I already agreed we’re not taking what he earned.”

 

Fleur blinked in surprise before shaking her head, “But I am last. Castor, eet makes no sense for me to take the cup.”

 

Castor crossed his arms stubbornly, his serpent shifting slightly with the motion, “Well, someone here needs to stop being so bloody noble or we’re all going to be here till morning.”

 

Cedric smirked faintly, “Yes. And that someone is you, Castor. You won. We’ll back you up when we leave. Everyone will know it.”

 

Castor pouted, lower lip sticking out just a little, “Counteroffer: we all take it. Four-way tie. That would be history.”

 

Viktor arched a brow, “History, yes. Believable, no.”

 

Cedric sighed, though amusement glimmered in his eyes, “I don’t think people will fall for that.”

 

Castor’s grin broke through despite himself, “Come on! Let’s just try. Worst case, they think we’re ridiculous. Best case… we walk out of here as the first-ever united champions. Who could be upset about that?”

 

The amphiptere hissed softly, as if in agreement, flicking its wings.

 

Cedric exhaled through his nose, shoulders sagging, “Fine.”

 

Viktor turned to him sharply, “Fine?”

 

“Yes, fine,” Cedric repeated, giving him a look that brooked no argument. “I don’t care anymore—I just want to get out of here. We’ll all grab it together and be done with it.”

 

Fleur was already circling the pedestal warily, her eyes darting to the hedges as if another Acromantula might lunge out at any second, “As long as we are gone before another spider shows up.”

 

That settled it. They all moved into place, four hands stretching out. Castor kept one arm braced around the amphiptere draped over his shoulders, the serpent flicking its tongue as though in approval.

 

“On the count of three,” Viktor said firmly.

 

Castor bit his lip, excitement and nerves bubbling together.

 

“One… two… three.”

 

They seized the cup together—two to each handle, Fleur and Castor on one side, Cedric and Viktor on the other.

 

Instantly, the world yanked away. A hook dragged at their navels and then—thud—they crashed to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs and robes, the amphiptere giving an affronted hiss as it wriggled free.

 

Above them, the school band struck up triumphantly, the stands erupting in cheers—only to falter into confused murmurs as the crowd realized all four champions had appeared together.

 

Bagman bustled forward, his expression caught between elation and panic, “Merlin’s beard! How—how in the world did you all make it to the Cup at once?”

 

Viktor was the first to straighten his robes and speak, his voice steady, “Ve did not. Castor is the real winner.”

 

Castor whipped his head around to stare at him, affront clear in his wide eyes, “Hey! What happened to the four-way tie?”

 

Viktor smirked faintly, “I promised no such thing. Cedric did. I said nothing.” He gave a half-shrug. “And as much as I respect my fellow champions, he does not speak for me.”

 

Fleur smoothed her hair back, lips quirking, “I only said I did not want another spider crawling after me. Viktor speaks the truth. Castor won.”

 

Cedric raised his hands in surrender, though his grin said he was enjoying himself far too much, “Technically, I’m I didn’t betray you. But… yeah, I’m not going to lie and say I disagree with the others.”

 

Castor’s jaw dropped, then he pouted fiercely, hands on his hips, “You guys suck. I’ve never met such a Slytherin Hufflepuff in my life,” he added, narrowing his eyes at Cedric.

 

Cedric burst into laughter, and despite himself, Castor’s fake scowl cracked into reluctant amusement.

 

Bagman, looking visibly relieved to have an answer, bustled forward, puffing up like a rooster about to crow. He reached for Castor’s arm as though to hoist it up—but froze mid-gesture, blanching at the sight of the sleek, winged serpent coiled possessively around the boy’s shoulders.

 

Clearing his throat, he hastily backed away and raised his wand to his throat instead. His voice boomed over the stadium: “Ladies and gentlemen! The winner of the Triwizard Tournament is Castor Malfoy—who, once again, lingered behind to make certain his fellow champions were safe. A true hero!”

 

The stands erupted, a tidal wave of cheers and applause echoing through the night.

 

Castor groaned and slapped a hand over his face, muttering into his palm, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”

 

The amphiptere asked what was happening and Castor explained that he won the game.

 

“Of course. While humans are weak you are strong amongst your kind.”

 

Castor chuckled scratching the creature’s head.

Notes:

It's 1:30am... Good night!

Chapter 78

Chapter 78

 

Castor found the amphiptere’s handler near the edge of the pitch, the man looking pale at seeing Castor wearing the creature. Carefully, Castor lifted the serpent from his shoulders and stroked its scales one last time. “Time to go home,” he whispered.

 

The amphiptere nuzzled his cheek with its narrow head, tongue flicking, “Thank you, little speaker, for keeping me company until now.”

 

“Of course,” Castor murmured back, his chest tightening as he set the serpent in the handler’s waiting arms. Relief eased into him when the man explained that the amphiptere hadn’t been alone—several of its kin had been scattered in the maze as well, and they would be reunited immediately.

 

That reassurance allowed Castor to finally exhale, his body sagging with exhaustion. And in that very moment, two warm arms slipped around his waist from behind.

 

Castor chuckled, recognizing that hold instantly. “Theo,” he said, turning in the embrace to look up at him, his grin faint but genuine.

 

“Congratulations, my love,” Theo murmured, pressing a kiss to his damp forehead, heedless of the sweat and grime clinging to him.

 

Castor rolled his eyes and muttered, “Thanks,” with heavy sarcasm.

 

“Hey,” Theo’s voice softened, but he gently tilted Castor’s chin so their eyes met. His grey gaze was steady, unyielding. “Castor. My love. I know you never asked for this. I know you didn’t want it. But I watched you this year. I saw the way you worked—not just in the tournament, but in everything. The way you studied, the way you trained, the way you’ve built a place for yourself on the reserve, and everything we did in the Chamber. You gave every ounce of yourself, even when no one was watching.”

 

Castor swallowed, his throat tight.

 

Theo’s hand came up, brushing mud from his cheek with a tenderness that made Castor’s chest ache. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Because what I see is a brilliant and creative young man who deserves every bit of recognition you’re getting, even if you don’t believe it.”

 

Before Castor could even open his mouth to answer Theo, a sharp clap landed between his shoulder blades, jolting him forward and shattering the intimacy of the moment.

 

“Great job, Castor!” Draco announced, grinning as if he’d just won the tournament himself.

 

Narcissa’s lips pressed into the faintest line as she closed her eyes for one heartbeat of exasperation, clearly recognizing how her son’s timing had derailed something private. Both boys reluctantly shifted apart, Castor’s expression souring as he turned from Theo’s arms to face his family.

 

“Yes,” Lucius intoned, his nod crisp and measured. “Well done, Castor.”

 

Narcissa’s eyes softened as she looked him over, her hands twitching as though she longed to brush the grime from his cheek. “Are you alright, darling? Have you been to see Madam Pomfrey yet?”

 

“I’m fine,” Castor replied quickly, shaking his head. “Nothing touched me.”

 

“Of course nothing touched you!” Draco cut in, smirking. “You’re practically a Defense prodigy!”

 

Castor snorted, his tone dry as ever. “No, I just have a talent for attracting things that want me dead. So I study how to survive them.”

 

As he glanced around the pitch, his brows furrowed. “Where are the Weasleys?”

 

“They left the field with their other kids,” Draco said, a note of pride slipping into his voice as he relayed the message. “Charlie told me to congratulate you—said they didn’t want to crowd you. But he also told me to tell you he’s going to be bragging about your win around the next fire they have at the reserve.”

 

Castor couldn’t help but laugh, warmth cutting through his fatigue at the thought.

 

Draco seized the moment, grinning wider, “Anyway, there’s going to be a celebration in the Great Hall. A proper Hogwarts party in your honor.”

 

Castor wrinkled his nose, glancing down at himself: sweat-stained, dirt-smudged, and still carrying the faint musk of the amphiptere, “I need to shower first.”

 

“You’ll take too long,” Draco protested immediately, tone half-scolding.

 

Rolling his eyes, Castor muttered, “Fawkes!”

 

In a rush of golden fire, the phoenix materialized before him, feathers shimmering with warmth.

 

Castor shot Draco a flat, unimpressed look as he reached for the bird, “I’ll be finished with my shower before you’ve even made it to the Great Hall. And I definitely won’t take as long as you do to preen in front of the mirror before coming down.”

 

Theo’s lips curved at that, just slightly, his eyes gleaming with quiet pride. He said nothing, but he brushed his knuckles lightly against Castor’s hand in a fleeting, private gesture—one Draco couldn’t ruin this time.

 

“I’ll see everyone in the Great Hall?” Castor questioned gasping Fawkes tail.

 

His parents both nodded, though Narcissa’s voice carried a delicate weight of warning.

“We shall make a brief appearance,” she said, smoothing a nonexistent crease in her gown. “I believe the Minister intends to present your prize formally—in front of everyone.”

 

Castor groaned, rolling his eyes skyward, “Of course he does. Can’t miss a chance for theatrics.”

 

Before anyone could reply, Castor clutched to Fawkes and, in a burst of fire, vanished to the safety of the Room.

 

He wasted no time—his showers were quick, and he’d mastered drying charms on his hair long ago with so many swims with Kraken. Within ten minutes he was changed, pulling on one of Valentin’s more casual ensembles. It was still stylish but far more laid back compared to his basilisk gear. He looked good. Presentable. Just not showy.

 

With a steadying breath, he left the sanctuary of the Room and began the descent toward the Great Hall. He didn’t expect to encounter anyone—most of the crowd would still be filtering back from the Quidditch pitch. He certainly didn’t expect to find the Headmaster himself, robes sweeping the staircase ahead, climbing up toward him as the shifting stairs locked them face-to-face.

 

“Oh, Harry,” Dumbledore said warmly, as though the meeting were nothing but a happy coincidence. His blue eyes twinkled with their usual, unreadable mirth. “I suppose congratulations are in order. You have done the school proud.”

 

Castor offered him a smile so thin it was almost brittle, a polite mask with no warmth behind it, “Thank you, Professor.”

 

“You are on your way to your celebration, I imagine?”

Castor inclined his head, his tone clipped.

“Yes. I’m supposed to meet Theo and my family.”

 

“Ah.” Dumbledore’s eyes lingered on him for just a moment too long, the weight of it like a hook. “I thought you would be with them still.”

 

Castor shook his head. “Fawkes brought me in so I could shower before I’d be missed.”

 

Dumbledore gave a faint hum of approval. “Yes, Fawkes can be quite useful like that. Where is my old companion, anyway?”

 

Castor shrugged. “Who knows? He’s taken a liking to bothering Fred and George. He only really follows me when he thinks I’m doing something interesting. He’d come if I called, though. Always does. Would you like to say hello?”

 

Dumbledore’s eyes had no shine. His answer was mild, but flat, “No, no. Don’t want to spoil his fun.” He stepped aside, one hand raised as though inviting Castor down the next staircase. “I did wish to speak to you, though, Harry. Perhaps I can walk you down.”

 

Castor gave the smallest nod and kept moving, though every instinct told him it wasn’t a request. The Headmaster had already folded himself into his pace, robes whispering like shadows.

 

“A fierce foe does not bow when commanded.”

 

The amphiptere’s voice coiled unexpectedly through his mind, “A true adversary may be persuaded, bargained with, or even outwitted. But never forced. If you are forced—you are prey.”

 

The serpent’s words settled heavy in his chest. He wouldn’t pick a fight, not here, not now. But perhaps he could finally start drawing lines.

 

“I wish to know if anything unusual occurred in the maze,” Dumbledore said, the tone wrapped in silk but threaded with iron.

 

Castor blinked at him, “It was a giant maze full of dangerous magical creatures. The whole thing was unusual.”

 

“True,” Dumbledore’s mouth curved, though his eyes did not, “But I cannot see why Barty Crouch Junior went to such lengths. He risked exposure to enter your name, orchestrated an elaborate charade, and yet… did not harm you when you uncovered him. I know you would rather not dwell on that night, but perhaps you can shed light on his reasoning.”

 

Castor’s voice turned flat, deadpan, “I wouldn’t say I was unharmed, Professor. Days in shock, nightmares that still haven’t stopped… I’d call that harm. As for his reasoning—Crouch was mad long before Azkaban. I had no luck untangling his plans then, and I’ve no interest now.”

 

“But why do you think he did not go through with it?”

 

“I don’t know, Professor.” Castor let his shoulders lift in a careless shrug, though his pulse quickened. “Maybe it was because of what came out about my family. Didn’t he share a cell block with my aunt? Maybe he really did want me dead. I work on a dragon reserve—those chains shouldn’t have broken. Someone tampered with them, and it wasn’t me. I was perfectly content riding my favorite Horntail closer to the ground.” He allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward, “No regrets, though.”

 

They reached the lower landing. From there, Castor could already see students streaming toward the Great Hall, laughter and chatter echoing through the stone. Beyond the flow of bodies, he caught sight of his family waiting near the doors. His father’s eyes met his, cool and sharp, and Lucius gave the faintest shake of his head—an unspoken warning, or perhaps a silent vow of support.

 

“Or perhaps,” Castor added smoothly, “Crouch didn’t want me dead at all. Maybe it was a test.”

 

Dumbledore’s brows rose, “A test?” His voice held sudden interest.

 

Castor stopped walking. He turned slightly, posture straightening as he met the Headmaster’s gaze without flinching. He thought again of the amphiptere’s warning, and he didn’t feel small under that piercing blue stare.

 

“Perhaps,” he said evenly, “To test my abilities. He wouldn’t be the first, after all.”

 

Dumbledore’s brow furrowed slightly, that grandfatherly patience fixed on his face, “And who, pray tell, do you imagine tested you in such a way?”

 

Castor tilted his head, his expression thoughtful but his tone measured, “Do you forget the Philosopher’s Stone, Professor? That gauntlet of challenges—fluffy beasts, devil’s snare, potions, riddles. All puzzles perfectly suited for children, so long as they had just the right mixture of courage, knowledge, and—” he gave the man a thin smile “—reckless luck. Almost as if you’d built it for me to stumble across.”

 

Dumbledore’s eyes cooled, though he said mildly, “That was… different.”

 

“Different in method,” Castor allowed, his voice steady, polite, “But not in intent. You wanted to see how far I would go, how far I could be pushed. Whether it was dragons, basilisk venom, or a philosopher’s bauble, the pattern feels rather familiar, don’t you think?”

 

The Headmaster opened his mouth, but Castor pressed on gently, never raising his voice, “I survived, of course, and perhaps that was the lesson you meant me to learn. But I’ve stopped confusing your trials for destiny. Some people call it fate, others call it manipulation. I suppose it depends on where you’re standing.”

 

Lucius began to step in their direction, the silent weight of his attention adding steel to Castor’s words.

 

At last Castor inclined his head, perfectly courteous, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Professor, my family is waiting. I’d hate to keep them from celebrating.”

 

With that, he stepped past him smoothly, robes brushing against the stone, leaving Dumbledore no room to answer without looking as though he chased a student for justification.

 

As his father drew near, Castor didn’t slow. Instead, he kept walking, forcing Lucius to pivot smoothly and fall into step beside him. Their strides matched in an almost unspoken rhythm, as though the world would adjust to them, not the other way around.

 

“What occurred?” Lucius asked quietly, his tone more observation than question.

 

Castor gave a short, dismissive huff and rolled his eyes, “The Headmaster tried to bend me to his will again. I managed well enough. Shall we get this over with?”

 

Theo was waiting just ahead. Without a word, he extended an arm, a subtle anchor amid the noise. Castor accepted the gesture, letting himself be guided into the Great Hall where a wave of cheers rose to meet him.

 

Lucius lingered half a step behind, his gaze flicking back. Dumbledore still stood on the staircase, watching with that unreadable half-smile. Lucius’s jaw tightened before he turned toward Narcissa, who waited with serene poise.

 

“Perhaps,” Lucius murmured, almost to himself, “the boy does possess some political instincts after all.”

 

Narcissa’s eyes gleamed with interest, the corners of her mouth lifting ever so slightly, “Does that mean we can forgo the zoo, then?”

 

A soft scoff escaped Lucius as he offered her his arm, “Of course not, my dear. I would never be so foolish as to depend on it.”

Notes:

Hi! Just wanted to get this posted before I head out tonight. Full disclosure: I wrestled way too long with the Dumbledore bits because I wanted to frame him just right, so the editing on this one isn’t as polished as usual. As always, let me know if anything feels off—you all are better at catching my nonsense than I am. Thanks!