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Chapter Text

HARRY

The day had started out normal enough—or as normal as any day could be for Harry. He’d gotten up early, gone for a jog, eaten breakfast, and treated himself to a well-earned shower. The kind of routine that let him feel almost human before diving into whatever chaos awaited him.

By nine in the morning, he had already Apparated to work, where he found himself deep in conversation with one of his fellow Unspeakables about the mission he was supposed to handle that day. Apparently, some unlucky Wix had been exploring a cave and stumbled upon a tearing a hole in space-time. Just another average Tuesday in the Department of Mysteries.

The real surprise of the day, though, wasn’t the time-turner catastrophe. It was his mission partner.

Blaise Zabini.

Harry hadn’t heard a word about him since the war. Rumor had it that Zabini had returned to Italy, his home country, and left all Britain's wizarding drama behind. So seeing his name on the mission roster had been... unexpected, to say the least.

It wasn’t as though Harry had ever really known him. Zabini had always been more of a shadowy figure in the background—one of Malfoy’s entourage. He’d never been outright cruel, though. Sure, the occasional scoff or mean-spirited laugh had been tossed Harry’s way, but Zabini did that to pretty much everyone, even Malfoy. It never felt personal.

So, Harry decided to keep things civilized. After all, they’d be working together, and it wasn’t like he had any real grudge against Zabini. He’d barely spoken to the guy back at school, so maybe now was a chance to start fresh—or at least avoid awkward silences.

Harry had double-checked everything he’d packed for the mission. His wand, a couple of enchanted runes, and a small emergency Portkey—just in case. This was supposed to be a quick in-and-out operation, nothing overly complicated. If all went well, he’d be home by dinner, ready to enjoy what little remained of his Tuesday evening in peace.

A soft clearing of the throat broke his thoughts.

“It’s been some time, Potter,” said a smooth, almost aristocratic voice.

Harry turned, and there was Blaise Zabini, standing as if he’d stepped out of the pages of a high-end fashion catalogue. The polite smile on his lips didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was practiced, controlled.

Zabini hadn’t changed much since their Hogwarts days, Harry noted. He still had that same effortless elegance about him, as though the world itself bent over backward to keep him in perfect condition. His skin was flawless, his posture impeccable, and his tailored robes—a deep, understated black accented with emerald-green stitching—spoke volumes about wealth and taste.

He was taller than Harry by a couple of inches, though Harry had finally had his long-overdue growth spurt after graduating, thank you very much.

“It has been, hasn’t it? How has Italy’s wizarding world been treating you?” Harry asked, striking up a conversation as they walked to the mission registration desk.

Zabini’s polite smile didn’t falter as he answered, “Remarkably well, thank you. Italy’s magical society is… shall we say, far more organized than Britain’s ever was. There’s a certain elegance to how things are run. Less chaos, more structure.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t argue. After everything he’d witnessed during the war—and even after—it wasn’t exactly a difficult claim to believe. “Sounds like you’ve settled right in, then.”

“Indeed,” Zabini replied, his tone faintly amused. “Though I must admit, I find Britain’s wizarding world strangely endearing. There’s something almost charming about its—” he paused delicately, “—haphazard nature.”

Harry snorted. “Right. Charming. That’s definitely the word I’d use.”

Harry watched as Zabini fought back a laugh, his lips twitching ever so slightly as they stopped at the registration desk. The attendant handed them a stack of forms, and the two of them quickly skimmed through the pages, quills scratching as they signed where needed.

“I didn’t expect you to be an Unspeakable,” Zabini said casually, his tone light but curious as he signed the last line. “Everyone was so certain you’d end up as an Auror.”

Harry hummed, glancing up briefly before returning to his form. “I was, actually. Did the full training, served for almost five years… then I got bored.”

Zabini’s laugh broke free this time, rich and surprisingly unrestrained. “Only you, Potter, could find chasing down Dark wizards boring.”

Harry couldn’t help the triumphant grin that spread across his face. It felt oddly satisfying to have pulled that kind of reaction from the ever-composed Zabini.

“I never pictured you as an Unspeakable either,” Harry countered as he set his quill down. “I figured you’d end up a Potions master or something. You were one of the few people to get an O on the N.E.W.T.s, weren’t you?”

Zabini nodded absent-mindedly, slipping his form back into the folder. “True enough. But potion-making was never my true calling.” He paused, his dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “I was always far more interested in rune magic. Becoming an Unspeakable gave me access to runes of all kinds—ancient, forbidden, experimental. It’s… fulfilling.”

Harry caught the way Zabini’s expression shifted, the faint glimmer of excitement tempered by his usual air of control. “I quite enjoy runes as well,” Harry admitted, his voice calm but earnest.

Zabini’s brow arched slightly, intrigued. “Truly?”

Harry nodded, feeling a small flicker of amusement at Zabini’s reaction.

“Fascinating,” Zabini murmured, leaning back just a touch. “I keep learning new things about you today, Potter. You’re far more than meets the eye.”

Harry smirked, his green eyes flashing with humor. “Call me whatever you want, Zabini, but you can’t call me predictable.”

Zabini hummed in agreement, his expression one of faint amusement. “True enough.”

The mission was supposed to be easy. So why, why were they running from a herd of Inferi?

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as he and Zabini ducked into a shadowed corner of the cave. The groans and shuffling footsteps of the undead echoed ominously, growing louder with each passing second. It had been far too long since Harry had faced something like this—a life-or-death battle in the dark. He pulled out his wand, gripping it tightly.

“Inferi are weak to fire,” he said breathlessly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I could use the Confringo spell to clear them out!”

“Ah, yes, brilliant plan,” Zabini shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Except for one small problem: if you haven’t noticed, we’re in an enclosed cave. Confringo will just bring the entire ceiling down on our heads. Lovely way to die, don’t you think?”

Harry scowled, his grip on his wand tightening as he glanced around the dim, claustrophobic space. “Fine. What do you suggest, then?”

“A sun rune,” Zabini replied smoothly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Harry frowned. He didn’t know any sun-related runes—admittedly, his own rune studies leaned toward the more blood-related kind, and this was far from his area of expertise. “You know one?”

Zabini’s smirk widened. “Of course. But I’ll need a moment to prepare it.”

Harry hesitated, weighing their odds against the advancing Inferi. The groans were closer now, their silhouettes becoming clearer in the flickering wandlight. Time wasn’t on their side, but Zabini’s confidence was unshakable.

“Fine,” Harry said, gripping his wand and stepping toward the opening. “I’ll buy you some time. Just don’t take forever, Zabini.”

“Trust me, Potter,” Zabini said, already pulling out some rune ink from his robes. “I’m very efficient under pressure.”

Harry took a deep breath, determination flooding his veins. He sprinted out from the corner, drawing the Inferi’s attention like a magnet. Their hollow eyes locked onto him, their slow, unyielding shuffle growing faster as they lunged.

He raised his wand, casting a quick but forceful Protego just as the first Inferius reached him. The shield expanded in a brilliant flash, deflecting the decaying limbs and hollow claws. For a moment, he was safe—but the Inferi kept coming.

Harry didn’t hesitate. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he sent Reducto flying in all directions, the force of the spells blasting chunks of the cave and dismembering the Inferi in a shower of debris. He was picking them off one by one, but for everyone he destroyed, another seemed to take its place.

There’s too many of them...

His back hit the cold stone wall of the cave, the Inferi closing in on him. Sweat trickled down his face, his breath quickening. He could feel the heat of their decaying presence, the stench almost suffocating. He wasn’t going to die here. He wouldn’t.

He raised his wand, preparing the familiar motion for Confringo when a voice sliced through the air.

“Brace yourself!”

It was Zabini.

Harry didn’t need another warning. He clenched his teeth and stood firm, instinctively bracing for the coming spell. The air in the cave seemed to still for a heartbeat before Zabini’s voice rang out once more.

“Ardenti stella!”

A bright flare of light erupted from where Zabini had been. It was so intense that it felt like the very air around them had caught fire. The inferno-like star of magic shot forward, bathing the entire cave in a brilliant, blinding glow.

The Inferi shrieked, their movements stalling as the light scorched through their decaying forms. Their twisted bodies writhed in agony, unable to withstand the purifying heat. The cave was filled with the sound of cracking bones and splintering ash as the spell tore through them, eradicating the horde in an instant.

The light dimmed, leaving the cave in an eerie silence. Harry lowered his wand, breathing heavily as the last echoes of the spell faded into the dark.

“Well,” he said, glancing at Zabini with a smirk, “That was... impressive.”

Zabini, equally winded but unphased, gave a half-smile in return. “We better go find that hole in space-time before more of those things come crawling out.”

They both stood in front of the rip, staring at the jagged tear in space-time. "It’s crazy that this hole got as big as it did before anyone noticed," Harry remarked, his brow furrowing as he examined the rift.

Zabini nodded, his expression unreadable. "The Unspeakables in the Time Department are usually so good at predicting this kind of thing. I’ve never seen anything like it."

Harry had to agree. The Time Sect was always vigilant about monitoring fluctuations and potential rips in space-time. They had an uncanny ability to anticipate where and when they might occur. But lately, something had changed. More rips were cropping up, more frequently than ever.

That’s why Harry, who specialized in lost magical history, had found himself on a time-related mission. The department had been so short-staffed lately, there simply hadn’t been enough personnel to handle everything. But when had the Unspeakables ever been fully staffed?

“Do you think we could-”

Before Harry could finish, an invisible force yanked his magic through the rift. He gasped, his feet leaving the ground as a jolt of raw, uncontrollable energy surged through him.

“Potter!” Zabini’s voice cut through the sudden rush of power, sharp with panic.

But Harry barely registered the sound before everything went dark, the world spinning out of focus as the pull of the rift intensified.

Harry jerked upright from the bed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His head swam, the room spinning around him in dizzying circles. It took every ounce of willpower not to empty his stomach right then and there.

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, trying to steady himself. His magic felt... wrong. It was still there, humming beneath the surface, but it was unsteady—like a jigsaw puzzle that had been forced back together with pieces in the wrong places.

Harry closed his eyes, focusing on the steady in-and-out rhythm of his breathing. Where was he? And more importantly, what had just happened?

It took a moment—too long for Harry’s liking—for him to wrestle his magic back under control. His breath was uneven, his hands shaking as he fought the chaotic waves within him. He clenched his fist, forcing himself to focus.

“Lumos.”

A soft orb of light flared to life above his palm, its glow steady despite the turmoil he felt. Wandless magic was second nature to him by now, but his magic had been in such disarray that even this small spell felt like pushing against a tidal wave.

The light flickered across the cramped space, and Harry froze.

No.

His heart dropped like a stone as he took in the familiar walls, the thin mattress he sat atop of, the faint smell of dust and damp wood. His chest tightened as realization dawned.

Finally, his gaze dropped to his hands.

Small. Pudgy. Child-like.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice trembling as the weight of it all sank in.

It took longer than Harry would like to admit for him to gain his bearings.

Time travel.

He had time-traveled. But just how far back had he gone?

Well, he wasn’t going to find out by sitting in the cupboard all day. Harry sighed quietly and moved to the door. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, “Alohomora.” The lock clicked open with a faint sound, and Harry smirked despite himself.

Still, it took him a minute to steady his nerves before stepping out. The dizziness from earlier lingered, twisting his stomach, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself onward. He had to figure out what was going on.

It was early morning, four maybe five in the morning if Harry had to guess. The dim light filtering through the small windows barely illuminated the narrow hallway. He glanced around, taking in the house—the house he hadn’t stepped into since his sixth year at Hogwarts.

It felt like he was walking through a memory, one he’d rather have left behind. The creak of the floorboards beneath his feet was familiar, almost painfully so. The faint hum of the refrigerator, the smell of cheap cleaning products, and the too-stiff furniture in the living room—it was all exactly as he remembered.

Harry’s chest tightened as he tried to steady his breathing. This place, this version of his life, felt suffocating. He could almost hear Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice ringing in his ears, barking orders about chores or scolding him for existing. He shook his head, brushing off the ghost of a memory.

He paused in front of the cupboard door, running his hand along the frame. It was strange, standing here again, in a space that had once been his entire world.

No point dwelling on it now, he thought, straightening his back. Focus on figuring out when you are.

He looked around, searching for some sort of clue as to what day it was. His eyes landed on the fridge, where a calendar hung, held in place by a couple of mismatched magnets. His footsteps were light, practically silent—a habit ingrained in him from years as an Auror.

Reaching the fridge, he squinted up at the calendar, the numbers blurring slightly in the dim light. His eyes weren’t used to the dark or the lack of properly prescribed glasses. With a quiet sigh, Harry tugged the calendar off the fridge and held it closer, angling it toward the faint sliver of light coming through the window.

July 24th, 1991.

His breath caught.

It was the day his Hogwarts letter was supposed to arrive.

Fifteen years. He had been sent fifteen years into the past.

Harry groaned, running a hand down his face as the weight of it settled over him. Of all the times to end up in, it had to be this. He propped the calendar back up on the fridge, the magnets holding it in place with a soft clink.

Harry tried really hard to act normal, but Merlin, it was bloody difficult. Every second felt like an eternity as he impatiently waited for his Hogwarts letter to arrive.

He couldn’t live here again. That wasn’t just non-negotiable—it was downright impossible. There was no way he’d subject himself to the Dursleys’ cruelty all over again.

He needed a plan.

So far, all he had was to grab the letter without alerting his relatives and then make his way to Gringotts. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

He had stolen some of his uncle’s money while he wasn’t looking—nothing much, but enough to catch the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley. It wasn’t the most dignified way to travel, but it was efficient, and at this point, efficiency was all that mattered.

All he had to do now was wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The minutes seemed to drag on, each one stretching longer than the last, testing Harry’s patience until it was worn thin.

It was then that his uncle called out to him.

“Boy! Go check the mail!”

Harry had to fight every urge not to sprint to the door. Instead, he forced himself to walk calmly, his heart pounding in his chest. He stepped outside, his breath catching as he opened the mailbox, fingers trembling as he sifted through the envelopes.

Finally, he found it.

His Hogwarts letter.

Quickly, he shoved it under his shirt, praying that his relatives wouldn’t notice. He made his way back inside, keeping his movements steady and casual.

His uncle barely spared him a glance.

Once Harry was dismissed, he wasted no time. He hurried back to his cupboard, heart racing, and tore the letter open as though it might vanish at any moment.

He quickly skimmed through the contents of the letter, his eyes darting over the familiar words. Acceptance to Hogwarts, the list of supplies, and the date for the train—it was all there. Relief washed over him, but it was short-lived.

Now came the harder part.

All he had to do was wait for the perfect opportunity to slip past his relatives unnoticed and flag down the Knight Bus.

Harry leaned back against the thin wall of the cupboard, already planning his next move. He’d done this before—sneaking out of this house was practically second nature—but that didn’t make the waiting any easier.

It was around nine when Harry made his great escape. His aunt had ordered him to take out the trash, barking at him like usual. He didn’t argue, using the opportunity to slip out unnoticed. Before heading outside, he stuffed everything he thought he’d need into one of Dudley’s old, battered backpacks—one so worn that no one would suspect he’d kept anything valuable inside. He pretended the backpack was just more junk being thrown out, and thankfully, his aunt didn’t give it a second glance.

Once outside, Harry didn’t hesitate. The second the door shut behind him, he bolted. He ran down the block, his heart pounding in his ears and his legs burning as he pushed himself to keep moving. When he was sure he was far enough away, he came to a stop and stuck his wand arm out, summoning the Knight Bus.

Before stepping on, he took a moment to ruffle his hair messily, letting it fall over his forehead to obscure the infamous scar. Satisfied that no one would immediately recognize him, he climbed aboard, paid his fare, and sank into one of the bouncing seats with a sigh of relief. He was finally on his way to Diagon Alley.

Chapter Text

HARRY

Harry walked into the Leaky Cauldron, the dim light and familiar hum of chatter washing over him. He ignored the stares from a couple of early risers nursing their drinks and made a beeline for Tom, the pub’s toothless and ever-reliable bartender.

“Morning, lad,” Tom greeted, raising an eyebrow as Harry approached. “Bit early for a drink, isn’t it?”

Harry gave him a small smile, pulling out a few coins. “Not here for a drink, Tom. Just need to get through to Diagon Alley.”

Tom nodded knowingly, his gnarled hand already reaching for his wand. “Ah, say no more.” He stepped aside and tapped the brick wall in that familiar, deliberate pattern. Moments later, the bricks shifted and twisted, revealing the bustling entrance to Diagon Alley.

“Thanks, you sir,” Harry said, giving him a brief nod before stepping through.

Harry felt the wave of magic wash over him as he stepped into Diagon Alley. The vibrant hum of the bustling street hit him like a breath of fresh air, a sharp contrast to the suffocating dullness of Privet Drive. Shops lined both sides of the cobbled path, their colorful displays glittering with enchanted wares.

The familiar scent of parchment, potion ingredients, and fresh-baked goods from the corner bakery wrapped around him. He couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips as memories of his first visit resurfaced.

This was where it all began for him—where his real life started. And now, it was where he’d rewrite his story.

Harry adjusted the strap of the old backpack slung over his shoulder and took a deep breath. His first stop was Gringotts. If he wanted to sort out this mess, he’d need answers, and answers always came at a price.

Harry stood in line, trying to suppress his nerves as he waited for his turn. When he finally reached the counter, the goblin behind it barely glanced up.

“Your key?”

Harry bit his lip but quickly steadied himself. “I don’t have my key,” he said calmly. “But I need to speak with you in private. It’s urgent.” He switched to Gobbledegook, his pronunciation flawless.

The goblin’s eyes widened slightly, his composure faltering for only a moment before he replied in the same tongue, “It has been quite some time since I’ve met a wizard fluent in Gobbledegook. Very well. What is it that requires such discretion?”

Without further delay, the goblin led Harry to a small, private office at the back of the bank. The room was lit by flickering sconces, the walls lined with shelves of ancient scrolls and ledgers. The faint scent of parchment mixed with the metallic tang of enchanted gold in the air.

The goblin, whose nameplate read Grimsharp, gestured for Harry to sit. He settled into his chair, steepling his long, bony fingers as his sharp eyes assessed the young wizard.

“Now, then,” Grimsharp began, his tone formal but edged with curiosity. “What is so important that you request a private audience without credentials or proper procedure?”

Harry hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I need access to the Potter vaults,” he said. “But there’s... been a complication. My key is missing, and I don’t have any traditional proof of identity.”

Grimsharp’s thin eyebrows arched skeptically. “No key, no credentials, and yet you claim to be a Potter.” His voice carried a note of warning. “Do you understand the gravity of such a claim?”

“I do,” Harry replied, meeting the goblin’s gaze steadily. “But I can prove it. There’s a way to verify magical lineage, isn’t there? Blood recognition?”

Grimsharp leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, though there was a glimmer of intrigue in his dark eyes. “You are well-informed,” he admitted. “The test you speak of does exist, though it is not offered lightly. It is invasive, and the penalties for deception are... severe.”

“I’m not lying,” Harry said firmly, leaning forward. “I just need to confirm my identity. Please.”

The goblin studied him for a long moment before finally nodding. “Very well. If you are truly a Potter, the vault will recognize you. But if you are not...” He let the ominous implication hang in the air, a clear warning.

Harry didn’t flinch. “I’ll take the risk.”

Grimsharp rose from his chair with a curt nod. “Wait here. I will retrieve the necessary equipment.”

Harry exhaled slowly, his hands gripping the edge of his chair. The weight of the moment pressed on his shoulders. If this didn’t work, he had no backup plan—no way to prove his identity or access the resources he desperately needed. He couldn’t afford to fail.

The sound of Grimsharp’s return snapped Harry out of his thoughts. The goblin carried a small, ornate box etched with intricate runes. He placed it carefully on the desk and opened it, revealing a slim, silver dagger and a shallow, crystal bowl.

“This,” Grimsharp explained, gesturing to the dagger, “is enchanted to draw a single drop of blood—no more, no less. It will suffice for the lineage test.” He placed the bowl in front of Harry. “Drip your blood into the bowl. The magic will do the rest.”

Harry hesitated for a brief moment, his eyes flicking to the dagger. The blade shimmered faintly, its magic humming in tune with the air. Steeling himself, he picked it up, pressed the tip to his finger, and felt a sharp prick as it drew a single drop of blood.

The blood fell into the crystal bowl, spreading out like ink in water. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the liquid began to glow, shifting and swirling as if alive. Golden lines of magic etched themselves into the air above the bowl, forming the words:

"Harry James Potter – Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter."

Hadrian James Potter

Father: James Fleamont Potter (Deceased)

Mother: Lilly Vivien Evans (Deceased)

God-Father: Sirius Orion Black (Incarcerated)

Blood Status: Pure Blood

Heir Status

Heir Potter for the Ancient and Noble House of Potter (Paternal)

Heir Black for the Ancient and Noble House of Black (Via God-Father’s will)

Heir Peverell for the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell (Paternal: through Potter line)

Vaults

Potter Family Vault (sealed until majority): 10,000,000G, 17,000S, 4930K

Black Family Vault (sealed until majority): 23,000,000G, 21,000S, 5870K

Potter Trust Vault: 250,000G

Black Trust Vault: 1,000,000

Harry stared at the words in front of him, his mind struggling to process everything. The names, the vaults, the numbers—so much wealth, so much history, and all of it now his, if only he could access it.

Heir Potter for the Ancient and Noble House of Potter.

Heir Black for the Ancient and Noble House of Black.

Heir Peverell for the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell.

The weight of the titles sat heavily on Harry's chest. He’d known he was connected to powerful families, but seeing it all laid out like this felt overwhelming. First generation pure-blood… Harry snorted softly. He had never cared about blood status, but the records didn’t lie.

Vaults.

Harry’s heart skipped as he scanned the vault information. The Potter vault had an insane amount of money. Ten million Galleons? His eyes shifted to the Black vault. Twenty-three million Galleons—more than he’d ever imagined in his wildest dreams. And then there were the trust vaults. The numbers made his head spin, but they all meant something.

His eyes lingered on the trust vaults, his mind immediately going to Sirius. The Black vault belonged to him in some form—via Sirius' will. Harry’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table, a flash of anger at the unfairness of it all. He hadn't even had a chance to be part of the world his godfather had wanted for him before everything was ripped away.

The Peverell connection was an unexpected twist. That name had always been shrouded in legend, stories told in hushed voices. Was that why Voldemort had been so obsessed with him? Not just because of his connection to the Potters, but because he was also tied to the Peverells?

He could barely think, his thoughts tangled as Grimsharp returned, interrupting his mental spiral.

"Seems you weren't lying," Grimsharp said, his voice unwavering. "What exactly do you need, Heir Potter-Peverell-Black?"

"Just Heir Potter is fine."

Grimsharp gave a brief nod. "How can I assist you, Heir Potter?"

Harry took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "I’m from the future."

Grimsharp's gaze didn’t falter, but Harry could tell the goblin's keen senses had gone on high alert. The air around them seemed to thrum with unspoken tension, and Harry was acutely aware that the slightest misstep could lead to everything unraveling.

“I’m... sorry?” Grimsharp’s voice was thick with disbelief, though he managed to keep his tone measured and neutral. “Did you just say you’re from the future?”

“Yes,” Harry said, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. “I was an Unspeakable. My partner, erm... Blaise Zabini, and I were sent on a mission to fix a tear in space-time.”

Grimsharp raised an eyebrow but didn’t immediately dismiss him. Instead, he tilted his head in a gesture that Harry could only interpret as cautious curiosity. “What division were you part of?”

Harry blinked, surprised at how easily Grimsharp seemed to be taking all of this. “The Magic History Division,” he said carefully.

Grimsharp nodded thoughtfully, as though this revelation slotted neatly into place. “Wait here,” he said before swiftly disappearing into another room.

Harry stood there, tense and unsure. His gaze flitted to the door Grimsharp had exited through, debating whether he should be worried about what the goblin might return with. Moments later, Grimsharp reappeared, carrying a thick, ancient-looking book.

Harry’s breath caught in his chest as he recognized it immediately. It was the book—the one where he had signed his name upon his inauguration as an Unspeakable.

Grimsharp set it on the desk and opened it, flipping deliberately through its pages until he reached the P section. He tapped the page with a clawed finger, and there it was: his name, written in his unmistakable, slightly messy signature.

Harry stared at it, his chest tightening. Seeing his own name etched there felt both surreal and grounding.

Grimsharp looked up at him, the faintest trace of intrigue dancing in his sharp eyes. “Well then, Heir Potter. It seems your story holds more truth than most would expect.”

“This has happened before?” Harry couldn’t help but ask, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Grimsharp gave a measured nod, his sharp eyes glinting under the low light. “Every couple of centuries, Lady Magic seems to disapprove of the course events have taken and selects someone to send back—to set things right.”

Harry frowned, his thoughts swirling. “How would you even know if the person was a time traveler? I mean, if they weren’t an Unspeakable like me?” It had been pure luck, he realized, that his Unspeakable status had provided tangible proof. But what about others?

Grimsharp’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. “We would feel the ripples of their changes,” he said simply.

Harry tilted his head, his brow furrowing further. “Ripples?”

The goblin leaned back, his clawed fingers steepled in thought. “When someone alters the past, no matter how small the change, it creates disturbances. Most wizards and witches would remain blissfully unaware, but we goblins—” he gestured to himself with a faint air of pride—“are sensitive to these shifts in magic. The timeline is not as seamless as it might appear. We can feel when reality is... adjusting.”

Harry swallowed, a weight settling in his chest. “And these... adjustments, they’re not always good, are they?”

Grimsharp’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a gravity to his expression now. “Rarely, Heir Potter. Rarely.”

“I have more questions,” Harry said, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind.

Grimsharp gave a slight incline of his head. “Ask away.”

“What are the likelihoods of my partner also coming back with me?”

“Very likely,” Grimsharp replied without hesitation.

“Time magic is seldom precise—it tends to affect those within the same radius or magical field. If your partner was near you when the anomaly occurred, the chances are high.” Harry frowned, mulling over the goblin’s words.

“Can I check the book to confirm?” Grimsharp’s sharp eyes studied him for a moment before he nodded.

“Do you know what district they fell under?” Harry grimaced, the thought of Blaise Zabini stuck in this timeline with him gnawing at his nerves. “They worked with and studied ancient runes, so... most likely the same division as me.”

Grimsharp didn’t respond immediately but flipped open the heavy ledger with practiced ease, his long fingers skimming over the thick parchment. He stopped near the “Z” section and turned the book toward Harry.

“See for yourself.”

Harry’s heart thudded as he scanned the page. Sure enough, there it was: Zabini, Blaise. Written in his partner’s familiar, elegant handwriting. Zabini was here, too. He had to be.

The pieces were starting to fall into place, but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the deeper he went into this, the more complicated things would get.

“Thanks,” Harry said, trying to gather himself. "Can you help me get in contact with him?"

Grimsharp tapped a clawed finger on the page, the parchment rustling faintly under his touch. “That depends. Do you have a way to track him? If your partner was transported into this timeline, it’s possible they’re navigating this era much like you are—likely lost and trying to make sense of it.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “We don’t exactly carry time-travel-safe communication devices,” he muttered. “But Zabini is smart. He’ll find a way to leave a trail.”

The goblin’s sharp eyes gleamed, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “If he’s as resourceful as you claim, he may already be attempting to contact the goblin network. We hold knowledge and information that surpasses what most wizards could ever hope to uncover.”

Harry latched onto the idea. “Can you check? If he’s reached out to any branch of Gringotts, or if he’s tried to access his account—”

Grimsharp held up a hand, silencing him. “I can check, but it will take time. We do not divulge information freely, even to those with Unspeakable credentials. Trust is earned, Heir Potter.”

Harry nodded, biting back his impatience. “What do you need from me?”

“Assurance that your meddling with this timeline will not bring harm to our kind,” Grimsharp said bluntly. “If you disrupt events in a way that endangers goblin interests, you’ll find our aid cut off swiftly.”

Harry frowned. “I don’t want to relive history. While the timeline I came from isn’t the worst it could certainly be better.”

Grimsharp studied him for a long moment before inclining his head. “Very well. Lady Magic sent you back for a reason, it wouldn’t make sense if that reason was to relive history.”

“Is there anything else I could offer you instead?” Harry asked.

Grimsharp’s sharp-toothed grin widened, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk. “You’re skilled, Heir Potter. Even as a child, you possess the knowledge of an Unspeakable, and that knowledge could prove... advantageous for us goblins.”

Harry raised a skeptical brow. “You’re proposing that I work for Gringotts?”

“Precisely,” Grimsharp said smoothly. “You could be a consultant of sorts. Your knowledge of magical history, artifacts, and curses could aid us in numerous ways. Of course, we’d compensate you handsomely for your efforts.”

Harry tilted his head, considering. “What would that entail exactly? Retrieving cursed objects? Breaking into tombs?”

Grimsharp chuckled, a low, gravelly sound. “Occasionally, yes. But more often, identifying magical anomalies, advising on ancient enchantments, and perhaps even unraveling a mystery or two.”

Harry crossed his arms, leaning back slightly. “I’d like to say I’m flattered, but it sounds suspiciously like a way to get me indebted to you.”

Grimsharp’s grin didn’t falter. “A fair observation, Heir Potter. But think of it less as a debt and more as a mutually beneficial arrangement. You need resources and anonymity. We need your expertise. A simple trade.”

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Part-time, as you said. But I’ll need time to get everything else in my life sorted first.”

“Of course,” Grimsharp said, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Take your time. When you’re ready, Gringotts will be waiting.”

Harry nodded, though his gut told him this arrangement might come with more strings attached than he liked. Still, if it helped him avoid repeating the mistakes of his past, it might just be worth it.

“Any other questions, Heir Potter?” Grimsharp asked almost like an afterthought. Harry nodded, “My blood status, I thought I was a Half-Blood?”

“Your mother was one right.” Harry nodded. “It’s probably because of your Godfather.”

Harry blinked, processing Grimsharp’s words. “Wait, hold on. Are you telling me that because Sirius was my godfather and a pure-blood, I’m now considered pure-blood too?”

Grimsharp nodded, his sharp features completely serious. “Precisely. Your parents most likely performed a God-parent ritual. Those kinds of rituals leave a deep magical bond, far older than most wizards today realize. By performing it, Lady Magic acknowledges the godparent as an equal parent to the child. If both recognized parents are pure-bloods, then the child’s status is elevated as well.”

“That’s... bizarre,” Harry muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I always thought blood status was purely about biology.”

Grimsharp gave him an unimpressed look. “Wizards like to simplify things into neat little boxes. Blood status has always been more about magic than biology. A bond like the God-parent ritual carries significant weight in the eyes of Lady Magic.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, the implications sinking in. “So, technically, I’m pure-blooded because of Sirius. But why does that even matter? I mean, it’s not like I’m planning to join pure-blood society.”

“It matters because others will care,” Grimsharp said bluntly. “Your status opens doors, gives you leverage. The magical world is rife with politics and traditions tied to blood. You may not care, but those who do will treat you differently now.”

Harry sighed. “Great. As if my life wasn’t complicated enough.”

Grimsharp smirked. “Complications often come with power, Heir Potter. Best to learn to wield both wisely.”

Harry frowned, filing the information away for later. It wasn’t something he’d expected to deal with, but if it could help him navigate this second chance at life, he’d figure it out. “Anything else, or is that the end of the surprise revelations for today?”

Grimsharp chuckled. “For today, perhaps. But knowing you, Potter, I expect you’ll uncover many more surprises on your own soon enough.”

Harry let out a tired sigh as he closed the door to his rented room at the Leaky Cauldron. The day had been taxing, filled with careful planning and an undercurrent of unease that hadn’t left him since arriving in this timeline. Tomorrow, he’d start tackling the mountain of problems in front of him, but for now, he just wanted to rest.

He was halfway through removing his outer robe when a soft thud at the window made him freeze. His wand was in his hand instantly as he turned toward the sound.

Perched on the windowsill was an owl—a sleek, dark-feathered bird that Harry didn’t recognize. It tilted its head, extending one leg with a neatly tied letter attached.

Harry approached cautiously, casting a series of detection spells on the letter. When the results came back clean, he untied it and unfolded the parchment.

The handwriting was unmistakably elegant, each stroke deliberate and refined. Harry’s brow furrowed as he read the two words written on the page:

Ardenti stella.

His heart skipped a beat. That spell. Zabini’s spell.

A knowing smirk tugged at Harry’s lips. “Well,” he murmured, leaning back against the desk. “I guess that confirms it.”

Chapter Text

BLAISE

Blaise watched in horror as the rift yanked Potter through, swallowing him whole. A bone-chilling dread settled in his chest, his instincts screaming at him to move, to act, but before he could even take a step—

He felt it.

A sharp, unnatural pull on his magic, like invisible hands wrapping around him, dragging him forward with an undeniable force.

His breath hitched.

No—

And then, the world twisted, and the darkness consumed him.

Blaise gasped awake, his magic twisting violently around him, unsettled and raw. His breath came in sharp, uneven pulls as he tried to ground himself— where was he?

The door burst open.

“My Tesoro, are you all right?” His mother swept into the room, her voice tight with worry as she rushed to his bedside. She reached for him, hands warm and familiar as she fussed over him. “I felt your magic reacting abnormally.”

Blaise stared at her, his mind struggling to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. His mother—his too-young mother.

The same mother he had tea with just last week.

“Merda.”

His mother frowned at his language. “Blaise Celeste Zabini, we do not use such improper words in this household,” she chastised, her tone sharp but not unkind. Then, after a pause, she gave him a curious look—no, not at him, at his magic. “Did something happen last night, perchance?”

Blaise sat up, staring at her before slowly looking down at his too-small hands. Damn.

“I think I may have time-traveled.”

Silence.

Then his mother laughed. A light, elegant sound, as if he had just told the most ridiculous joke. “Oh, my sweet child, how do you come up with the most outlandish things?”

Blaise frowned. “I am being serious.”

Her laughter faded as she studied him again—truly looking at him.

“…What year do you hail from?”

“2006.”

She blinked, taken aback. “That would be… fifteen years from now.”

Blaise did the math quickly in his head. “So it’s 1991, then?”

“It is.”

They sat in silence for a moment before his mother finally asked, “And just how exactly did you manage to time travel?”

Blaise let out an amused huff. “Harry Potter, of all people.”

His mother stiffened, alarm flashing across her face. “What exactly does the Boy-Who-Lived have to do with you time-traveling?”

“We are—were?—both Unspeakables,” Blaise corrected himself, frowning slightly at the uncertainty of verb tense. “We were sent on a mission to seal a rift in time. And, well… we both ended up getting sucked into it.”

His mother tapped her fingers against the side table in thought. “Then there’s a strong likelihood the Potter boy is here as well,” she mused, likely just voicing her thoughts aloud.

Blaise nodded, following her reasoning. “He was the first to get pulled in, so he probably isn’t aware I’m here yet.”

His mother hummed thoughtfully, her sharp gaze fixed on him. “It would be wise to get in contact with him.” Then her expression softened. “But for now, you rest and let your magic settle properly.”

Turns out, they didn’t need to track down Potter—he had already taken matters into his own hands. Apparently, the man—now a boy—had gone straight to Gringotts and enlisted the goblins’ help. A decision that, knowing them, undoubtedly came at a price.

Blaise read the contents of the letter from the goblins, and he couldn’t help but be stunned at their sheer audacity.

Dear Heir Zabini,

We hope this letter finds you in good health.

We were informed by Heir Potter that you may have had an unusual experience with time, potentially leading you back to the past. If this is not the case, please discard this letter and its contents. If it is, we can confirm that such occurrences, while rare, are not unheard of. They tend to happen when Lady Magic finds the timeline’s flow… unsatisfactory.

Heir Potter has already reached out to our British branch, explaining both his and your situation. Per his request, we have taken the liberty of locating you.

Of course, this request did not come without a price. As of July 24th, 1991, you are now an official employee of the Goblin Nation. Your contract has been magically sealed, and failure to uphold its terms will result in consequences befitting a breach of goblin law.

Your duties will be determined at a later date, but rest assured, we are fair employers. Compensation will be provided accordingly, though we highly advise you to familiarize yourself with goblin customs and etiquette to avoid... unfortunate misunderstandings.

Welcome to the Goblin Nation, Heir Zabini. We look forward to your service.

Sincerely, Griphook, Senior Account Manager Gringotts Wizarding Bank

Blaise was going to kill Potter the next time he saw him. Slowly. Painfully. Preferably with some kind of magically rune-induced suffering that would make even the goblins wince.

He reread the letter, his eye twitching with every word. An employee of the Goblin Nation? A magically sealed contract? Consequences befitting a breach of goblin law?

Potter was a dead man walking. Or rather, a dead boy walking.

HARRY

Harry stared at the words on the letter.

Ardenti stella.

He could feel the presence of runes hidden within the parchment, their energy faint but unmistakable. He just needed to pinpoint which runes were at work. Running through the ones he knew would help decode the hidden text, his mind settled on the right one.

“Ostende mihi quid sit absconditum,” he murmured, and immediately, he felt the runes on the paper stir in response. The hidden message slowly emerged, revealed by his command.

Dear Heir Potter,

You are a dead man walking.

What in your right mind made you think it was a good idea to make a deal with the goblins? Did you not consider the consequences? Have you gone completely mad, or is this just another one of your brilliant plans? Because let me tell you, it is a masterstroke of idiocy.

I am currently sitting here, reading a letter that informs me I am now under the employment of the Goblin Nation—thanks to you. I sincerely hope you’re proud of yourself. I will remind you that you are not only responsible for dragging me into this absurd situation but for practically ensuring my eternal servitude to the very creatures I’d rather avoid.

I will be holding you responsible for the debt I now owe them. Just so you know.

If you wish to try and explain yourself (though I’m not sure how you could possibly justify this madness), meet me at the Leaky Cauldron tomorrow night.

Don’t bother trying to run. I’ll find you.

Sincerely, Heir Zabini

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at the content of the letter. He could practically hear Zabini’s voice seething with irritation through the words. A dead man walking, huh? He would be lying if he said he didn’t find the threat a little amusing. The goblins were always a gamble, but Harry hadn’t really thought through the consequences of roping Zabini into this mess.

Still, it was his only option at the time, and now he had to face the music.

“Leaky Cauldron, tomorrow night,” he muttered to himself, smirking as he pictured Zabini waiting to either tear him apart or try to kill him—most likely both. Harry wasn’t worried, though. If anyone could talk their way out of a mess, it was him.

“Well, this is going to be interesting.”

BLAISE

Blaise’s patience was wearing thin as he stared at the clock above the bar, the seconds ticking away with an almost mocking rhythm. It wasn’t even like Potter had the decency to be late for a proper reason, either. It wasn’t as if Blaise had asked for something too out of the ordinary. They were both Unspeakables, both from the future, and both now embroiled in a mess that would only get worse. But here he was, waiting in an ancient, creaky pub like some kind of underling, nursing his annoyance in the form of a glass of firewhisky.

The drink burned down his throat, and Blaise fought the urge to glare at the door. He knew Potter had a tendency to show up at the last possible moment, probably with some ridiculous excuse about saving the world or, more likely, trying to avoid the inevitable consequences of his actions. But Blaise wasn’t in the mood for Potter’s usual antics. Not today.

He checked his watch again—still no sign of him. With a final huff, Blaise leaned back in his chair, arms still crossed, and stared at the door like he could will Potter into showing up faster.

Blaise’s eye twitched as Potter casually swiped his drink and took a sip, completely unfazed by the fact that he’d kept Blaise waiting for a small eternity. The boy had changed, but apparently, not enough to pick up on basic social decency.

“You left me waiting for forty minutes because you were shopping?” Blaise repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief. “Really, Potter? I could’ve been doing something productive in that time.”

Potter shrugged nonchalantly, like it was the most natural thing in the world to waltz into a meeting with the heir of the Zabini family while looking as though he’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine. His hair—still messy, but in a ‘look how effortlessly stylish I am’ sort of way—was combed, and his clothes actually fit him this time, not a hand-me-down in sight.

“I needed new clothes,” Potter said, taking another casual sip of Blaise’s firewhisky as if he weren’t sitting across from someone who had every right to hex him for the insolence.

Blaise ground his teeth together, fighting the urge to summon a hex on the spot. "You could’ve at least had the decency to get your own drink."

Potter, still casually sipping Blaise's drink, seemed to sense the shift in the air as Blaise’s posture sagged and the reality of their situation crashed down on him. The boy’s carefree demeanor flickered, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth as he placed the drink back on the table, suddenly more serious.

Blaise hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding everything in until it came rushing out. Fifteen years. Fifteen years of his life had been ripped from him without warning. It wasn’t just the future he’d lost, it was everything he’d built—the stability, the sense of purpose, the life he’d fought so hard to make for himself. His mother was alive... but it wasn’t the same. And now, everything they’d worked for, all the plans, the future, had been completely derailed by a twist of fate—or, in this case, a mishap with time travel. And what had Potter been doing during all of this? Shopping.

Blaise clenched his jaw, trying desperately to keep the anger—and the tears—at bay as his thoughts raced. “I had a life, Potter. I had…” His words faltered, too overwhelmed to finish the thought. He had friends. He had security. But what hurt most was realizing just how much he’d come to depend on a future that no longer existed. He’d carved out a space where he felt at peace, where he belonged. And now, it was gone. Just... gone. All because of this mess with time.

Potter, watching him carefully, didn’t speak for a moment. When he finally did, his voice was quieter, more reflective than usual. "I get it, Zabini. I really do." His gaze softened, and there was something in his eyes that made Blaise pause—an understanding that went beyond the boy’s usual bravado. "But... we can’t go back. We can only try to make the best of it now."

Blaise felt the bitterness creep up his throat. "Make the best of it?" He scoffed, shaking his head. But, despite the anger boiling inside him, he knew Potter was right. There was no other choice. "Fine," he muttered, slumping back in his chair. "So, what’s our first move? You’ve made a deal with the goblins, and now we’re stuck working for them. But what exactly does that mean?"

“Welllll”

Siberia July 28, 1991

The cold was biting, the kind that seeped into your bones and refused to let go. Blaise clenched the heat rune amulet in his hand, bringing it to his lips as he murmured a soft incantation. The warmth flared instantly, spreading through his body, and he let out a quiet sigh of relief.

Turning, he glanced at Potter. The idiot didn’t look cold, but his skin was unnaturally pale, almost sickly in the dim light. Blaise narrowed his eyes before reaching into his robes and fishing out a second heat amulet.

“Why are you so ill-prepared?” he muttered, carefully fastening the amulet around Potter’s neck.

Potter blinked at him, surprised by the unexpected gentleness of the action. “I dunno,” he admitted with a shrug. “I never really felt the cold.”

Blaise frowned. It was barely -78°C—not the worst Siberia had to offer, but still enough to freeze any normal person down to their bones. Yet Potter looked unbothered, as if the cold barely registered. It wasn’t natural.

Still, they had a mission to focus on. Blaise pulled out another rune-etched stone and traced his fingers over it. “Here,” he said, handing it to Potter. “Warning rune. If we trigger any wards or curses, it’ll give us a heads-up.”

Potter hummed in approval, slipping it into his pocket.

They moved forward, the thick layer of snow crunching beneath their boots as they approached the abandoned temple ruins ahead. Blaise was scanning the runes carved into the stone pillars when Potter’s hand suddenly shot out, grabbing his wrist just as he reached for an old, weathered sigil.

“Don't touch that,” Potter said sharply.

Blaise arched a brow. “Excuse me?”

Potter’s gaze was locked on the rune, his usual careless demeanor giving way to something cold and precise. “That’s a blood-warded rune. It won’t activate unless you leave a trace of your magic—or your blood. Touch it, and you’ll regret it.”

Blaise hesitated. He was well-versed in runes, but blood magic? That was an entirely different beast—volatile, unpredictable, and dangerous in ways even seasoned wizards feared. Yet Potter’s certainty was unwavering, and that, more than anything, intrigued him.

“And you’re sure?” Blaise asked, his voice measured.

Potter snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Blaise withdrew his hand, watching as Potter knelt down and pressed his palm against the rune. The air shifted instantly, magic bending and twisting toward him as if recognizing something in his touch. Potter muttered something under his breath, and the rune pulsed once before flickering out, its energy dissipating like smoke in the wind.

Blaise stared. “How did you do that?”

Potter didn’t look up. “I’m good with blood magic.”

The way he said it—casual, matter-of-fact, like it was nothing—only deepened Blaise’s fascination. Blood magic wasn’t something one was simply good at. It required years of study, an intimate understanding of magic’s oldest laws, and a level of precision most wouldn’t dare attempt. And yet, Potter had unraveled a centuries-old blood ward like it was a simple locking charm.

Blaise stepped closer, letting his fingers brush over the rough, ancient stone beside the now-deactivated rune. “Fascinating,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure if he meant the rune or the boy who had just undone it with practiced ease.

Potter ignored the comment, his attention fixed on the markings above the rune. The etchings were faint, worn down by time and the bitter cold, but still visible beneath the frost clinging to the stone.

Өстөөхтөрбүн эттэрин сиэн, миигин уонна мин күндү дьоммун барытын харыстаа.

“Yakut,” Potter muttered.

Blaise raised a brow. "You can read that?"

Potter hummed in confirmation. “It’s a prayer. Roughly translates to ‘Protect me and all my dear ones by devouring the flesh of my enemies.’”

A slow chill crept down Blaise’s spine. “Charming.”

Potter snorted but didn’t look away from the inscription. “This isn’t just a ward. It’s a binding—one that feeds on blood and sacrifice. Whoever carved this didn’t just want protection. They wanted vengeance.” His fingers traced the ancient text with the familiarity of someone reading an old book, not just deciphering it but understanding it.

Blaise tilted his head. “You never struck me as the scholarly type, Potter. Since when did you start dabbling in blood rituals?”

Potter didn’t hesitate. “Since I had to.”

The flat, matter-of-fact way he said it left no room for questioning, but the weight behind the words lingered.

“You realize this is the kind of thing that gets people thrown into Azkaban, right?” Blaise asked, more out of curiosity than concern.

Potter finally looked at him, expression unreadable. “Good thing we’re in Siberia, then.”

Blaise let out an amused laugh. “You are quite a riot, Potter.”

The tension in Potter’s shoulders eased slightly, as if he’d been waiting for judgment that never came. Blaise wasn’t stupid—he knew most wizards would balk at the mere mention of blood magic, let alone someone skilled enough to wield it with ease. But Blaise had never been one to care for conventional morality. Power was power, and Potter had it in spades.

Potter studied him for a moment before finally relaxing. “Glad to know I’m so entertaining,” he muttered.

Blaise smirked, he could feel the excitement building. “I mean, not everyone can casually break blood wards and read ancient Yakut runes. You should consider performing.”

Potter shot him a dry look. “I’ll add it to my list of career options.”

They had reached the heart of the ruins, and the entire place reeked of dark magic. The air was thick with it, clinging to their skin like a second layer, humming just beneath the surface.

Blaise, with his naturally gray core that tended to lean toward the darker end of the spectrum, barely felt the weight of it. It was familiar, almost comforting in a strange way. But Potter—

Blaise glanced at him and immediately knew.

Potter’s entire body was relaxed, his posture loose, completely at ease in the presence of magic that would have most light-aligned Wix recoiling in horror. He wasn’t just unaffected—he was comfortable. Like this wasn’t a place filled with ancient, cursed remnants of a bygone era, but a second home.

Blaise didn’t even need to ask. That alone confirmed it.

Harry Potter was a Dark Wix.

Blaise let out an amused chuckle, drawing Potter’s attention. “Who would have guessed the Boy-Who-Lived is a Dark Wix?”

Potter didn’t even flinch at the accusation. He didn’t try to deny it, didn’t scoff or deflect like Blaise half-expected him to. Instead, he just shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “I doubt I would have defeated Voldemort if I wasn’t.”

Blaise had no response to that—not immediately, at least. He supposed it made sense. Light magic had its strengths, but against someone like the Dark Lord? Against someone who breathed darkness, who was darkness? No, that battle could never have been won with light alone.

Their conversation was cut short as they arrived before what could only be described as an altar. The air here was thicker, the weight of centuries pressing down on them like an unseen force. The stone was blackened, cracked with age, yet the runes etched into its surface still pulsed faintly with power.

Potter exhaled slowly, eyes scanning over the markings with a careful, practiced gaze. “This is it,” he murmured.

Blaise raised a brow. “And what, exactly, is ‘it’?”

Potter didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lifted a hand, running his fingers lightly over one of the symbols. A deep hum resonated through the air, and for a split second, Blaise could have sworn the entire ruin breathed.

Oh.

This was going to be interesting.

Chapter Text

HARRY

Harry studied the official contract laid out in front of him, his fingers tracing over the carefully written terms. As far as deals with the Goblins went, this one wasn’t half bad. In fact, it was better than what he’d expected.

The benefits were clear. Immediate access to centuries of goblin research and resources, and given the nature of goblin magic, that was a treasure trove of invaluable knowledge. Harry's mind swirled with the possibilities—ancient artifacts, forgotten spells, runic knowledge far beyond what he could have ever hoped to study in Hogwarts.

But beyond the research, there was something more significant in the fine print. As employees and citizens of the Goblin Nation, he and Blaise were granted a level of protection that few Wixen could ever dream of. Goblin law was its own entity, operating entirely separate from the Ministry’s jurisdiction. That meant they weren’t bound by the Ministry’s rules or regulations—at least not directly. As long as they didn’t break any specific goblin laws, they were essentially untouchable.

For someone like Harry, who had always been targeted, it was a remarkable safeguard. With that level of security, no one could touch them. No Ministry, no rogue Death Eater, no one who had once sought to ruin his life.

He let out a small breath, the weight of the deal settling into his chest. In a world of constant danger and ever-shifting alliances, this was one of the few times he'd felt like he was actually coming out ahead.

“Not bad,” he muttered to himself, setting the parchment down and signing it with a flourish.

The Goblins had their claws in his life now, but as far as Harry could see, it was a trade worth making. After all, what were a few more strings to pull when the whole of fate seemed to be a tangled mess anyway?

He tucked the copy of the contract away and stood up, preparing to leave the bank. He didn’t need to linger any longer. The deal was made.

Now, all that was left was to figure out how the hell he was going to fix the mess he'd found himself in with Zabini.

CARLOTTA

Carlotta Lavinia Zabini was a woman who prided herself on being adaptable. She could handle almost anything life threw at her, always finding a way to make the most of any situation and come out on top. She had built her life on that very principle, and it had served her well.

So when her beloved son had casually dropped the bombshell that he had time-traveled, fifteen years to the pass no less, she was, understandably, taken aback. At first, she thought he was joking—Blaise had a sharp wit and a penchant for pranks, after all. But the more she looked at him, the more she noticed something was off. His magic, for one, was like nothing she’d ever felt before. It wasn’t the magic of a child—it was the power of an adult with a fully formed core, deep and steady, humming with energy.

Her skepticism started to chip away, though she held onto a shred of doubt. That was until the owl arrived.

It wasn’t just any owl, either. The letter it carried was embossed with the unmistakable seal of the Goblin Nation, and as soon as she tore open the parchment, the truth hit her full force. The goblins had already been briefed on Blaise’s situation, confirming what he had said, and more importantly, offering their assistance in navigating the bizarre time paradox they found themselves in.

Carlotta’s mind whirred as she processed the information. Time travel. Goblins. Her son, wrapped up in something far bigger than she had ever imagined. She was used to things being complicated, but this was something entirely different.

Her fingers gripped the letter, her pulse quickening as she read the goblins’ offer of assistance and their stipulations. Employees and Citizens of the Goblin Nation, it stated. Bound by goblin law. That was the price. But it also meant that Blaise and his strange predicament now had the backing of one of the most powerful forces in the magical world.

“Morgana help me,” she muttered, her mind spinning with possibilities. It was a mess, sure, but it was also an opportunity—one that she wasn’t about to let slip through her fingers.

She set the letter down and met Blaise’s gaze. “Well, it seems you were telling the truth,” she said coolly, though the wheels in her mind were turning fast. “But this doesn’t change anything. We’ll just have to make sure we handle it... delicately.”

Blaise gave her a sharp nod. “We need to contact Potter immediately.”

A glint flashed in Carlotta’s eyes. “Pen him a letter. Demand a meeting, and get a copy of that contract. I won’t have us blind in this situation. We’re not just going to survive this, Blaise. We’re going to thrive.” Her voice lowered slightly, and a dangerous smile curled at the edges of her lips. “And anyone who thinks they can stand in our way... they’ll regret it.”

Blaise met her gaze, feeling the resolve settle in his chest. For better or worse, they were in this together now. And if anyone was going to come out on top in this mess, it would be them.

HARRY

“Well, I have the contract here with me, so you can just read through it yourself,” Harry said casually, pulling the letter out from nowhere.

Zabini’s gaze sharpened instantly, his posture shifting as if he were a predator honing in on prey. He sat up straighter and snatched the contract from Harry’s hand, his attention laser-focused. Harry, ever the curious one, continued sipping his Firewhisky, waiting for Zabini’s reaction.

“Just how did you manage to convince the staff to get you Firewhisky?” Harry asked after a few moments, his voice light but tinged with genuine curiosity. They both looked eleven—well, Harry certainly looked younger; malnourishment had that effect—but Zabini had somehow wrangled an adult beverage.

Zabini didn’t even glance up from the contract as he replied. “What, like it’s difficult?” His tone was dripping with sarcasm as he rolled his eyes. “Sorry, Your Royal Highness, us common folk can't comprehend your great skills,” Harry replied back sarcastically.

Zabini snorted, but Harry caught the amusement flickering in his eyes. Zabini finished reading the contract, and Harry noted the subtle shift in his demeanor—a slight relaxation, as if the worst of it had passed.

“You don’t call it Firewhisky when you buy it,” Zabini stated, “Call it ‘Phoenix's Flame’ instead. They hand it over with zero questions asked.” He murmured a quick Copy Charm, transcribing the contract in a blur of motion.

Harry raised an eyebrow, impressed. There was no question Zabini knew how to play the game.

“Good to know,” he murmured, making a mental note.

Zabini sighed, letting his shoulders drop as he leaned back in the booth. “Good news: You didn’t sell our souls to the Goblins. They’re greedy bastards, but they’re not that bad.”

Harry relaxed a little at that, but his curiosity was far from sated. “And the bad news?”

Zabini’s face grew more serious, and he tapped the edge of the contract with a thoughtful finger. “The types of missions we’ll be sent on are too vague. No real details. We could be sent anywhere to do anything—and for who knows how long.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, and he leaned in slightly. “That’s... concerning.”

Zabini nodded. “Concerning, indeed. But we don’t have much of a choice now, do we?”

Harry took another sip of Firewhisky, shrugging, there was no point crying over spilt milk.

Three days after wrapping up their discussion, they received a summons from Gringotts. Their first mission was officially underway. There was no fanfare, no dramatic build up—just a curt message instructing them to report to the bank, where the goblins would brief them on their assignment.

By the time they arrived, the weight of their situation had fully settled in. This wasn’t just some contract they could conveniently forget about. They were now employees of the Goblin Nation, bound by magical agreement, and whatever task awaited them was not going to be simple.

Standing in the grand halls of Gringotts, Harry shot Zabini a sideways glance. “Last chance to run.”

Zabini snorted, adjusting his coat. “Too late for that, Potter. Let’s get this over with.”

They arrived at Griphook’s office and were quickly led to take a seat.

Griphook clasped his hands together, eyeing them both with a sharp-toothed grin. “Now, before we proceed, let me remind you—your contracts are magically binding. There’s no walking away from this arrangement unless you fancy finding out what happens to oath-breakers.”

Harry barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, yes, eternal servitude, curse of misfortune, financial ruin—got it.”

Zabini shot him a look but didn’t comment, instead focusing on the contract that had reappeared before him.

Griphook chuckled, clearly amused. “Good, you’re learning.” He tapped a clawed finger on the parchment. “As of July 25th, you are not only employees of Gringotts but also official citizens of the Goblin Nation. This comes with benefits—access to restricted knowledge, exclusive trade deals, and, most importantly, the full force of our legal team.”

Zabini hummed, tapping the edge of his contract. “And just to clarify, since we’re now under Goblin jurisdiction, Wizarding laws no longer apply to us?”

Griphook’s grin widened. “Exactly. The only laws you follow are those of the Goblin Nation. The Ministry has no authority over you anymore.”

Harry raised a brow. “So if we commit a crime in Wizarding Britain—hypothetically speaking, of course—”

Griphook waved a dismissive hand. “Then it’s a diplomatic issue, not a legal one.”

Zabini let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s… convenient.”

Harry smirked. “I do love a good loophole.”

Griphook chuckled darkly. “Oh, you’ll find Goblin law is full of them—if you’re clever enough to use them to your advantage. Now, let’s get to the real reason you’re here—your mission.” He pulled out a sealed scroll, the wax stamped with an unfamiliar crest. “Your first task will take you far from London.”

Harry and Zabini exchanged a glance.

“Welcome to Goblin Nation, boys.”

BLAISE

The ruins around them stirred, as if awakening from centuries of slumber. Magic seeped into the air, thick and cloying, pressing against their skin like an unseen force. Blaise instinctively moved closer to Potter, his senses on high alert. The sheer weight of the energy in the room made his stomach twist, but Potter—of course—seemed utterly unfazed.

Then, without warning, Potter grabbed his hand.

Blaise tensed, his eyes snapping to the other boy in shock, but before he could pull away, a wave of magic washed over him. It was dark—incredibly dark—but not in the way he had expected. It wasn’t oppressive or suffocating. Instead, it was steady, grounding, comforting in its own strange way, like standing in the eye of a storm while chaos raged around them.

“The magic here is toxic,” Potter murmured, his grip tightening around Blaise’s hand. “Don’t let go.”

Blaise exhaled, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “That makes sense,” he admitted. He had sensed something was off the moment they stepped inside, but the magic was far too ancient, too layered, for him to pinpoint its nature. Now, though, with Potter’s magic acting as a shield, he could finally breathe.

Still, the way Potter wielded his power so naturally—so effortlessly—made something in Blaise stir. Just what the hell have you been through, Potter?

Before Blaise could voice any of the questions swirling in his mind, a low grinding noise echoed through the ruins. Stone shifted, dust spilling from the walls as a passageway to their left creaked open. At the same time, the door they had entered through slammed shut with a resounding thud.

Blaise stared at it for a beat, then turned to Potter. “Well, that’s not ominous.”

Potter snorted, entirely unfazed. “Could be worse.”

Blaise raised a brow. “How, exactly?”

Potter started forward, tugging Blaise along. “If the floor caves in, then you can start panicking. Until then—” he nodded toward the passageway— “let’s just get this over with.”

Potter moved through the ruins with a confidence that made it seem like he had walked these halls a thousand times before. He barely hesitated, his steps sure, his grip firm but steady.

Something clicked in Blaise’s mind.

“You’ve been here before,” he said, watching the way Potter’s eyes flicked over the crumbling stone, reading the carvings as if they were second nature. “In our original timeline.”

Potter didn’t stop walking. If anything, he picked up the pace. “Something like that.”

Blaise narrowed his eyes. “Care to elaborate?”

Potter let out a short, humorless chuckle. “Not particularly.”

That, more than anything, confirmed it. Blaise wasn’t sure which was more unsettling—the fact that Potter had apparently been to an ancient ruin in Siberia before, or the fact that he had no intention of explaining why.

"Alright then, but at least tell me what artifact we’re looking for," Blaise said, his voice firm. "We—well, I—don’t know much about it. The goblins were too vague about what it actually does. And before you try and dodge the question, I have the right to know. This could be life or death, Potter."

His grip on Potter’s hand tightened slightly, more out of frustration than fear. He wasn’t about to walk blindly into danger without knowing why.

Potter sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "Fine. The artifact we’re looking for is called Туолуу."

"I know that, it was in the report," Blaise interrupted smoothly.

Potter shot him a glare, and Blaise bit back a smirk. Riling Potter up was far too entertaining. His Avada green eyes practically glowed behind the frames of his glasses, an eerie contrast to the dim ruins around them.

"I know that," Potter repeated through gritted teeth. "Let me finish. The name roughly translates to Fulfillment. It’s an amulet, and when you wear it, it’s supposed to grant the wearer’s deepest desire."

Blaise’s amusement faded as his brow furrowed. What could Potter possibly desire enough to go searching for something like that?

"Of course," Potter continued, his voice dropping slightly, "it comes at a cost. The amulet works like a parasite. Once worn, it leeches off the user’s magic. And once the magic is gone…" His gaze flickered toward Blaise, unreadable. "It starts feeding on their soul."

Blaise stiffened. He wasn’t fond of soul magic—it was too finicky, too unpredictable. And messing with death? That always came with a price. One far steeper than most were willing to pay.

"Why would the goblins even want an artifact like that?" Blaise asked, frowning.

Potter shrugged. "Greed, maybe. But it’s not really our business. All we’re required to do is hand it over and move on with our lives."

Blaise hummed in reluctant agreement. He didn’t like it, but they had little choice.

They stopped in front of a wall, its surface smooth yet brimming with dormant magic. Potter studied Blaise for a moment before speaking. "You’re good with Celestial runes, correct?"

Blaise snorted. "Good is one way to put it."

Potter rolled his eyes. "There’s a rune on this wall that leads to a shortcut—one that should take us directly to the treasure room. I couldn’t use it in our first timeline because I don’t know much about Celestial runes, so I had to take the long way around."

Blaise turned his gaze to the wall, studying the faint traces of magic woven into its structure. Celestial runes were notoriously difficult to decipher—one needed not only the bloodline but also the sense to perceive them as they truly were.

The Zabini family came from a long lineage of Celestial-based Wixen, granting them an innate understanding of celestial bodies and their magical influences. More importantly, they possessed an acute sense of magical comprehension. It was why Blaise could feel magic so much better than Potter could.

Potter might be powerful, but when it came to sensing and interpreting the language of magic, Blaise had the advantage.

“O astra me ab inimicis occultant!”

Blaise whispered out the incantation on the wall under his breath, feeling the pulse of magic vibrate beneath his fingertips. The words flowed with the weight of ancient knowledge, his family’s bloodline resonating with the power embedded in the runes.

"Inimicus tuus non sum, ostende te," Blaise murmured, his voice low but firm. He pressed his hand into the runes, channeling his magic into the ancient symbols. For a brief moment, the world around him seemed to hold its breath.

Then, with a soft, shimmering sigh, the wall disintegrated like stardust scattering into the air, revealing the hidden treasure room beyond.

Potter let out a low whistle, his eyes widening at the sight of the cavernous space. "Neat. Now, come on."

The room before them was bathed in an eerie glow, the treasures piled high and glistening with the promise of wealth and power. Gold, jewels, and artifacts of all shapes and sizes shimmered like stars in the distance, untouched by time and waiting to be claimed.

Blaise took a step inside, his gaze scanning the riches. But something gnawed at him, a quiet unease that lingered even as he admired the spoils of a long-forgotten age.

Potter's voice was low but insistent as he led them through the labyrinth of treasures. "Take absolutely nothing from this room. It’ll show you the kinds of treasures you might desire, as a way to trick you. But the moment you try to take anything, the magic in this room will lash out at you. It'll punish you for your greed."

Blaise’s eyes darted over the treasures, each one more tempting than the last. Ancient tomes that hummed with the knowledge of lost ages, rune books covered in dust but rich with secrets... His fingers twitched with the urge to touch them, to delve into the arcane mysteries they promised.

But Potter’s warning echoed in his mind, keeping his hands in check. He knew better than to let greed cloud his judgment.

He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the objects that seemed to call to him, drawing him in with their silent allure. “Oh, this is cruel,” Blaise muttered, the frustration of seeing such knowledge, such power, so close but just out of reach.

Potter’s face remained impassive, but his grip on Blaise's wrist tightened slightly, a silent reminder to stay focused. “The people of old aren’t idiots, Zabini. They know how to trap you with temptation. Best we don’t fall for it.”

Blaise exhaled slowly, his eyes flicking back to the glowing tomes. "It’s not about falling for it. It’s... just difficult not to want what’s right there."

Potter gave a dry chuckle. “Welcome to the world of treasure hunting. Resisting temptation is half the battle.”

The deeper they moved into the room, the more Blaise could feel the weight of the magic pressing against them, pulling at his very core. The air felt thicker here, charged with something dangerous. The allure of the knowledge around him began to feel more like a threat than a promise.

As they neared the center of the room, Blaise’s breath caught in his throat. There it was, the artifact they had come for—Туолуу.

It was a jewel like no other, resting upon a pedestal that seemed to defy gravity, floating ever so slightly above the stone. The jewel shimmered with an otherworldly glow, a cascade of stars flickering within its depths, as if the very night sky had been captured and imprisoned inside. Its beauty was hypnotic, drawing Blaise in with an almost magnetic pull. He could feel the magic in the room shift around it, an oppressive weight that hummed with promise and danger in equal measure.

Potter’s voice cut through his trance. “That’s it,” he said, his tone steady but laced with caution. “The Туолуу. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Blaise nodded, his eyes locked on the jewel. It was stunning, but he could feel the ancient power radiating from it. The air around it practically crackled with energy, and Blaise could sense that, much like the room itself, this artifact was a test. A temptation. Something that would push them to their limits.

He stepped closer, drawn by the beauty of the stone, but something nagged at the back of his mind—Potter’s warning, the reminder that taking anything from this room would come with consequences. His fingers twitched, but he didn’t dare reach for it.

“How are we supposed to grab it without triggering the magic?” Blaise asked, his voice low, wary.

Potter didn’t answer immediately, his eyes flicking around the room, taking in every angle. "There’s a trick to it," he said finally, his gaze never leaving the jewel. "The moment you touch it... it’s like the magic in this room becomes a living thing. But the right kind of touch—careful, calculated—it won’t trigger the curse."

Blaise could see the glint of determination in Potter's eyes, and he nodded, gathering his own resolve. They couldn’t afford to fail now. Туолуу was too dangerous, and the stakes were higher than ever.

Blaise pulled out the Portkey the Goblins had given them, “You have the most experience with the artifact, you grab it and I’ll Portkey us out of here.”

Potter eyed the Portkey in Blaise’s hand, his expression unreadable for a moment before he gave a slight nod. “Alright, but be ready. Once it’s in my hand, this room will stop at nothing to kill us. Keep your focus.”

Blaise gave him a sharp look, his grip tightening on the Portkey. “I’m not planning on leaving without you, Potter. Just grab the damn thing.”

Potter didn’t respond immediately, his gaze once again drawn to Туолуу, the jewel seeming to pulse with an almost sinister life. He took a deep breath, steadying himself before moving towards the pedestal, every step measured, cautious. Blaise felt the tension building between them, the air thick with the anticipation of what was to come.

Potter reached out with careful fingers, hovering just inches above the artifact. The glow of the jewel intensified, as though sensing Potter’s touch. Blaise’s heart pounded in his chest, both from the nearness of the object and the unnatural pull in the air.

Then, with a soft click, Potter’s hand closed around the artifact, and the room around them seemed to shudder. The air thickened, the walls pulsing with a force that felt like it was trying to lash out at them back.

“Now!” Potter barked, his voice urgent.

Blaise yanked the Portkey, and the moment the magic took hold, the world around them tilted, the weight of the artifact and their still-locked hands pulling them into the swirling void. The treasure room, the oppressive magic, and the glowing jewel melted into nothingness.

As the disorienting sensation of Portkey travel swirled around them, Blaise didn’t let go of Potter’s hand, even as their surroundings blurred and shifted. The pressure of the magic felt heavier now, like a bond that tied them together, and despite the rush of motion, Blaise felt an odd sense of comfort, knowing Potter was just as close as he had been moments before.

They landed back in Gringott, stumbling into a private room reserved for Portkey arrivals. Both of them hit the ground with a dull thud, the breath knocked out of them from the abrupt landing. For a moment, silence hung thick in the air, the disorienting aftereffects of the Portkey still swirling in their minds.

Then, Blaise broke the quiet, a laugh bubbling up from deep within him. Potter followed a moment later, his own chuckle infecting the room.

“Oh sweet Merlin, that was exhilarating,” Blaise said, his grin wide as he turned to face Potter, who was still chuckling.

“So much better than the last time I went there, that’s for sure,” Potter managed to get out between laughs. He turned to face Blaise, their eyes meeting in a way that felt entirely different than before. All the old barriers, judgments, and assumptions, had long since faded.

They shared a quiet moment, just the two of them, staring at each other for a beat longer than necessary.

Potter’s smile softened, a genuine warmth creeping into his eyes. “Hadrian,” he said, his voice steady.

“Huh?” Blaise blinked, caught off guard by the shift.

“My first name is Hadrian,” Potter—no, Hadrian—repeated, his tone almost casual, but there was something more personal in the way he said it. “You can call me that instead of Potter.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, his grin still lingering. “Well then,” he said, meeting Hadrian’s eyes, “my name is Blaise. You can call me that from now on as well.”

The words hung between them, a subtle but significant shift in their dynamic. They were no longer just a pair of mercenaries tied together by contract—they were people, with names, and something unspoken that had passed between them.

Chapter Text

LOST FUTURE

HARRY

Empty.

Harry felt so empty.

That emptiness had started creeping in not long after he’d graduated from Hogwarts. At first, it had been subtle—a quiet hollowness that he could ignore if he kept himself busy. But as the years passed, it only grew, gnawing at him, settling into his bones.

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t just a feeling—his magic was weakening.

Once upon a time, he’d cast wordless spells with ease, barely a flick of intent needed to shape the magic. Now? He couldn’t even manage a simple Lumos without speaking the incantation aloud. The decline had been gradual, but undeniable.

Of course, he’d gone to Ollivander’s, thinking that maybe—hopefully—the issue lay with his wand. But the verdict had been clear. The wand was fine. The problem wasn’t with the wood or the core—it was with him.

More specifically, his magical core.

Harry clenched his jaw as he tried again.

“Lumos.”

A weak spark flickered at the tip of his wand before fading into nothing. His grip tightened around the wood, frustration curling in his gut like a restless beast. He could feel the magic inside him—it was still there, still his—but it was fragmented, slipping through his grasp like sand through his fingers.

This wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn’t something a few days of rest would fix. Something inside him was wrong.

He let out a slow breath and placed his wand on the worn wooden desk in front of him. The room was dim, lit only by the eerie blue glow of enchanted candles, their flames unnaturally still. Stacks of books surrounded him, some bound in cracked leather, others barely held together by fragile, ancient bindings. He had spent months searching for answers—pouring through medical texts, core theory, magical diagnostics—but nothing explained why his magic was failing.

He hadn’t wanted to consider it. He had spent years ignoring what the Horcrux inside him had truly meant. It had been Voldemort’s, not his. It had never belonged to him. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized—he had lived with it for nearly seventeen years. His body had adjusted to it, his magic had adapted around it.

A parasite.

Horcruxes weren’t just soul magic. They were magical constructs, feeding off ambient energy to sustain themselves. And Harry had been carrying one since infancy. It had been leeching off him for years, taking what it needed while his core adjusted, reshaping itself around the void it left behind. And then—

It had been ripped away.

Harry swallowed, pressing a hand to his chest as if that could ground him. His magic had spent years supporting something that no longer existed, and now, instead of bouncing back, it was unraveling. The hole was still there. A festering wound in his core, spreading further with each passing day.

He exhaled sharply and reached for the nearest book. It wasn’t a comforting tome from the Hogwarts library, nor a standard magical theory text. No, this one was darker—written in the curling, spidery script of a long-forgotten scholar. Blood magic. Runes. Ancient arts that weren’t just about wielding magic, but about reshaping it.

If traditional healing hadn’t worked, if time hadn’t worked, then he would have to take another route. His magic was part of him—his very essence. If there was a hole in his core, he would rebuild it, stitch it back together with whatever means necessary.

Dark magic had always come easily to him. He had never admitted it, never dared to say it out loud, but he had felt it. The way Parseltongue slithered effortlessly from his tongue, the way certain spells felt more natural in his hands than they should have.

Perhaps that was the only reason he was still standing now.

A soft gust of wind flickered the candlelight, sending shadows sprawling across the walls. Harry traced his fingers over the runes inked into the parchment, old magic humming beneath his skin.

There was no turning back. Not if he wanted to survive.

And Harry James Potter had never been one to just lay down and die.

PRESENT

HARRY

The mission had been super simple. It was a consultant mission where they had to explain some ancient rune to one of the Goblins' partners. They had been able to finish it in record time and now they were in the middle of London, because for whatever reason that’s where the person wanted to meet, with nothing better to do.

“Well, that was boring.” Harry sighed, scratching the back of his head.

“Tell me about it.” Blaise rolled his eyes. “I cleared out my whole day to make sure nothing would interfere with the mission, and now I have nothing better to do.” He crossed his arms, clearly irritated by the wasted time.

Harry was about to respond when he noticed a cinema down the street from where they were. One of the movies playing was The Karate Kid. A brilliant idea formed in his mind.

“Well, since you have nothing better to do, want to watch Karate Kid?”

Blaise looked at him, utterly confused. “What on Earth is Karate Kid?”

Harry let out a scandalized gasp, clutching his chest as if Blaise had just personally insulted his ancestors. “You uncultured swine!”

Blaise flinched at Harry’s dramatic outburst. “What—”

“How could you not know about the illustrious Karate Kid?” Harry grabbed Blaise by the shoulders and shook him slightly, eyes wide with disbelief. “This is a crime. An actual crime. I can’t associate with someone who hasn’t experienced the glory of Karate Kid.”

Blaise gave him an unimpressed look. “You do realize I wasn’t raised by Muggles, right?”

Harry huffed. “That’s not an excuse. This is basic culture.” He pointed dramatically toward the cinema. “We’re fixing this. Now.”

Blaise sighed but relented. “Fine, but you’re buying me snacks.”

Harry grinned, already dragging Blaise toward the theater. “Deal. But I swear if you don’t appreciate the genius of Mr. Miyagi, we’re dueling in the back alley.”

Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re uncultured. I’d say we’re even.”

Blaise rolled his eyes but followed Harry inside. If nothing else, at least his day wouldn’t be boring anymore.

Hogwarts started in two weeks. Harry wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

On one hand, it would be nice to see the castle back in its former glory—the damage from the war erased, the halls no longer filled with the weight of grief and bloodshed. But on the other hand, was he ready to go back?

Hogwarts had been home once. A sanctuary, a place where he found friendship, magic, purpose. But now… now it was just a place filled with memories, both good and bad, tangled together in a way that made his chest feel tight. The Great Hall where he had laughed with his friends was also the place where bodies had been laid out after the battle. The corridors he had once raced through as a child, carefree and full of wonder, had become the same pathways he had stalked through, wand clenched in his fist, waiting for another fight.

He wasn’t the same boy who had walked those halls, and he wasn’t sure if the castle would feel the same either.

Would it still welcome him the way it once had? Would the warmth of its magic still settle around him like a comforting embrace? Or would it feel foreign—like stepping into an old house that no longer smelled like home?

The thought made something uneasy twist in his stomach.

“You’re brooding.”

Harry blinked, pulled from his thoughts as Blaise sat across from him, studying him with a sharp, knowing gaze. He hadn’t even realized he’d been staring blankly into his drink.

“Just thinking,” Harry muttered, swirling the liquid in his glass.

“Dangerous habit,” Blaise said dryly, but his expression softened. “Hogwarts, huh?”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “That obvious?”

“You’ve got the ‘staring into the abyss’ look down to an art.” Blaise leaned back. “So? Are you excited?”

Harry exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. It’s weird. It used to be home, but now…” He struggled for the words, frowning. “It’s like… I’m going back to something that doesn’t belong to me anymore.”

Blaise was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “Places don’t change. We do.”

Harry glanced at him, startled by how simple yet profound that statement was.

Blaise took a sip of his drink before continuing. “The Hogwarts you remember doesn’t exist anymore. Not because it’s different, but because you are.” He tilted his head. “Maybe you don’t need it to be home anymore.”

The words settled over Harry like a weight he wasn’t sure if he was ready to carry.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he wasn’t searching for the Hogwarts he once knew—maybe he was just afraid of what it meant if he had outgrown it.

And maybe… that was okay.

“Would you like to join me for school shopping on Saturday?”

Harry snapped out of his musing at the sound of Blaise’s voice. He blinked, taking a moment to register the question.

“Yeah, sure. I haven’t bought anything yet,” he said, shrugging casually before downing the rest of his drink.

Blaise hummed in approval but then hesitated for a beat, tapping his fingers idly against the table. “I hope you don’t mind, but… my mother insisted on coming. She wants to meet you.”

Harry froze mid-motion, lowering his glass. “Your mother?”

“Yes, my mother,” Blaise drawled, watching him with amusement. “She’s rather… curious about you.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “That’s not ominous at all.”

Blaise smirked. “Oh, it absolutely is.”

Harry groaned, already regretting agreeing. “Brilliant. Can’t wait.”

Let it be known that Harry, well, Hadrian, James Potter wasn’t a coward. He wasn’t. But the dark-skinned woman sitting in front of him intimidated him more than he’d like to admit. Her sharp, calculating gaze felt like it could strip him bare, dissect his every move, every breath. And yet, she didn’t even have to speak to make him feel the weight of her presence.

He turned to look at Blaise, silently begging for some kind of support, but the bloody traitor was too busy trying not to laugh at Harry’s misery. Harry could see the amusement dancing in Blaise’s eyes, the barely contained smirk tugging at his lips. The nerve.

“Thanks for the backup, Blaise,” Harry muttered under his breath, but Blaise only raised an eyebrow, as if to say, You’re on your own, mate.

Squaring his shoulders, Harry finally turned to meet the woman’s scrutinizing gaze head-on. No backing down. He wasn’t some frightened child anymore. “Well meet Lady Zabini.”

“Well meet Heir Potter,” Lady Zabini replied, her voice smooth as silk, yet with an underlying sharpness that sliced through the air. It was the kind of voice that made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand at attention. He could feel her sizing him up, but unlike most people who tried to do so subtly, she made it so clear that it left him with no illusions.

Harry straightened a little more, trying to regain some composure. She was, undeniably, an imposing figure, and that only made her more intriguing. He knew power when he saw it, and Lady Zabini exuded it effortlessly—like a queen who didn’t need a crown to make her presence felt.

“I must say,” she continued, her lips curling into a slight, unreadable smile, “you are not what I expected.”

Harry’s smile was tight but forced. “I get that a lot.”

She raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across her face. “Do you?”

“I do.” He could almost hear Blaise snickering besides his mother. Bastard.

Lady Zabini hummed thoughtfully, her fingers delicately tracing the rim of her teacup before bringing it to her lips for a slow, deliberate sip. The action seemed trivial at first glance, but Harry knew it was a calculated moment—an expression of poise that said she controlled every space she entered, down to the smallest detail. She set the cup back down with a soft clink, her gaze never leaving his.

“I imagine you do,” she said quietly, the words carrying a weight that made Harry feel as if he were being dissected without her lifting a finger.

Harry shot another glance at Blaise, praying that the boy would do something—anything—to break the tension. But Blaise only gave him that damn infuriating look, like he was watching a particularly amusing spectacle. As if Harry were the punchline to some joke he wasn’t in on.

The silence stretched on, each second feeling like an eternity as Harry did his best not to squirm under Lady Zabini’s steady, appraising gaze. He fought to keep his composure, pretending he wasn’t completely out of his depth. But everything about her presence made his throat feel tight, like she could unravel him with just one more carefully chosen word. Every glance she gave him seemed to strip away his defenses, leaving him exposed.

And just as he thought the silence might swallow him whole, Lady Zabini broke it with a soft, lilting chuckle. The sound was rich and elegant, like a bell ringing in the quiet of a cathedral, but there was an edge to it—an amusement that took the air out of Harry’s lungs.

“It seems you were right, dear,” she said, her voice warm yet playful. “He’s quite amusing to tease.”

The words, though light, held an undeniable satisfaction, as if she'd found some small victory in his discomfort. Harry couldn’t help but feel the burn creeping up his neck. Of course, she had known he’d struggle with this. It was all part of the game, wasn’t it? She had the upper hand, and she wasn’t afraid to let him know.

Trying to brush off the heat in his cheeks, Harry forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. It was maddening, how easily she could put him on edge. He cleared his throat, attempting to gather his wits.

But then, as if to show that she was pleased with the situation, she tilted her head slightly, her gaze softening just enough to offer a sense of grace—of approval. “I suppose proper introductions are in order,” she continued, her voice a soothing balm after the tension had nearly suffocated him.

The weight that had settled on his chest seemed to lighten, and Harry exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It was like a door had been opened, though whether that meant he’d passed some invisible test or simply been allowed to breathe again, he wasn’t entirely sure.

“My name is Carlotta Lavinia Zabini,” she said, drawing out each syllable of her full name with a kind of regal dignity, “but you can call me Carlotta.” She smiled, a small but knowing curve of her lips. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Heir Potter.”

The warmth in her voice was real, but Harry couldn't shake the feeling that she’d just marked this moment with something else—something subtle, but sharp, as if she had already decided what kind of impression he would leave. Still, for all the mystery swirling around her, there was a certain level of charm in the way she carried herself. He had to admit, Carlotta Zabini wasn’t the kind of person you easily forgot.

Finally, Harry found his voice. “The pleasure’s mine, Carlotta,” he said, matching her formal tone but adding just enough of a tilt to his head to show he wasn’t entirely bowing to the situation.

Blaise, who had been largely silent during this exchange, raised an eyebrow and finally allowed himself a small smirk. "He’s not as hopeless as I thought."

Harry shot him a look that could have melted stone. "Not funny."

Carlotta’s eyes twinkled with amusement at the exchange between the two young boys. “Ah, it seems I have my work cut out for me, don’t I?”

Carlotta seemed to know her way around the Alley, effortlessly weaving through the crowds as if she had navigated every inch of Diagon Alley a hundred times before. She led them past the usual spots—the bustling shops filled with exotic wares and shiny trinkets—and then they came to a stop in front of Twilfitt and Tattings.

Harry glanced up at the sign, noting the immaculate window displays showcasing the finest robes, all made with the kind of precision and care that seemed reserved for the most elite clientele. The crisp lines and rich fabrics of the garments seemed to mock his own humble attire, and he couldn't help but feel a little out of place.

“Let me treat you to some proper attire,” Carlotta said, her voice lilting as she turned to give both of them a knowing smile. The words were warm, almost maternal, but there was a teasing edge to them that made it clear she was enjoying this little excursion.

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” He gestured at his own outfit—a decent set of clothes, well-worn but not shabby. They weren’t the fanciest, but they had served him well enough. After all, he’d long since gotten rid of the hand-me-downs the Dursleys had forced him to wear, and he’d rather liked the clothes he’d bought for himself. They weren’t about labels or status—just comfortable and functional.

Carlotta’s smile never faltered, though her eyes softened as she caught the slight defensiveness in his tone. “Nothing at all, Hadrian,” she said with a small laugh, her eyes twinkling as if she could see through him in an instant. “But you could use a bit of refinement. A proper wardrobe, something that matches your status.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but she didn’t give him the chance to argue. Instead, she raised one elegant hand, a gesture that made her seem even more like a queen than a mere woman, and with an almost imperceptible tilt of her head, she added, “And you’ll find the right things here.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond. He knew she wasn’t wrong—he could use a bit of an upgrade. But he wasn’t about to admit that out loud.

Blaise, who had been quietly observing the back-and-forth, finally spoke up, his voice light and unbothered, a flicker of a grin dancing on his lips. “She means no offense, Hadrian,” he said, shrugging casually. “It’s her way of showing affection.”

Harry shot Blaise a skeptical look, his eyebrows drawn together. “Affection?” he echoed dryly, trying to wrap his head around the idea that someone could show affection through forced shopping trips and teasing.

Blaise’s grin widened at Harry’s response. “Think of it as a gift,” he continued, the playful gleam in his eyes undeniable. “A bit of a challenge for you, but a gift nonetheless.”

Carlotta raised an eyebrow at Blaise’s teasing tone, and though she didn’t seem offended, she did offer him a sharp, amused glance. "A challenge?" she mused, her lips curling into a smirk. "Oh, I do enjoy a good one."

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faintest tug of curiosity in his gut. He had no idea what he was getting into, but whatever it was, he felt like it was going to be far from simple.

With an elegant wave of her hand, Carlotta ushered them into the store, her movements smooth and effortless. “We shall see, won’t we, Hadrian?” she said, her voice the perfect mix of challenge and amusement.

Harry could only sigh in exasperation, he felt the reluctant curiosity gnawing at him. He wasn’t sure what to make of this strange but intriguing woman. First, she’d rattled him, now she was offering to treat him like some long-lost family member. He’d never been one for extravagant displays—he liked things simple and easy. But... maybe it wouldn't hurt to be spoiled every once in a while.

With a soft groan of resignation, Harry followed her into the store, trying to shake the feeling that he was about to walk straight into more trouble than he was prepared for.

The clothes Carlotta had him try out hadn’t been bad. In fact, as Harry surveyed himself in the mirror, he had to admit that she’d done a far better job than he’d expected. The robes weren’t the frilly, over-the-top kind he’d imagined, but instead had a certain understated elegance to them. Dark greens and muted reds, the kind of colors that didn’t scream for attention but still had a refined edge. They fit comfortably, too, nothing too tight or too loose, just enough to make him feel... well, not exactly fancy, but certainly more put together than he was used to.

Carlotta, standing by with a pleased look on her face, nodded approvingly as Harry turned this way and that, trying to get a better look at the way the fabric flowed. “There,” she said with a small, satisfied smile. “I thought those colors would suit you. Not too flashy, but still striking.”

Harry met her gaze in the mirror, raising an eyebrow. “Not bad,” he admitted, though he couldn’t quite stop himself from sounding surprised. “I didn't expect you to get my style right.” He tugged at the sleeve of the robe, testing the fabric with a skeptical but impressed expression.

Carlotta’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “I have an eye for these things,” she replied, her voice light and teasing. “It’s not just about the clothes, Hadrian. It’s about how you wear them. And this,” she said, sweeping her hand toward him with a flourish, “suits you far more than the scruffy robes you normally wear.”

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the tiny, reluctant grin that tugged at his lips. “You sure know how to flatter a person,” he muttered, though there was no real bite in his tone.

Blaise, who had been lounging nearby with a look of pure amusement on his face, raised an eyebrow as he appraised Harry. “Honestly, Hadrian, you look ten times better than I expected,” he remarked, the humor in his voice unmistakable. “Maybe Mother should’ve been your personal stylist years ago.”

“Shut up,” Harry grumbled, though there was no heat behind it. He felt... well, oddly comfortable. Maybe it was the clothes, or maybe it was just the fact that he wasn’t entirely out of his depth this time.

Carlotta gave Harry an appraising look, nodding in approval. “You’ll do nicely in these,” she said, her tone softening for a moment, as though genuinely pleased with the outcome. “Not that you needed too much help.” She paused, her expression turning almost mischievous. “But I do expect you to wear them on occasion, yes?”

“Maybe,” Harry said with a chuckle, though he couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—she had been right about a few things. Maybe he did look a bit sharper. At least, in a way that made him feel less like a walking afterthought.

After a bit more shopping, they finally stopped by a quaint dessert parlor tucked away between the bustle of the street. The rich, sweet scent of pastries and freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and Harry couldn’t help but inhale deeply as they walked inside. The small, cozy space was inviting, and Harry was already looking forward to indulging in something sweet after all the shopping.

Carlotta, however, seemed to have a sudden errand to run, and excused herself from the table, leaving Harry and Blaise alone.

As Blaise flipped through the dessert menu, Harry leaned back in his seat, catching a glimpse of the cakes and tarts behind the glass counter. The warm, golden light from the windows softened the edges of everything, giving the place a peaceful, almost dreamy feel.

“She seems to like you,” Blaise said, his voice casual, though there was something in the way he spoke that made Harry glance up at him. Blaise wasn’t one to say things without a reason.

“Huh,” Harry said, tilting his head slightly. He raised an eyebrow, unsure if Blaise was being serious or just teasing again.

“My mother, silly,” Blaise clarified with a fond tone, his eyes briefly flicking back to the menu. Then, as if reconsidering, he glanced up again and met Harry’s gaze. There was a softness in his expression, something that seemed far more serious than the usual playful teasing. “I’ve never seen her get along so quickly with someone. She’s very distrustful of people, especially men.”

Harry snorted at the sudden thought of himself as a ‘trusted’ figure in anyone’s eyes. “Well, thankfully I’m just a boy then,” he said, his voice light, trying to deflect the weight of Blaise’s words.

Blaise rolled his eyes fondly, but his gaze lingered on Harry for a moment longer, something far deeper than amusement flickering in his eyes. Then he shrugged, almost as if making a decision in that fleeting moment. “Still, my point still stands.”

Harry was quiet for a second, processing the unexpected turn in the conversation. He’d never been one for being the subject of someone’s praise, certainly not someone like Carlotta, who had a sharpness about her that felt far beyond mere pleasantries. But Blaise’s words hung there, heavy in the air between them.

“Guess I’m just lucky then,” Harry said finally, a little less sure of himself than before. The thought that Carlotta—someone who had seemed to have a perfectly crafted opinion about people—was warming to him so quickly... well, it was a bit disorienting.

“You’ve got more to offer than you think,” Blaise said quietly, his voice not teasing but almost reassuring, like he actually meant it. His eyes flicked back down to the menu, but Harry caught the sincerity in his tone, and for a moment, there was an unusual kind of silence between them.

It wasn’t uncomfortable—more like an acknowledgment of something that didn’t need to be said outright, but was understood nonetheless.

Harry wasn’t used to that, and it made him feel a little less out of place in a world that had never felt quite like his own.

“So, what are you getting?” Harry asked, the change of topic almost like a way to ground himself again. The sudden weight of Blaise’s words had left him feeling unsteady, vulnerable, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to handle it.

Blaise glanced up from the menu with a small smirk, the kind of look that suggested he understood exactly what Harry was doing—but, as usual, he didn’t call him out on it. He didn’t need to. “I’m thinking maybe Zabaione,” Blaise said, his voice casual, but there was a glimmer of something else in his eyes. “Can’t go wrong with that.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Harry admitted, scanning the menu as his eyes finally landed on the dessert Blaise had mentioned. It sounded fancy enough, like something the aristocracy would go for. “Zabaione, huh?” he mused aloud, raising an eyebrow.

Blaise seemed to catch the slight amusement in Harry’s voice and gave a knowing nod. “It’s an Italian dessert,” he said, leaning back a little as if he were about to tell a secret. “It was my favorite growing up. It’s rich and creamy, but light at the same time. It’s like a... perfect balance of indulgence. You should try it.”

Harry tilted his head, genuinely curious now. “Sounds fancy,” he remarked, tapping his finger against the edge of the menu. “But if you say it’s worth it...”

“I’m sure you’ll like it,” Blaise added with a teasing grin, his eyes bright with the same quiet amusement he always seemed to carry when he was enjoying himself.

Harry raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said with a grin of his own. The mood had shifted again, from introspection to a more comfortable banter, and Harry found himself grateful for it.

Blaise studied him for a moment, a half-smile still lingering on his face. “You’re not as bad as I thought,” he said quietly, as though the words were meant for Harry’s ears alone. There was a warmth to them, a little less teasing than usual.

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in Blaise’s voice. He felt a flicker of something—was it acceptance?—but before he could dwell on it, the server magically arrived with their orders, breaking the moment.

With a playful look, Blaise grabbed his spoon and gave Harry a grin that spoke volumes. “Try it,” he said, the challenge clear in his eyes. “It’s simply to die for.”

Harry smirked, deciding to play along. He picked up his own dessert, taking a bite and immediately understanding why Blaise had been so enthusiastic about it.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Harry said with a chuckle, his expression shifting into something of reluctant approval. “You were right.”

Blaise’s grin widened, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I usually am.”

“Well, this is my stop,” Harry said, coming to a halt in front of the Leaky Cauldron. He glanced over at Blaise and Carlotta, both of whom wore identical unreadable expressions.

If there was one thing Harry hated, it was being the center of attention, especially when it came to his personal life. He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Carlotta said carefully, breaking the silence. “Why exactly are you staying at the Leaky Cauldron?”

Harry scratched the back of his head, suddenly feeling nervous under their questioning stares. “Oh, you know…” He trailed off, trying to come up with something that sounded reasonable.

Blaise eyed him suspiciously, his brow furrowing. “We do not, in fact, know.”

Harry huffed, realizing there was no way to dodge this. “Alright, fine. I ran away from my relatives and have been staying here since,” he admitted with a sigh.

Carlotta and Blaise both looked as though they'd been hit with a stunning charm. Blaise’s expression turned horrified. “You’ve been here since the 24th of July?”

“It’s not that bad,” Harry quickly tried to backtrack, sensing their shock. “I mean, it’s the Leaky Cauldron. It’s not like I’m living on the streets.”

Carlotta didn’t seem reassured. “This just won’t do,” she said, her tone firm. There was a moment of silence before her eyes softened, her voice taking on a warmer note. “Hadrian, you can’t keep staying here like this.”

Harry blinked, trying to read the shift in her expression. He glanced between the two of them.

Blaise took a step closer, his voice lighter but still carrying the same undertone of concern. “You’re coming with us, at least for the rest of the summer,” he said, almost as if it were already decided.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Carlotta cut him off with a soft but insistent look. “You’re not staying here alone. It’s not safe, and frankly, you deserve better. You’re coming home with us.”

Blaise gave him a sly grin, clearly enjoying the fact that Harry had no way to get out of it. “Think of it as a long overdue break. We’ve got two weeks until school starts. Might as well make the most of it.”

Harry opened and closed his mouth, completely caught off guard. “But—” he started, but then stopped, unsure what he was even trying to argue against.

Carlotta gave him a kind smile. “We won’t take no for an answer, Hadrian.”

And with that, Harry found himself suddenly at the mercy of the Zabinis' plans, his pride and initial reluctance fading as he realized—maybe for the first time in a long while—that he didn’t mind the idea of being taken care of for once.

“Alright then,” Harry said softly, his shoulders sagging as if a weight had been lifted off them. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it—being taken in, looked after—but there was something oddly comforting about the idea. Maybe it was the fact that he wouldn't have to figure everything out on his own for a change.

Blaise gave him a grin, one of those smug, self-assured smiles that made it clear he thought this was all going according to plan. “Good choice,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “You’ll like it with us. Mother knows how to treat people well.”

Carlotta smiled warmly, the intensity in her eyes softening a little. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need, Hadrian,” she said, the kindness in her tone reaching him more than she probably intended. “The summer will be much more pleasant with company.”

Harry hesitated for a moment longer, but then nodded, finally giving in. “Thank you,” he said, looking between Blaise and Carlotta, both of them standing there, not demanding, but quietly insistent.

Blaise playfully knocked their shoulders together. “Now, let’s get you settled in. I’ll show you the guest room when we get there. You’ll see, it’s much better than whatever the Leaky Cauldron’s offering.”

Carlotta turned to walk ahead, her steps graceful and easy. “We’ll get you sorted, Hadrian. No more sleeping in that... establishment.”

Harry laughed quietly at the way she said the word establishment, but didn’t argue. For the first time in a while, he was looking forward to something, and he couldn’t quite put a finger on why that felt so strange and new.

Chapter Text

LOST FUTURE

HARRY

Harry had spent the last five months trying to get to the center of these blasted ruins. He gripped his hair in frustration, glancing down at the runes in the book before looking back at the inscriptions on the wall. He was pretty sure they were a shortcut to the treasure room, but so far, he just couldn't crack them.

Groaning, he let himself collapse onto the cold cobblestone floor, the chill seeping through his clothes.

The Туолуу could grant its users any wish they desired—at a price, of course. But Harry still wasn’t entirely sure what that price was.

With a heavy sigh, he sat back up and pulled the discarded book onto his lap. It was written entirely in Yakut, and even with the help of translation spells, deciphering it had been a nightmare.

Luckily, he'd found a rune that made understanding any language as easy as breathing. The catch? It required the caster’s blood to become permanent.

Harry had been hesitant at first. The last time someone had used his blood, it had brought Voldemort back to life. Ever since then, he'd been careful—almost paranoid—about using blood for anything magic-related. Whether it was runes or wards, he had always erred on the side of caution.

But lately... lately, he had been slipping. Letting things slide.

Blood magic no longer felt like a risk.

It felt easy. Natural, almost.

Harry knew that a good Wizard—a proper one—would have stopped. They would have walked away the moment they saw that the runes required blood.

But Harry wasn’t a good Wizard, whatever that meant.

He had tried. He had tried so hard to stay on the right path, to use the right spells, to follow the rules. But it was so exhausting, especially when darker magic came so easily to him. It flowed through his veins like second nature, effortless in a way that light magic never was.

He could cast dark spells without hesitation, without strain—so easily that any self-respecting light Wizard with an ounce of sense would flee the moment they felt something was off about him.

Maybe that was why Ron and Hermione had been distancing themselves. Just thinking about them made his insides twist. Their friendship had been unraveling ever since he quit being an Auror.

Ron had been furious—becoming Aurors had been ‘their’ dream since Hogwarts. And Hermione, ever the peacemaker, had chosen neutrality. She said Harry had every right to leave but still called it irresponsible, pointing out that he had no backup plan, no clear direction for what came next.

What they didn’t seem to understand was that being an Auror was driving him mad. The job was suffocating, and every mission blurred into the next. The people he saved, the so-called bad guys he took down—it was all starting to feel meaningless.

And half the things he was called in for were stupid. His final straw came when he was ordered to arrest a father for using a dark spell to heal his dying daughter in public. Harry handed in his resignation letter that same day.

He never understood the Ministry’s obsession with restricting magic just because it had been labeled dark. Not all dark spells were meant to harm—hell, some were downright useful. Healing magic, protective wards, and even certain charms classified as ‘dark’ had practical, life-saving applications. Meanwhile, light spells weren’t so holy either. Any spell could be twisted into something cruel if the person casting them was creative enough.

A simple levitation charm could hold someone underwater just as easily as it could lift a feather.

But then again, people in the magical world didn’t seem to be all that creative anyway, so what did it matter?

Harry sighed and closed the book. His heart just wasn’t in it at the moment. He was going to have to apparate out—because maybe he had been randomly touching magical runes without fully knowing their meaning, but he definitely hadn’t expected the entire floor to cave in on him like that!

He packed his things up and apparated out of the decaying ruins.

PRESENT

BLAISE

Blaise tilted his head back, gazing up at the night sky from the solarium. The glass ceiling above framed the vast expanse of stars, their cold silver light casting faint reflections against the polished marble floor. A cool breeze drifted in from the open windows, whispering against his bare skin, carrying with it the crisp scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth.

The ink on his skin was still wet, thick and heavy where it traced intricate rune patterns across his arms and torso. He could feel it settling, a strange sensation—cool at first, then warm, as if the very symbols were coming alive beneath his flesh.

He inhaled deeply, letting the raw, humming energy of the room sink into his bones. Magic pulsed in the air, thick and potent, drawn from the earth, the stars, the ancient stones of the estate itself. He could feel it twisting through the ink, binding it to him, threading itself into his very being.

A soft voice wove through the silence, low and rhythmic, each syllable precise. His mother’s chant wrapped around him like a spell of its own, steady and unwavering. The final words left her lips, and the air stilled. The magic settled.

Blaise exhaled, finally opening his eyes. It was done.

Blaise turned his head toward the sound of Hadrian’s voice. The other boy lounged on one of the sunbeds, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who had just witnessed an old ritual in progress. The dim lighting cast soft shadows over his face, his dark hair slightly tousled as if he had just woken from a nap.

On his lap, Selina—his ever-composed, ever-indifferent cat—was curled up in a perfect ball, her tail flicking lazily against his robes. She purred, content despite the lingering hum of magic still thick in the air.

“Well,” Hadrian drawled, idly scratching behind Selina’s ears. “That was interesting.”

Blaise let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted to the lingering warmth seeping into his skin. “You have a habit of appearing at the most inconvenient times.” His voice was smooth, but there was a tired edge to it.

Hadrian simply smirked, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. “And yet, you never seem all that surprised to see me.”

Blaise huffed a quiet laugh, finally turning fully toward him. The ink on his skin had settled, but he could still feel the faint tingle of magic woven into it. He traced a finger absentmindedly over one of the markings on his arm, feeling the way it pulsed beneath his touch.

Hadrian’s gaze flicked toward the motion, sharp and assessing, but he said nothing about it. Instead, he glanced around the solarium, taking in the lingering remnants of the ritual with a quiet sort of curiosity.

“Does it hurt?” he finally asked, voice softer now, lacking its usual teasing lilt.

Blaise considered the question for a moment before shaking his head. “No. Not really.” He flexed his fingers experimentally. “It feels… right.”

Hadrian hummed, thoughtful. Then, with a lazy grin, he leaned back against the sunbed, fingers trailing idly through Selina’s fur. “Good,” he said, closing his eyes. “I’d hate to think I came all the way here just to watch you suffer.”

Blaise rolled his eyes but didn’t bother arguing. Instead, he let the silence settle between them, comfortable and familiar, as the stars above continued their slow, silent watch.

His mother, completely unbothered by their interaction, moved with practiced ease as she cleaned up the remaining ritual supplies. The scent of herbs and ink still lingered in the air, mixing with the crisp night breeze drifting through the open windows.

“You should put your robes back on, lest you catch a cold,” she said smoothly, not even glancing up from her work.

Blaise barely had a moment to register her words before a shiver ghosted down his spine, the chill finally creeping into his skin now that the heat of the ritual had faded. His arms, bare and still tingling with residual magic, felt the bite of the night air far more keenly now.

Hadrian cracked an eye open from where he lounged, a smirk playing at his lips. “Told you rituals in nothing but trousers was a bad idea.”

Blaise scoffed but didn’t argue, instead reaching for his discarded robes. He shook them out before draping them over his shoulders, the fabric still holding a faint trace of warmth.

His mother gave a satisfied nod, the briefest hint of amusement flickering in her dark eyes before she turned back to tidying up. “Stubborn,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Blaise rolled his shoulders, adjusting the fabric. “I was fine.”

“Of course you were,” Hadrian said, entirely unconvinced. He stretched, shifting Selina slightly as she let out an indignant huff. “But I have to say, watching you pretend you weren’t freezing was the highlight of my evening.”

Blaise shot him a flat look, but Hadrian only grinned, the picture of smug satisfaction.

His mother, wisely, chose not to comment, merely shaking her head as she finished clearing the space.

Once she was done, she flicked her wand in a practiced motion, and all the windows in the room snapped shut at once, the night breeze vanishing as swiftly as it had come. The sudden silence made the lingering magic in the air feel heavier, settling over them like a second skin.

“Well, you two best be off to bed,” she said, smoothing down the sleeves of her robe. “Tomorrow is a big day, after all.”

Blaise hummed in acknowledgment, already turning toward the door, while Hadrian reached lazily for the rune book he had brought, flipping it shut with a soft thump.

Blaise, however, didn’t move toward the exit just yet. Instead, he stepped up to Hadrian’s sunbed and stretched out his hands expectantly.

Hadrian gave him a flat look before scoffing. “You act like I’m going to steal her from you.”

Despite his words, he dutifully handed over Selina, who gave an unimpressed flick of her tail as Blaise gathered her up.

Blaise huffed, cradling the kitten against his chest. “She’s my cat, yet you hog all of her attention.”

Hadrian smirked, leaning back against the cushions. “Maybe she just likes me better.”

Blaise narrowed his eyes. “Keep dreaming.”

Selina, for her part, had already begun purring, blissfully unconcerned with their ongoing custody battle.

Hadrian gathered his belongings, tucking the rune book under his arm as they made their way toward their rooms. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows along the hallway, the remnants of magic still humming faintly in the air.

“What even was the purpose of that ritual?” Hadrian asked, his voice cutting through the quiet. He had wandered in while they were setting up, catching only fragments of the ceremony, but not enough to understand its meaning.

Blaise glanced at him, absently stroking Selina’s fur as she nestled comfortably against his chest. “It’s akin to a prayer, I suppose,” he mused. “You pray for longevity, you pray for fortune, you pray for protection… and whatever else you can think of.”

Hadrian raised a brow. “So, like an all-purpose magical wish list?”

Blaise huffed a small laugh. “Something like that.”

Blaise led Hadrian to his room, the familiar weight of the evening's ritual still settling on his shoulders. "Wait a moment," he said, turning to Hadrian with a quiet but genuine smile. "I have to give you something."

He gently handed Selina over to Hadrian, who seemed mildly surprised but accepted the kitten with ease. Blaise didn’t take long to disappear into his room, a sense of purpose driving him.

When he came back, the small, wrapped package in his hands felt heavier than it should have. He approached Hadrian, who was standing by the door, the kitten curled comfortably in his arms. "What is it?" Hadrian asked, his voice full of confusion but softened by curiosity.

Without a word, Blaise swapped the kitten back for the package, his heart hammering just a bit faster than usual. He watched as Hadrian carefully unwrapped the paper, revealing the small jewelry box inside. His chest tightened when Hadrian's fingers brushed over it, the moment lingering a bit too long.

Hadrian finally opened the box, and Blaise caught his breath when Hadrian's expression shifted. It was always a gamble, giving someone a gift so personal, so imbued with meaning, but Blaise had poured so much intention into this one.

Hadrian looked down at the ring, his eyes wide with surprise, and Blaise couldn’t help the slight smile that crept onto his face. "It’s a late birthday gift. It’s runed to act like a two-way communication device," Blaise explained, doing his best to keep his voice steady, though the nervousness lingered just under the surface. "I have one too."

Hadrian’s eyes lifted to meet his, and Blaise couldn't quite shake the way his heart stuttered. "You’re giving me this?"

Blaise nodded, he could feel his cheeks warming. “Yeah. You tap on it once, and it warms. That’s how I’ll know you’re okay. It also works as a locator, so if you need me, you’ll get a brief sense of where I am, and vice versa.”

Blaise watched intently as Hadrian's fingers hovered over the ring, and he felt a strange sensation in his chest. It wasn’t just about the magic—though that was important—but more the sentiment behind it, the act of sharing something this intimate, this deeply personal.

"And if I tap it twice...?" Hadrian’s voice was quieter now, almost soft, as he studied the ring.

Blaise allowed himself a small smile, feeling a little more at ease now that it was out in the open. “If you tap it twice, I can talk to you.”

There it was. The quiet acknowledgment that this wasn’t just a random gesture, but something Blaise was giving with the hope that it would be a small comfort, a way to stay connected.

Hadrian's gaze softened, and for a moment, Blaise felt something flicker in the space between them—something he wasn’t sure he could name. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

“Thank you,” Hadrian said, his voice sincere, and Blaise felt his chest loosen a little.

"Don’t mention it," Blaise muttered, brushing away the knot in his throat. He couldn’t help the flicker of tenderness that crossed his expression before he quickly masked it, trying to keep things light. “Just... keep it on you. It’ll be useful.”

Hadrian smiled, and Blaise could feel the unspoken understanding between them, an invisible thread weaving them a little closer than before.

Selina, ever the needy kitten, meowed loudly, drawing their attention back to her. The soft sound of her voice tugged at Blaise’s attention, and he glanced down at her, cradled in his arms. She squirmed a little, clearly impatient for something.

"Ah, seems like it’s her bedtime," Hadrian joked, a light grin tugging at his lips, and Blaise found himself laughing in response. There was something about Hadrian’s teasing tone that made it all feel effortless, even in the quiet of the room.

"Seems so," Blaise agreed with a soft chuckle, his hands gently adjusting the kitten so she was more comfortably nestled in his embrace. The little ball of fluff was clearly content with the attention, though her eyes were beginning to droop, signaling that she was ready to sleep.

Hadrian watched for a moment, his gaze softening as he saw the kitten growing more relaxed in Blaise's arms. “She really likes you, huh?"

Blaise smirked, glancing at him. "She knows where the good food’s at," he teased, before turning his attention back to Selina, whose tiny paws stretched as she yawned.

"Alright, alright, princess," Blaise murmured, a warm smile on his lips as he gently set Selina down into her little bed by the window. “Time to get some rest.”

Hadrian stepped closer, watching as Selina curled up contentedly, purring softly as she snuggled into the warmth of her bed. “Goodnight, Selina,” Hadrian said quietly.

Blaise smiled, his fingers lightly brushing the kitten’s fur before he stood up straight again, still holding the calmness of the moment. "Goodnight, Hadrian."

Hadrian gave him a small smile in return, the warmth of the room settling between them, the quiet of the night pressing around them like a soft blanket. "Goodnight, Blaise."

And with that, they stood there for a moment longer than necessary, both caught up in the quiet intimacy of the evening.

"I-I'll see you in the morning," Hadrian stammered, his cheeks slightly flushed as he fumbled with the door. Blaise couldn’t suppress the quiet laugh that escaped him, watching the tension lift as Hadrian awkwardly made his escape.

"See you in the morning, Hadrian," Blaise called after him with a smile, the warmth in his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Hadrian gave a hasty nod and disappeared out the door, leaving Blaise alone in the room with nothing but the soft hum of the night air. Blaise stood there for a moment, a fond smile tugging at his lips as he shook his head. There was something endearing about the way Hadrian had tried so hard to hold onto his composure, only to crumble under the weight of his own awkwardness.

Blaise finally let out a quiet sigh and turned toward his bed. “Goodnight, Selina,” he murmured, reaching out to gently stroke the kitten's fur as she curled up, blissfully unaware of the evening's events.

With one last glance at the door, Blaise turned in for the night, the lingering warmth of their conversation wrapping around him like a soft blanket.

HARRY

Harry turned the ring over between his fingers, the silver glinting under the warm light. The little sun rune etched into the band felt smooth against his skin, its presence grounding. He remembered when he first questioned Blaise about it, about why he had a sun while Blaise’s own ring—a gold one—was marked with a moon.

Blaise had only shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “You remind me of the sun,” he had said easily. “You burn bright and passionately, and you’re very powerful—like the sun.”

Harry had only hummed in acknowledgment at the time, but now, he turned the words over in his mind like a puzzle piece he hadn’t quite fit into place yet. He could see what Blaise meant, in a way.

But when Harry had asked why Blaise had chosen the moon for himself, the answer had been far less poetic. “I just like the moon,” Blaise had replied, tone casual as ever. “I mean, I named my cat after it.”

Harry had laughed at that, shaking his head. Typical. Blaise might not have put much thought into his own rune, but Harry had. Maybe more than he should have.

Because to him, Blaise was the moon—steady and bright against the darkness, a guiding light even when the rest of the world felt uncertain. He was teasing, infuriating at times, but also comforting in a way Harry hadn’t realized he needed.

And wasn’t that fitting? The sun and the moon, forever chasing each other across the sky.

Harry shook the thought from his head and exhaled slowly, releasing the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His fingers tightened around the handle of his trunk as he stared at the Hogwarts Express, the familiar scarlet engine gleaming under the station lights. It had been years since he’d seen it up close, and yet, the sight of it still sent a shiver down his spine—nostalgia and something else, something heavier, pressing against his ribs.

The distant chatter of students, the shrill whistle of the train, the faint scent of steam and aged metal—it was all the same. And yet, he wasn’t.

He took another breath, willing his heartbeat to slow. This is it. They were finally going back to Hogwarts. His first real home.

Beside him, Blaise had been quiet, simply watching, but then he spoke. “Nervous?”

Harry glanced at him. Blaise’s expression was unreadable, his dark eyes calm as they met his, but there was something knowing in the way he asked.

Harry let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. “Maybe a little.”

Carlotta had pulled them into a warm embrace before they boarded, her arms strong and reassuring. “You boys will be fine,” she said, her voice smooth with confidence. Then, with a playful yet firm tone, she added, “Make sure you both write to me once a week—I want to know everything.”

Harry had melted into the hug, the warmth of it so achingly familiar yet foreign at the same time. Besides Mrs. Weasley, Carlotta was probably the closest thing he had to a mother figure. She wasn’t overly doting, nor did she smother him with concern, but there was an ease to her presence, a quiet sort of understanding that made Harry feel… safe.

During his stay at the Zabini estate, they had grown closer, bonding over a shared interest in warding. Carlotta had a sharp mind and a wealth of knowledge, and Harry had found himself drawn into conversations that stretched late into the night, discussing theory, technique, and obscure magical defenses. It had been nice—comforting, even—to have someone who didn’t look at him and see just the Boy Who Lived.

“We will,” Blaise assured her, though his usual confidence was laced with something softer. He slowly pulled away from the embrace, but not before adding, “Do take care of yourself while we’re away as well, Mother.”

Carlotta just shook her head fondly at her son, a smirk playing on her lips. “Yes, Lord Blaise,” she teased before pinching his cheek, making Blaise scowl and swat her hand away.

Harry watched the exchange with quiet amusement before shifting on his feet. “Bye, Carlotta,” he said, a little shyly. “I’ll miss you.”

Her gaze softened instantly, warmth crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Bye, Hadrian,” she said, her voice gentle. “I’ll miss you as well.”

BLAISE

Blaise led Hadrian toward the back of the train, his steps measured, his grip firm as he guided him through the narrow corridor. He tried not to dwell on how strange it felt to be eleven again—to be back here, reliving something he had already experienced. It was unsettling, knowing that when he stepped into that compartment, he would see his friends as children, their faces rounder, their voices higher, their eyes untouched by the years that had shaped him.

Less than two months ago, he had been sitting across from them as equals, poring over research and exchanging ideas like adults. Now, they would look at him and see nothing but an ordinary first-year. He steeled his nerves as they reached the compartment door, letting out a slow breath before squaring his shoulders.

Without hesitation, he slid the door open.

Inside, Tracey and Theodore sat comfortably, the only ones there for now. At the sound of the door, both turned to face him, their expressions flickering from curiosity to recognition. For the first time since stepping onto the train, the weight of it all hit Blaise fully—this was real. He was back.

Tracey’s eyes lit up instantly when she saw him. “Blaise!” she greeted with an excited grin, tucking her legs beneath her on the seat in a swift motion.

Theodore, ever the quiet one, didn’t react with as much enthusiasm but nodded in acknowledgment. His sharp gaze flickered toward Hadrian, an almost imperceptible shift in his expression as he scrutinized him, his eyes scanning the new presence with a cool, calculating curiosity.

Blaise stepped inside first, pulling Hadrian along beside him as he entered the compartment. “I see you two managed to snag the compartment early,” he remarked, settling into the seat across from them.

Tracey smirked in her usual confident manner. “Of course. You think we’d let anyone else take our spot?” She tilted her head slightly, studying Hadrian with keen eyes, as though trying to figure him out. “Who’s this?”

Blaise chuckled softly under his breath, watching the interaction unfold. "Well met," Hadrian said smoothly, his voice calm despite the scrutiny. “My name’s Harry Potter.”

Tracey and Theodore froze for a split second, their eyes widening in surprise. The air in the compartment seemed to thicken, and Blaise couldn’t help but bite back a laugh at their innocent, unguarded reactions. He’d known they would be surprised, but it was always amusing to see their expressions when faced with someone they didn’t expect.

They both turned to look at him, identical expressions of confusion etched across their young faces.

Blaise, taking pity on them, leaned back against the seat with an easy shrug. “I met him earlier this summer, and we hit it off,” he explained as if it were the most casual thing in the world—like he hadn’t just told some of his closest friends that he had befriended Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the single most famous Wixen in Britain.

Tracey blinked at him, then at Hadrian, then back at Blaise. “You met him and just—what?—decided to be best mates?” she asked incredulously.

Theodore remained silent, but his sharp gaze lingered on Hadrian, his fingers tapping absently against his knee as if running through a dozen calculations in his head.

Hadrian, for his part, only raised an eyebrow at their reactions, clearly more amused than offended. “I like to think I’m pretty good company,” he said lightly.

Tracey scoffed, finally snapping out of her shock. “We’ll be the judge of that.”

“Judge away.” Hadrian raised his hand in a surrendering motion.

Tracey narrowed her eyes playfully. “Oh, I will.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Tell me, Potter—” she drew out his name, testing it on her tongue, “—do you play Quidditch?”

Hadrian smirked. “I’ve been known to fly a broom or two.”

Theodore hummed, still studying him. “And your opinion on snakes?”

Hadrian tilted his head slightly. “They make for excellent company—far better than most Wixen, if you ask me.”

Blaise snorted at that, while Tracey raised an impressed eyebrow. “Alright, you’re off to a decent start,” she admitted. “But don’t think that means you’re off the hook.”

Hadrian chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m an open book,” he said casually.

Blaise rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at his lips. This was going to be an interesting year.

ALBUS

This was going to be a disastrous year.

Albus Dumbledore had known something was wrong the moment Hagrid returned—empty-handed and looking uncharacteristically shaken. The plan had been simple: retrieve young Harry Potter, deliver his letter personally if needed, and ensure he boarded the train on September 1st.

But there had been no Harry Potter.

At first, Albus had assumed the worst of the boy’s relatives. It wouldn’t have been the first time a magical child’s guardians had withheld their Hogwarts letters out of fear, ignorance, or spite. But when he visited Privet Drive himself, he found the Dursleys just as clueless as he was. Frightened, even. Petunia Dursley had wrung her hands, whispering frantic things about how the boy had been there one evening and gone the next.

There was no sign of struggle. No forced entry. The wards surrounding the property, undisturbed. No traces of underage magic detected in the area. No records of a missing child surfacing in Muggle reports. Even Arabella Figg, his ever-watchful informant, had seen nothing out of the ordinary.

Harry Potter had simply… vanished.

Albus had searched. He had called in favors, scoured through every magical means he could without drawing attention, even consulted those he would rather not. But the boy was nowhere to be found.

And now, on September 1st, Albus sat in his office, his fingers steepled, watching the last rays of the sun cast long shadows across his desk. The Hogwarts Express had departed, carrying students back to the castle, and soon, the Great Hall would be filled with eager young witches and wizards, chattering away about summer adventures. The Sorting would begin. The feast would commence.

And if Harry Potter did not appear among the first-years…

The questions would begin.

Albus did not have the answers. And for the first time in a very long while, he feared what they might be.

Albus waited with bated breath as Minerva's voice echoed through the Great Hall, calling name after name. The Sorting Hat’s decisions came swiftly, students dashing off to their respective tables as applause rippled through the hall.

But he barely registered any of it. His focus was solely on the moment Minerva reached the last names starting with P.

She cleared her throat.

"Harry Potter!"

The room stilled.

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Whispers broke out almost immediately. Heads swiveled, eyes darted around, scanning the line of first-years.

Albus felt his heart seize.

Then—just as he was about to rise from his seat—someone moved.

A boy stepped forward.

His robes were pristine, his hair tamed in a way that looked effortlessly tousled rather than outright unruly. His striking green eyes, so much like Lily’s, were sharp and calculating as they flickered across the hall, taking in every single reaction.

Harry Potter.

The tension in Albus’s shoulders eased—but only slightly. Because there was something different about the boy. Something that made his every movement deliberate, his presence commanding despite his age.

Where had he been?

Why hadn’t he responded to any of their attempts to find him?

And, most importantly—why did he look completely unbothered by the commotion his sudden reappearance had caused?

Harry strode forward with confidence, as if he were used to being watched, and sat down as Minerva placed the Sorting Hat on his head.

Minutes passed. The hall was silent. Whispers had died down into an eerie stillness, students and professors alike waiting for the decision.

And then, with finality, the Sorting Hat declared—

"SLYTHERIN!"

For the first time in years, the Great Hall erupted.

Albus felt years of carefully laid plans crumbling in a single instant. The weight of it settled in his chest like lead.

Harry Potter—The Boy Who Lived—had been missing for almost two months, completely unreachable, only to appear on the Hogwarts Express without a word of explanation. And now, he had just been sorted into Slytherin.

It was unthinkable.

Yet there the boy was, entirely unbothered.

Harry stepped down from the stool with the same quiet confidence he had displayed since entering the hall, as if he had expected this outcome all along. He barely spared the other tables a glance as he made his way over to Slytherin, where the students—though initially stunned—were now making space for him.

He slipped into a seat beside a girl, Tracey Davis he believed was her name, who greeted him with a smirk, completely at ease. They exchanged a few words, and she laughed like they were old friends sharing a joke.

Albus felt something in his gut twist.

Harry Potter, who had supposedly been raised in a muggle home with no exposure to wizarding society, already had allies in Slytherin? Already belonged there?

This was not the lost, uncertain boy he had expected.

This was a problem.

Chapter Text

LOST FUTURE 

BLAISE

Blaise sprinted through the forest, the monstrous wendigo crashing through the undergrowth behind him. He could hear its ragged, guttural breaths, smell the stench of decay that clung to it like a second skin. Yet, despite the deadly creature hunting him, Blaise felt no true fear. His heart pounded—not with terror, but with exhilaration.

He had spent days tracking this wendigo, studying its patterns, learning its habits. They were elusive creatures, secretive and cunning, but once found, they were an undeniable force of nature. And this one had no idea it was running headfirst into a carefully laid trap.

Blaise ducked behind a tree, pressing himself against the bark just as the wendigo lunged past him. His grin was sharp, triumphant. Perfect. The moment its clawed feet slammed into the ground, the rune circle beneath it blazed to life. The ancient symbols, painstakingly etched and infused with power, flared in a brilliant silver glow.

Then came the scream.

Piercing, unearthly. The sound of a predator realizing it had become prey.

Blaise nearly laughed aloud, restraining himself to a pleased hum instead. He had to stop himself from outright skipping as he approached the trapped beast.

Inside the shimmering barrier, the wendigo thrashed violently, its elongated limbs clawing at the invisible walls. When it caught sight of him, it lunged, fangs bared in a grotesque snarl—but the rune shield held firm. It howled in frustration, its hollow, sunken eyes burning with hunger and fury.

Blaise merely smiled, pride swelling in his chest. His runes—the ones he had designed, blending centuries of family knowledge with his own innovations—had successfully trapped one of the most feared creatures in the magical world.

Oh, he was going to be insufferable when he told his friends about this.

But bragging would come later. Now, it was time to finish the job.

Blaise took a steadying breath and began the chant.

“Ω Αστέρι χτύπησε τον εχθρό μου, σκότωσε τον με τις ακτίνες χιλίων ήλιων.”

The ancient words pulsed with power, the magic thrumming in his veins. On the third repetition, Blaise snapped his eyes open—just as a bolt of lightning tore through the sky.

The first strike was blinding.

The second was deafening.

And then the storm truly began.

Thunder roared as strike after strike rained down upon the wendigo, the sky itself seemingly answering Blaise’s call. The creature shrieked, its inhuman cries drowned out by the crackling energy engulfing it. It stood no chance.

When the storm finally settled, only a smoking crater remained—save for a single object at its center.

The wendigo’s core.

Blaise stepped into the rune circle, plucking the still-glowing core from the ashes. He turned it over in his fingers, admiring the way it pulsed with residual energy.

Oh, he absolutely could not wait to gloat about this over lunch.

THEODORE

Potter was odd. Theo decided.

Of course, Blaise was also odd, but Theo had grown accustomed to his particular brand of strangeness. Blaise’s oddness was sharp and deliberate, a quiet arrogance wrapped in carefully measured words. But Potter? His oddness felt different—not calculated, not even entirely intentional. There was something about the way he carried himself, something about the way he looked at things, like he was seeing the world from an entirely different angle.

Theo might’ve lingered on the thought longer if Daphne hadn’t slipped into the seat beside him. She hadn’t been on the train with them, having opted to sit with her cousin, so she was only now seeing what Theo had been puzzling over since the Sorting.

“Is that really Harry Potter?” she asked quietly, as if saying his name too loudly might make him vanish.

Theo hummed in acknowledgment. “Apparently, Blaise met him over the summer, and they ‘hit it off.’”

Daphne let out an ungraceful snort at that. “How does one casually ‘hit it off’ with the Boy Who Lived?”

Theo merely shrugged. He had no real answer. It didn’t make sense to him either, but here they were.

They sat in silence, observing the scene before them. Blaise and Potter were seated comfortably in the middle of the common area, heads bowed in deep conversation—over ancient runes, of all things.

Theo exhaled slowly, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. “I have a feeling the next couple of years are going to be interesting.”

Beside him, Daphne hummed in agreement.

BLAISE

Blaise inhaled deeply, letting the sheer power of Hogwarts' magic wash over him. It was intoxicating—thick and humming, a pulse beneath his skin that set his magic thrumming in response. The air was charged with it, woven into the very walls, the stones practically singing with ancient power. It curled around him, dense yet fluid, like mist infused with raw potential.

It hadn’t felt like this in his first life. Back then, Hogwarts had been magical, obviously, but not like this. Not so alive. Not so electric.

Maybe it was because he was stronger now. Or maybe, this time, he was simply more attuned to it.

Blaise snapped out of his musings when he felt his ring warm—a gentle heat that bled into comfort, grounding him. He tapped it twice and brought it to his lips. “I never realized Hogwarts’ magic was this overwhelming.”

Hadrian hummed in acknowledgment. “How did you manage to get to the Astronomy Tower?”

Blaise bit back a smirk. “That’s for me to know and you to maybe find out.”

Hadrian huffed, unimpressed. “You do realize I’ll figure it out eventually, right?”

Blaise tilted his head, gazing over the moonlit grounds. From up here, the Forbidden Forest stretched endlessly, bathed in silver light. The castle itself thrummed beneath him, alive in a way he’d never noticed before. “I look forward to the attempt.”

A pause. Then Hadrian’s voice, dry with amusement. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are, talking to me.” Blaise traced the edge of his ring, letting the castle’s magic settle around him again. It was stronger now, more present—almost aware. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

“The magic?” Hadrian’s voice softened.

“Yes. It’s… more this time.”

Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but heavy with unspoken understanding. Then Hadrian exhaled. “Yeah. It is.”

Blaise closed his eyes briefly. Whatever had changed, whatever was different this time around—he wasn’t imagining it. And more importantly, he wasn’t alone in it.

SNAPE

Snape felt like the universe was playing a particularly cruel joke on him.

Of all the possible outcomes, this had to be the most absurd. In what twisted reality did Potter’s spawn belong in his house? It was unnatural. Unthinkable. And yet, there the boy was, striding over to the Slytherin table with the kind of self-assurance that set Snape’s teeth on edge. Like he owned the damn place.

It was insufferable. Potter hadn’t even been at Hogwarts for a full day, and he was already acting like an attention-seeking brat, basking in the whispered conversations and stolen glances from his new housemates.

But it was fine.

Because Snape had a plan.

He was going to knock that spoiled golden boy down from whatever pedestal the world had placed him on. He was going to drag him down to where the rest of the peasants sat, strip away that arrogance, and show him exactly what it meant to be a nobody.

HARRY

As Harry made his way to the dungeons with Blaise by his side, he couldn't help but wonder how this year's Potions lessons would unfold. Knowing Snape, the man would undoubtedly try to humiliate him just as he had the first time around.

The thought of Snape always left Harry feeling conflicted. On one hand, the man had saved his life more than once. On the other, he was a bitter, spiteful bully who had no business teaching children. The hypocrisy of it all never failed to irk him—Snape loathed bullies, yet he was one of the worst offenders.

It had taken Harry years to realize that Snape’s cruelty wasn’t solely directed at him. As a child, he had assumed he was singled out, but in truth, Snape had a nasty habit of tearing down anyone who didn’t meet his impossible standards. Even his supposed favorites in Slytherin weren’t immune to his sharp tongue and impossible expectations.

The man was a talented potioneer, sure—but a good teacher? Not in the slightest.

Harry had yet to meet a single former student who had anything positive to say about Snape beyond his skill in brewing. And honestly? That said a lot.

Harry sat down beside Blaise without hesitation, pulling out his notes as the rest of the class settled in. As he flipped through his parchment, a familiar figure passed by, a flash of red hair catching his attention.

Ron.

Harry had to blink away his surprise. He had forgotten what it would be like to see Ron and Hermione again—so young, so untouched by the weight of war and time. He bit his lip, memories surfacing unbidden. Their friendship had been something he had once cherished deeply, a bond he thought would last forever. But as he had delved further into dark magic, they had subconsciously begun to distance themselves.

It wasn’t immediate. There had been no dramatic fight, no screaming accusations. Just a slow, painful drift, like a rope fraying one strand at a time until it finally snapped.

Harry had long since come to terms with the fact that they would never have accepted the part of him that had turned to the darker arts. If they had ever known the full extent of what he had done—what he had become—they would have been horrified.

That was just life. You didn’t always stay friends with the people you grew up with.

The last time he had seen either of them had been at their wedding three years ago. Ron hadn’t even asked him to be his best man.

That had been the final blow for him.

Harry had cut off contact completely after that.

Harry didn’t have much time to dwell on the past because Snape stormed into the room, his robes billowing behind him like a thundercloud ready to strike. The murmurs that had filled the classroom instantly died down as students straightened in their seats, some looking eager, others wary.

Harry, for his part, simply watched. He had been through this song and dance before. Snape’s entrance, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room, searching for any sign of weakness.

It didn’t take long before the man’s eyes landed on him.

Ah. There it was. That familiar look of barely concealed disdain.

Harry didn’t react. He kept his expression neutral, his hands folded neatly on the desk. Let Snape play his games—he wasn’t the same naïve boy who had sat in this classroom all those years ago, hanging on every word, desperate to prove himself.

Snape sneered. “Ah, our… new celebrity.”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

BLAISE

Blaise watched with amusement as Snape—he refused to acknowledge the man as a professor because, quite frankly, no real professor would take such pleasure in tearing down children—tried to break Hadrian with a barrage of advanced potion-related questions.

The tactic was obvious. Snape wanted to humiliate Hadrian in front of the entire class, to make an example of him. But Blaise knew better. Hadrian wasn’t just some wide-eyed first-year who’d be cowed by an authority figure throwing his weight around.

Sure enough, Hadrian remained perfectly calm, answering each question with a steady voice, his tone carrying not an ounce of hesitation. He listed ingredients, brewing times, and potion effects with the ease of someone who had spent years studying, not just reading, but understanding the craft.

The class sat in stunned silence. Even the Gryffindors, who were usually the first to feel secondhand embarrassment for their own, were watching in fascinated awe.

Blaise bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. Oh, this was going to be fun.

Snape sputtered—actually sputtered—before quickly masking it with a sneer.

“Well, since you seem to know the subject so well, why don’t you come and teach the class how to brew a Cure for Boils potion?” He crossed his arms, smugness radiating off him in waves, clearly expecting Hadrian to balk under the pressure.

Blaise had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Hadrian, completely unfazed, tilted his head as if considering the challenge before flashing a cocky smile. “Alright then, but don’t be too surprised if I brew it better than you.”

The class collectively held its breath.

Snape’s expression twisted into something murderous. Blaise was sure that if looks could kill, Hadrian would’ve been reduced to nothing but ash. But Hadrian? He simply stood, walked toward the front of the class with the kind of confidence that made it seem as if he were the professor, and rolled up his sleeves.

Blaise leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, utterly delighted.

DAPHNE

Daphne hated being caught off guard, and right now, she felt like she was stumbling through a maze blindfolded with no way out. Never in her almost twelve years of life had she expected to sit in a classroom and watch an eleven-year-old—a first-year—completely upstage a professor.

And not just any professor. Snape, a world-renowned potion’s master.

Yet here she was, watching Harry Potter take command of the class with a level of confidence no eleven-year-old had any right to possess. He wasn’t just answering Snape’s impossible questions—he was teaching the lesson himself, moving through the instructions with an ease that made it seem like he’d done this a hundred times before.

Daphne glanced at Theo and Tracey, who both looked just as bewildered as she felt. Blaise, on the other hand, sat back with an amused smirk, as if he’d expected this all along.

She exhaled slowly, turning her attention back to the front.

This year was already proving to be very different from what she had imagined.

TRACEY

Tracey decided that she really liked Potter. He was an absolute riot in her opinion—sharp, witty, and completely unfazed by the chaos he seemed to leave in his wake. But even as she laughed along with him, there was something... off about him.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it nagged at her. And strangely enough, she felt the same way about Blaise.

Which was weird, because up until the start of summer, everything had been normal. She, Theo, Daphne, and Blaise had spent the first half of their break prepping for Hogwarts together—studying, practicing spells, going over family history, the usual. But then, after they’d all gotten their letters, Blaise had just... vanished.

Not literally, of course, but he’d gone dark. Withdrawn. Barely responded to letters. And when they finally had seen him again on the train, he was acting like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just disappeared for weeks without explanation.

And now, he and Potter were thick as thieves, chatting like they’d known each other for years.

Tracey narrowed her eyes slightly, watching them banter back and forth over some nonsense about runes.

Something was definitely up. But for the life of her, she just couldn’t figure out what it was.

LOST FUTURE 

HARRY 

A wendigo was a creature of nightmare, an entity born from desperation and hunger. Tall and gaunt, its skeletal frame stretched unnaturally beneath pale, almost translucent skin, as if starvation itself had shaped its body. Its eyes, sunken deep into its skull, glowed with an eerie, hungry light—endless pits of insatiable need.

Legends told of wendigos as cursed beings, once human but driven to monstrousness by their own dark desires. In the bitter cold of winter, when food was scarce and survival meant making impossible choices, a person who committed the ultimate taboo—cannibalism—could transform into a wendigo. The curse twisted them into creatures of eternal hunger, never satisfied, always starving, doomed to hunt and consume but never truly be sated.

They were fast, nearly impossible to track, and even harder to kill. Their very presence warped the air around them, chilling it to the bone. Some whispered that their voices could mimic those of lost loved ones, luring victims into the depths of the forest. Others swore that a wendigo could slip between the shadows, vanishing just before a strike.

Yet, despite their horrifying existence, wendigos held immense magical power. Their cores—formed from the remnants of the dark magic that had cursed them—were rare, volatile, and potent. Used in rituals, they could amplify spells, strengthen wards, or even alter the fabric of one's magical essence.

And now, Harry needed one.

The words echoed in his mind as he stared at the closed book, the weight of what he was about to do sinking in. The ritual had its dangers, and wendigos were not creatures to be taken lightly. Every step would need to be precise, or the consequences would be far worse than failure. But the hole in his magic... it was growing, gnawing at him, and he had no other choice.

He ran his fingers along the edge of the book’s leather cover, feeling the texture of its binding beneath his fingertips. His mind raced through the steps, the incantations, and the preparations. He needed a wendigo core, and once he had it, he would have the chance to finally repair the damage to his magic. It was the only way to restore himself to what he once was—or at least, to make himself whole again.

He didn’t bother to wonder whether he was doing the right thing. He didn’t have time for that. All he had was the goal. A wendigo had to die, and he would be the one to do it.

The wendigo’s magic was dangerous, unpredictable, and as much as he had learned about it, he knew that experience was the only real teacher when it came to dealing with such a beast.

No rest for the wicked he thought. This wasn’t just about fixing his magic anymore; this was about survival.

The wind howled through the trees, the only sound besides the blood-pounding beat of Harry’s heart. He was crouched low behind a thick cluster of trees, watching the wendigo through the gaps in the branches. Its skeletal form was barely visible in the shadows, but he could feel the unnatural cold emanating from it, a chill that numbed his fingers and made his breath fog in the air.

He swallowed, gripping his wand tightly. He had prepared for this moment, had studied everything there was to know about the wendigo. But now that he was here, facing the beast, nothing had prepared him for the primal terror coursing through his veins.

The wendigo's eyes flickered toward him, glowing faintly in the darkness. It sensed him. The air crackled, thick with danger. Harry felt the magic surge within him—he couldn't back down now.

With a snap, the wendigo lunged, its long, clawed fingers scraping against the bark of the tree he’d just ducked behind. The movement was so fast, so sudden, that Harry barely had time to react.

He rolled out of the way, barely avoiding the creature's next strike. The wendigo’s sharp claws raked across the ground, leaving deep gouges in the dirt, and the force of the blow sent a shockwave of cold air through the forest, nearly knocking Harry off his feet. He gritted his teeth, rising to his knees.

“You want a fight?” he muttered under his breath. “You’ve got one.”

He twisted his wrist and flicked his wand. “Incendio!” A burst of flame erupted from the tip, heading straight toward the creature. The wendigo screeched, its skin crackling as the fire made contact, but it didn’t retreat. It was enraged, its hunger only growing. It charged forward, its massive limbs closing the distance faster than Harry anticipated.

He barely dodged the wendigo’s next swipe, rolling out of the way just as its claws tore through the earth where he had been standing. The creature was relentless, faster than anything he had fought before. It was toying with him, its twisted grin wide, glowing eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.

Harry knew he needed to finish this—fast.

He dove to his feet, rushing toward the wendigo, his wand held firm. “Expelliarmus!” he yelled, but the spell did little more than knock a few shards of ice loose from the creature’s thick skin.

The wendigo recoiled for a moment, but it wasn’t enough. Harry could see the core—dark and pulsing—faintly visible in the creature’s chest. It was the only weak point, the only thing that could stop it.

With the wendigo distracted, Harry moved faster than he ever had before. He leapt onto a nearby boulder, propelling himself into the air, his wand raised high. “Confringo!”

The blast of raw, destructive magic hit the wendigo’s chest with a violent force. The creature howled in agony, the force of the spell shaking the ground beneath them. But the wendigo didn’t die. Its body cracked and burned, but the core… it was still alive, still pulsing.

Breath coming in ragged gasps, Harry darted forward. The wendigo swung a massive claw at him, but he dodged it at the last second, rolling across the ground. He had to end this, and now.

The wendigo, disoriented from the blast, staggered back, giving Harry just enough time. He planted his feet, drew a breath, and in a single fluid motion, cast the killing curse. “Avada Kedavra!”

The green light shot through the air, hitting the wendigo square in the chest. The creature screamed one final, terrifying scream, its body shuddering violently before it collapsed, lifeless, onto the forest floor.

For a long moment, Harry didn’t move, standing frozen in the cold, watching as the last of the wendigo’s unnatural magic faded from the air. The creature’s body began to crumble, its core finally dimming to nothing.

Harry’s body ached, his limbs trembling with exhaustion, but he felt a surge of relief. He had done it. It was over.

Except, it wasn’t.

He collapsed to his knees, his hands shaking violently as he reached for the wendigo’s core. It was still there, pulsing faintly. The ritual would need it. But Harry didn’t have much time. He could feel the strain of the fight catching up to him, his breath ragged, his vision blurry.

With a final, gritted breath, Harry scooped up the core and staggered back, already planning his next move. He had won this fight, but there were more battles ahead.

Chapter Text

BLAISE

The moon was at its peak, casting a silver glow over the endless expanse of stars that surrounded Blaise. He stood in the vast cosmic sea, weightless, suspended between the constellations as though he belonged among them.

Reaching out, his fingers brushed against the shimmering light of the Andromeda galaxy. It pulsed warmly in his grasp, a swirling mass of blues and purples, burning softly like a living thing. The universe felt so close here, as if it were waiting for him to claim it, to mold it in his hands.

Blaise exhaled slowly, watching as stardust drifted through the air around him, catching in his hair, clinging to his skin. There was something profoundly intimate about this place, this quiet infinity that stretched in all directions. He held the galaxy close, feeling the hum of its energy seep into his bones.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered—was this a dream? A vision? Or had he simply stepped beyond the limits of reality itself?

He turned, and there, standing before him, was a figure cloaked in flowing shadows and threads of starlight, shifting like the very fabric of the cosmos. Her face was obscured, but her presence was achingly familiar—like a forgotten name, or a melody heard in a dream, just out of reach.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Her voice rang out, distorted yet bell-like, echoing softly in the vast space around them.

Blaise glanced down at the Andromeda galaxy in his hand, the light pulsing gently against his skin. Though small and delicate, the power contained within it was immeasurable.

“It is,” he murmured, mesmerized by its glow.

The figure tilted her head, her posture unreadable. “And yet… you hesitate.”

Blaise frowned, unaware of the hesitation. His grip on the galaxy tightened, the warmth of its core pressing into his palm. “What is this place?” he asked instead, his voice tinged with confusion.

The figure’s laugh sounded like wind chimes in a soft breeze. “A question you already know the answer to.”

A sharp pulse of magic surged through the space between them. For the briefest moment, Blaise saw something—an image, a flicker of memories that weren’t his own. But before he could grasp it, the stars shifted, and the moment was gone.

Blaise took a slow, steadying breath. “Then why don’t I remember?”

She was silent for a moment, and when she finally spoke, her voice held a knowing lilt. “You will.”

"Who are you?" The question felt heavy, like the weight of forgotten lives pressing against his chest.

The figure tilted her head, and for a brief second, the stars dimmed. “You already know.”

The silence stretched between them, the faint hum of the universe filling the space. “Walk with me, moon child.”

Blaise hesitated, fingers tightening around the Andromeda galaxy as he studied her. Shadows clung to her form like silk, shifting in an endless dance with the threads of starlight that wove through her being. There was no face, no defining features—only presence, vast and unshakable, like the universe itself.

Still, he did not fear her.

The term moon child settled in his chest, a strange echo of something he should have remembered, just beyond his grasp.

And yet, despite the weight of it, he followed.

Each step sent ripples through the sea of stars beneath him, constellations rearranging in patterns that felt familiar, though he couldn’t place them. The stars whispered as they passed, their voices ancient and layered, speaking in tongues older than time itself.

“You call it hesitation,” Blaise murmured, his gaze shifting between the galaxies around them. “But I call it caution.”

The figure hummed, a sound that vibrated through the very air, making the stars tremble. “A careful heart is not a weak one.” She gestured toward the galaxy still cupped in his hands. “But tell me, Blaise Zabini—why do you hold on so tightly to something you do not yet understand?”

Blaise looked down at the galaxy, watching the way it pulsed against his skin. A part of him wanted to claim it, to draw its power into himself and make it his own. But another part of him, quieter and more cautious, whispered of restraint.

His mother had always taught him that power was dangerous, and that those who wielded it without understanding were the first to be consumed.

“…Because power demands a price,” Blaise answered, his voice low but certain.

The figure turned toward him, and though her eyes were hidden, he felt their weight on him—judging, waiting.

“And are you willing to pay it?”

Blaise exhaled slowly, the weight of the galaxy burning against his palm. The question lingered, and for the first time, he truly considered it.

“I suppose that depends on the cost.”

HARRY

Blaise had seemed off ever since they had woken up. His eyes were glossy, his gaze distant as he stared into space for a long while. Harry had tried to get him to talk, but after a while, he relented and decided to take him to the infirmary, hoping that Madam Pomfrey could help. Harry had wanted to stay with him, to make sure he was okay, but Madam Pomfrey insisted he attend class and promised she'd have Blaise back to normal by lunchtime.

With a sigh, Harry left, though the worry gnawed at him the entire way.

As he walked down the corridor toward class, he heard someone call his name. “Potter!” Harry turned around, meeting the cold eyes of Draco Malfoy and his usual entourage of cronies.

“Do you need something, Malfoy?” Harry asked, not hiding the weariness in his voice. The two of them had reached an unspoken truce of sorts in their last life, though Harry wouldn't have gone as far as calling them friends. He didn’t know what to make of the blonde boy.

In their past life, Malfoy had been insufferable—a constant irritant, always spewing bigoted nonsense. It had driven Harry crazy. But now? Now he was just an eleven-year-old, parroting everything his parents had taught him. Harry wasn't sure what to think, but part of him wondered if there was still a chance for change.

“Where’s your better half?” Malfoy huffed, crossing his arms in that way he always did, like he owned the space around him.

“He’s at the infirmary,” Harry said flatly.

Malfoy blinked in surprise, and for just a fleeting second, Harry caught a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes.

“Did something happen to him?” Malfoy asked, the question surprising Harry even more than the look of concern.

Harry paused. He had almost forgotten that, at this point in time, Malfoy and Blaise were still friends. Of course, Malfoy would be worried.

“I’m not quite sure,” Harry replied, his brow furrowing. “He’s been acting strange ever since he woke up.”

Malfoy’s expression faltered slightly, though he quickly masked it. Harry didn’t miss the faint edge of worry beneath his usual arrogance. It was strange, seeing this side of Malfoy.

“Well then, send him my regards and tell him I want to talk to him at his earliest convenience,” Malfoy said, his usual arrogance creeping back into his tone like a well-worn coat.

“Sure, Malfoy,” Harry replied flatly, not bothering to hide his indifference.

They stood there for a moment, the silence stretching between them like an uncomfortable gap neither of them knew how to bridge. Harry shifted his weight, feeling the tension in the air, before he finally broke it.

“See you around, Malfoy.” He gave a small, almost dismissive nod before turning on his heel and walking away.

As Harry made his way down the hall, he couldn’t help but think about the strange encounter. It felt… different. Malfoy wasn’t the same as he remembered. Maybe there was hope for him after all.

Blaise was thankfully fine by lunch, much to Harry's relief, and they headed off to class together. The two of them chatted casually as they walked, but Harry’s mind was a bit elsewhere. Honestly, he’d forgotten all about Quirrell. The man was... pretty forgettable.

The first half of class went smoothly. They covered some basic first-year material, nothing too taxing. But then the second half of the lesson kicked in, and Harry’s world took a sudden, sharp turn.

His head throbbed with an intensity he hadn’t felt in years—his migraine made it feel like his skull was about to split open. His magic was constantly on edge, as if it were tangling with something deep inside him, unsettling his insides. His stomach churned, threatening to revolt, and he had to fight every urge not to vomit.

It didn’t take long for Harry to realize what was happening. He had completely forgotten what it was like to be around Voldemort while the Horcrux still resided inside of him. That gnawing, suffocating presence—the way it twisted everything around him—was something he’d tried so hard to bury, but now it came flooding back all at once.

He struggled to focus on the lesson, doing everything in his power to keep his face neutral and avoid drawing attention. He had to fight to remain composed, knowing that if he let the discomfort show, someone—Quirrell, maybe—would ask questions he didn’t want to answer.

It was so much worse than he remembered.

“Are you alright?” Blaise’s voice was soft, but there was no mistaking the concern in it. He had seen right through Harry’s attempt to hide how badly he was feeling.

Harry blinked, his vision swimming a little as he glanced at Blaise. He tried to ignore the dizziness swirling in his mind, but it was hard to push past it. He managed a small, weak smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, just a headache,” he lied, hoping it would be enough to make Blaise drop it.

Blaise didn’t buy it. He raised an eyebrow, his eyes sharp as they studied Harry’s face. “A headache? You don’t look alright.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to mask the deepening pressure inside his skull. The oppressive weight pressing in on him felt almost suffocating. “It’s nothing,” he insisted, his voice shaking just enough to betray him. He didn’t want Blaise worrying—he didn’t have an explanation for what was going on, and he certainly wasn’t about to tell him about the magic burning inside his veins.

Blaise didn’t push, but Harry could feel the lingering concern, hanging between them like an unspoken question. “If you say so…” Blaise muttered, but Harry could tell he wasn’t convinced.

The rest of the class felt like a blur, and when the bell rang, Harry struggled to pull himself upright. His legs felt weak, as though the ground beneath him wasn’t entirely stable. His head spun in dizzying circles, and his stomach churned violently, making him feel like he might collapse at any moment.

He braced himself against the desk, but the room swam around him, each movement making it worse.

Blaise noticed the second Harry steadied himself, his voice dropping to a concerned whisper. “Hadrian, you look like you’re going to collapse.”

Harry tried to push him away with a wave, straightening his posture despite every instinct telling him to sit down. “I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice wavering more than he wanted it to. The last thing he wanted was for Blaise to see how bad it really was.

Blaise didn’t buy the act. He took a step closer, his gaze searching Harry’s face, voice soft but insistent. “You really don’t look fine. You need to get to the infirmary.”

Harry shook his head, swallowing hard as the room seemed to tilt again. The thought of walking all the way to the infirmary seemed impossible, but staying in the classroom was torture. “I’ll be alright,” he said, his words shaky even to him.

Blaise didn’t argue; instead, he quietly moved closer and extended his arm. “Come on,” he said, voice steady but firm. “Don’t make me drag you.”

Harry hesitated for a second, but the pain and dizziness were becoming unbearable. He took Blaise’s arm, letting him help steady him as they made their way to the door. Each step felt like it took more effort than the last, and Harry’s head throbbed in time with his pulse, but he forced himself to keep moving. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up, but he didn’t want to face whatever was coming alone.

RON

Ron had expected a lot of things from Harry Potter—the Boy-Who-Lived, the kid everyone whispered about, the legend wrapped in mystery. But a Slytherin? That had thrown everyone for a loop.

The entire Great Hall had gone silent when the Sorting Hat made its declaration. Some thought it was a mistake, that McGonagall would step in and correct it. But Harry hadn’t even blinked. He just got up from the stool and strode over to the Slytherin table like he belonged there, with a type of confidence Ron could only dream of having.

Everyone had been talking about him ever since. From what Ron had heard—since he hadn’t actually spoken to the bloke yet—Harry was… well, surprisingly normal. Friendly, even, which was bizarre for a Slytherin. And apparently, he was helpful. That was the part Ron had trouble wrapping his head around. A helpful Slytherin? Was that even a thing?

But the real kicker had been Potions class. Snape, who hadn’t been subtle about his hatred for Harry, had gone after him immediately, throwing impossible questions at him, waiting for him to trip up. Any other first-year would’ve crumbled under the pressure. But not Harry. No, Harry had stayed cool, met Snape’s sneer with an easy smile, and answered every question perfectly.

Then—then—when Snape, looking fit to murder, demanded he brew a potion in front of the entire class, and Harry, the mad lad, had actually done it. Effortlessly. Like it was nothing.

And when Snape tried to find fault with it, Harry had the actual nerve to challenge him, pointing out flaws in Snape’s own brewing method.

Snape had been livid.

Ron grinned just remembering what had happened.

So yeah maybe Harry Potter wasn’t what he had imagined, but he was starting to think that may not have been a bad thing.

He couldn’t say the same about Zabini, though. The boy just had this air about him—arrogant, cocky, like he knew something no one else did. And the worst part? He could actually back it up, unlike Malfoy, who was all bark and no real bite.

It hadn’t even been a full week, and Zabini had already cemented himself as the top of their year. In every class, he was quick, sharp, and infuriatingly smug about it. Ron wanted to write him off as just another pompous Slytherin, but the problem was… Zabini wasn’t wrong. He really did know more than most of them.

And, sure, Ron could admit his dislike was probably a bit unfair. It wasn’t like Zabini had done anything to him. He hadn’t insulted his family, called him names, or really acknowledged Ron at all. But something about him just got under Ron’s skin—that I know something you don’t attitude that made Ron feel like he was constantly missing the punchline to a joke everyone else was in on.

Honestly, it was one of the biggest reasons Ron hadn’t gone up to Harry yet. Wherever Harry went, Zabini wasn’t far behind, like a shadow constantly lurking at his side. And Ron had no idea how to deal with that.

SEVERUS

Severus needed a drink.

This entire week had been an absolute disaster, starting the moment Potter was sorted into Slytherin. Slytherin. He still wasn’t sure if he was furious or impressed—or perhaps some horrifying combination of both.

Just thinking about the boy made his head throb. He had braced himself for a miniature James Potter, all arrogance and recklessness wrapped in messy black hair. But instead, he got… Lily.

Because only Lily would have had the sheer audacity to challenge a professor in front of the entire class and do it so calmly. Only Lily would have stood her ground, utterly convinced of her own correctness, and somehow made it seem like she was the reasonable one while he was being ridiculous.

And wasn’t that a sobering thought?

“What are you thinking so hard about, Severus?”

Minerva’s voice cut through his thoughts as she settled beside him. The first staff meeting of the year had barely begun, and Severus already wished it were over.

“Potter,” he muttered gruffly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Minerva gave him a knowing look, though there was something strained about her smile. He knew it had rattled her more than she cared to admit—seeing the son of James and Lily Potter walk past the Gryffindor table without a second glance, settling so naturally among the Slytherins.

“He’s a good boy, Severus,” she said gently. “No need to be so hard on him.”

Severus barely held back a scoff. A good boy? He wanted to refute her claim, wanted to tell her that Potter was a menace, a personal demon sent to torment him with memories he’d rather leave buried. But even he knew how absurd that would sound.

So instead, he exhaled sharply, biting back the words clawing at the back of his throat.

Minerva studied him for a long moment before sighing. “Just… give him a chance.”

Severus said nothing. Because that—that was the problem, wasn’t it? The more he looked at Harry Potter, the more he saw Lily’s defiance, her sharp mind, her relentless sense of justice.

And he wasn’t sure if that made it easier or infinitely worse.

As the rest of the professors filed in and the meeting began, Severus forced himself to focus. The first and last meetings of the year were always the most productive, and thankfully, this was one of them.

That was, until the conversation inevitably shifted to the most promising students.

And, of course, his name kept coming up.

“The boy is advancing far faster than any first-year should,” Filius remarked, rubbing his mustache thoughtfully.

“Truly,” Minerva agreed, looking far too pleased with herself. “He has his father’s knack for Transfiguration.”

Severus barely stopped his eyes from twitching. The rest of the staff were practically singing praises about the Potter boy, and he was growing increasingly tempted to brew himself something stronger than tea when—

“You all keep going on about Potter,” Sybill suddenly cut in, tilting her head in that eerily knowing way of hers, “but none of you have mentioned Zabini yet. That boy is simply brilliant.”

There was an almost awestruck look in her usually glassy eyes, and to Severus' mild surprise, Pomona hummed in agreement.

“He has quite the green thumb,” she added.

Zabini.

Now there was an enigma.

The boy was, by all accounts, the perfect Slytherin—cunning, quick-witted, and sharper with his words than any first-year had any right to be. But for the life of him, Severus felt like the boy didn’t respect him.

It was odd.

He hadn’t interacted with Zabini prior to Hogwarts, and yet there was a certain air to the boy whenever they spoke, like he was entertained by Severus rather than intimidated. He had initially assumed Zabini was simply like that with all the professors, but apparently not, because with the others, he was nothing short of charming and respectful.

So perhaps it had something to do with Potter.

They were always together. Unnaturally so for two boys who claimed to have only just met.

“Potter and Zabini seem to be attached at the hip,” Filius mused, as if mirroring Severus' own thoughts.

“Ah, you noticed too?” Pomona said, a knowing glint in her eyes that unsettled him.

“I think it’s rather cute how attached they seem to each other,” Aurora added with an amused smile. “It’s like watching the moon circle the sun.”

Severus frowned, rolling the metaphor over in his mind.

The moon circling the sun.

It was an odd way to describe them, but the more he thought about it, the more irritatingly accurate it seemed.

Zabini was the moon—silent, ever-present, and always lingering just on the edges. He didn’t demand attention the way others did; he simply existed in Potter’s orbit, watching, observing, and moving in sync with him in a way that felt entirely too deliberate. He had the kind of effortless confidence Severus had come to associate with people who knew more than they let on.

And Potter… well.

He was the sun.

Not in the way James had been—a blinding force, arrogant and shining with the kind of confidence that made everyone else dim in comparison. No, this was different. Potter was steady. He drew people in without trying, held them in his gravity without ever reaching out, and burned with a quiet intensity that most first-years lacked. He commanded attention without demanding it, and the worst part? He didn’t even seem to realize it.

Zabini certainly did, though.

The way he moved around Potter, the way his sharp eyes tracked everything, as if anticipating his every move—it wasn’t just friendship. It was something else. Something deeper.

And Severus wasn’t sure if he liked it.

Chapter Text

LOST FUTURE

HARRY

To be chosen—what did that truly mean?

Was it fate? An immutable destiny woven into the fabric of the universe, inescapable no matter what choices were made? Or was it circumstance—mere happenstance, a cruel twist of chance that placed a single individual at the center of a story they never agreed to tell?

It was a question that had plagued Harry for years, ever since he first heard the prophecy. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord… It had shaped his entire life, dictated his path before he’d even learned to walk. But the words that haunted him most weren’t about his power or his role as Voldemort’s downfall.

And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.

There was no choice. No freedom. He was marked, his fate sealed before he even understood what it meant.

But then came the most damning realization of all: It could have been Neville.

If Voldemort had chosen differently, if his paranoia had pushed him toward the Longbottoms instead of the Potters, Harry’s life—his suffering, his burdens—might have belonged to someone else. It wasn’t divine selection that made him the Chosen One. It was Voldemort’s fear. A single decision. A moment of chance.

So what did that make him?

A hero? A weapon? Or simply the unlucky recipient of another man’s paranoia?

The idea of being chosen implied some kind of significance, a greater purpose that set one person apart from the rest. But Harry had never felt special. Strong? Maybe. But that strength had been carved from hardship, from survival, from the sheer force of will to keep going when everything told him to break.

Dumbledore once told him that it was his choices, not his abilities, that defined him. And yet, so much of his life had never truly been his to choose. He had been steered down a path before he was old enough to reject it, shaped by forces far beyond his control. Even his final battle against Voldemort had felt like inevitability, like a story playing out the only way it ever could.

But if being chosen was nothing more than a twist of fate, then what truly mattered was what he did after.

Because destiny was nothing without action. And while he hadn’t chosen to be marked, to be hunted, to be the hero of a war he never asked for—he had chosen to fight. To protect. To stand, again and again, even when he was tired and afraid.

Maybe that was what it truly meant to be chosen. Not a prophecy. Not fate.

But the willingness to stand in the fire and say, I will not let this define me, I refuse to let this heat consume.

A pulse of raw magic snapped him out of his thoughts.

Harry inhaled sharply, head jerking toward the rune circle on the floor. The wendigo core was stirring. He could feel it pressing against the containment wards, its energy feral and demanding. He rose from his chair, muscles stiff from sitting too long, and strode toward it.

The magic of a wendigo core couldn’t be understated. It was one of the rarest and most dangerous magical ingredients in existence, and acquiring one was no simple feat. Wendigos were nightmares given form—relentless, ravenous, and nearly unkillable. It usually took a team of three or four highly trained Wix to bring one down. Even then, survival wasn’t guaranteed.

And yet, Harry had done it alone.

With half his magical core missing.

The fight had been brutal—his body still bore the lingering aches as proof. But in the end, he had won. He always did.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself as he pulled off his shirt. The room was cool against his skin, but it did little to ease the tension coiling in his muscles. With a flick of his wand, the wendigo core lifted from the rune circle, hovering in the air before gently settling into the palm of his hand. It was warm—unnervingly so—pulsing with a slow, rhythmic energy, almost like a second heartbeat.

This was the hard part.

He conjured a mirror in front of him, its surface shimmering as it took form. His gaze flickered to his own reflection, noting the faint sheen of sweat already forming at his temples. He knew what he was about to do was reckless. Insane, even. But he didn’t have the luxury of waiting for someone else to figure out how to fix him.

Rolling his shoulders, he grabbed the scalpel from the nearby table, whispering a quick numbing spell over his skin. It wouldn’t completely block out the pain—nothing ever did—but it would dull the worst of it. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the blade against the skin just beside the gaping hole in his magic.

The first incision was shallow, a mere scratch, but as he pressed deeper, his breath hitched. The scalpel cut through layers of skin and muscle with a precise, almost clinical detachment. Blood welled up in thin, red rivulets, but Harry ignored it. He had to be careful—too shallow, and the core wouldn’t take root; too deep, and he risked damaging the fragile pathways of his already fractured magic.

His hand was steady as he widened the opening, the exposed area throbbing despite the numbing spell. He could feel the wrongness of the hole in his magic, an empty, aching void where energy should have flowed freely. It wasn’t just a wound—it was an absence, a missing piece of himself that magic refused to mend.

Bracing himself, he took the wendigo core and pressed it into place.

The reaction was immediate.

A searing heat erupted from the core, burning along his magical pathways like wildfire. His back arched as pain lanced through him, his breath leaving him in a ragged gasp. His magic surged violently, twisting and writhing as it fought against the foreign presence now embedded within him. The wendigo’s magic was raw and wild, unlike anything he had ever wielded before. It clawed at him, seeking dominance, seeking control.

Harry gritted his teeth, forcing his magic to push back. He had no choice but to tame it, to make it his. If he failed—if the wendigo’s magic overpowered him—it wouldn’t just reject the core. It would consume him.

Minutes stretched into eternity as he wrestled with the magic, sweat dripping down his temple. The air around him crackled, the runes on the floor flaring with unstable energy. His vision blurred, dark spots creeping into the edges of his sight. But slowly—agonizingly—he felt the core settle, its magic no longer fighting against his but instead merging, intertwining like a jagged seam pulling itself closed.

When the last tendrils of energy finally latched onto his own, Harry slumped forward, catching himself on the edge of the table. His chest heaved, his skin slick with sweat, but the void in his magic no longer felt like an empty chasm. It was different now. Not whole. Not healed. But no longer hollow.

He let out a weak chuckle, breathless and exhausted.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, staring at his reflection in the mirror, “that was horrible.”

Harry let out a slow, shuddering breath, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His skin was clammy, his face pale, and sweat dripped from his brow. His magic still crackled under his skin, raw and uneasy, like a caged beast testing the strength of its bars.

And to think this was only a temporary fix.

The wendigo core wasn’t a cure—just a stopgap. A way to keep himself from unraveling completely. The hole in his magic was still there, lurking beneath the surface like a festering wound. The core had merely bridged the gap for now, giving him a borrowed stability. But it wouldn’t last forever.

Eventually, his magic would reject it.

The wendigo’s energy was too different, too volatile. Already, he could feel the edges of his own magic resisting, trying to break free from the foreign force holding it together. Maybe he had bought himself weeks. Maybe months, if he was lucky. But the day would come when this patchwork solution would fail, and he would be right back where he started.

Unless he found a real cure before then.

Harry exhaled sharply, pushing himself upright. His muscles protested, his entire body aching with exhaustion, but he forced himself to move. He had work to do. Research to comb through. More experiments to conduct. Because if this was what it took to keep going, he didn’t have a choice.

He refused to fall apart. Not yet. Not until he found a way to fix what had been broken.

PRESENT

ALBUS

Albus took a slow, measured breath, forcing his hands to unclench from the arms of his chair. Losing his temper would not solve anything. He was a man of patience, of strategy—he had spent his entire life playing the long game. But Harry Potter was proving to be an anomaly he had not accounted for.

The boy had disappeared off the map the moment he received his Hogwarts letter, and when he resurfaced, he was… different. Gone was the wide-eyed, eager child Albus had envisioned. In his place stood a boy who moved with purpose, who carried himself with a confidence that shouldn’t have been there—not after the years he’d spent with the Dursleys.

And worse still, Harry had found his way into the wrong company.

Blaise Zabini.

Albus had spent years countering Lady Zabini’s influence in the Wizengamot. She was a masterful politician, a woman who wielded words with the same precision as a duelist wielded a blade. She had a way of making people listen, of making them doubt the necessity of the laws and safeguards Albus had worked tirelessly to put in place. If not for his careful maneuvering, she might have undone decades of progress.

And now, her son had ensnared Harry.

They were inseparable—constantly at each other’s side, murmuring in hushed voices, moving as though they were two halves of a whole. It was unnatural. It was dangerous. That sort of attachment, that sort of unwavering loyalty… It was something Albus could have nurtured if Harry had chosen more appropriate company. But instead, he had tethered himself to a boy raised in the ways of the gray, a boy who undoubtedly whispered the same poisonous ideals into Harry’s ear.

No. He couldn’t allow this.

Albus steepled his fingers, his mind already weaving the threads of his next plan. He had underestimated the strength of Zabini’s influence—but it wasn’t too late to untangle Harry from his grasp. It wasn’t too late to set the boy back on the proper path.

He simply needed to be… strategic.

HARRY

Blaise stared at Harry in stunned silence as he explained about the Horcrux, how it had ended up inside him, and the lingering consequences. He watched as Blaise’s face cycled through a storm of emotions, before settling into a mask that Harry recognized—a blankness, similar to the one Carlotta often wore when she was trying to suppress something.

“So, you’ve had this Horcrux inside you the whole time we’ve been back?” Blaise’s voice was strangely flat, and Harry shifted uncomfortably. He hated the emptiness in his tone.

“Pretty much,” Harry muttered, trying to brush it off as casually as possible.

“And you didn’t think it was important to tell me?” Blaise’s voice cracked, and the raw hurt in his words hit Harry like a physical blow. He hated that he’d made Blaise sound like that, made him feel that way. His chest tightened.

“I—” Harry started, but faltered. He couldn’t say it had slipped his mind, because it hadn’t. The Horcrux had been there, sitting like a weight in the back of his mind since they’d returned to the past. His magic had felt complete again, and the implications of what that meant made him feel sick.

“Sorry,” he finally said, but the word felt hollow, too weak to fix anything.

Blaise frowned. “Sorry isn’t going to cut it, Harry.”

The way Blaise said his name—Harry, not Hadrian—stung more than Harry expected. It felt like a punishment, a shift in their dynamic, and Harry’s heart twisted painfully. He’d gotten used to being called Hadrian, especially by the Zabinis. It felt personal, like a secret just between them. To hear Blaise say Harry—a name he was used to hearing from distant people, from others who never really knew him—it made him feel exposed, like the intimacy they shared was being stripped away.

Blaise’s gaze softened when he saw Harry’s expression falter. “I’ve tried so hard to be respectful about your secrets, Hadrian. But things like this—things that could affect both of us—are something I should be aware of. What if something had gone wrong, and I didn’t know what to do?”

Blaise bit his lip and looked down, clearly trying to collect himself. “You don’t have to tell me everything, but please, just... confide in me when it’s important. Especially when I could help, or when it impacts us both.”

Harry swallowed hard. The vulnerability he felt in that moment was suffocating. No one had ever truly cared about what he had to say—not like this. People either twisted his words or ignored them completely, and now, Blaise was asking him to open up, to share something real.

He opened his mouth, trying to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Nothing felt right, nothing felt enough.

Blaise sighed, his disappointment palpable in the air. He gave Harry a strained, but gentle smile. “Take your time,” he said quietly, before Madam Pomfrey broke through their privacy ward and gently ushered Blaise out of the infirmary, informing him that he would miss lunch.

Harry collapsed back onto the hospital bed, his mind racing with a hundred conflicting emotions. He wanted to trust Blaise—he did trust Blaise—but to open up to him this way? To let someone in so completely? Harry didn’t know anymore.

Blaise had been kind to him ever since they’d come back in time, inviting him into his home, showing him parts of his life that Harry had never even imagined. He’d shared things, vulnerable things—secrets that made Harry feel like they were on the same side. Harry wanted to return that, to be open and give back in the same way, but he didn’t know how.

Exhaustion crept over him as his thoughts tangled into a chaotic mess, the emotional weight too much to bear in one sitting. He’d figure it out, he told himself. He’d sort it out when he woke up from his nap.

NEVILLE

The sharp throb in Neville’s ankle made every step a challenge as he limped his way toward the infirmary. He hadn't even seen who hexed him—just a sudden jolt, a misstep, and then pain as he hit the ground.

As he approached the doors, he could hear voices inside.

“How much longer do I have to stay in here?” a boy asked, his tone hovering on the edge of a whine.

“Well, if you’d stay put and quit fussing, you’ll be out by dinner,” an older woman responded, exasperation clear in her voice.

Neville hesitated before stepping inside. He caught sight of the speakers—a tall woman in a nurse’s uniform and a boy with messy ebony hair. They hadn’t noticed him yet.

“But dinner isn’t for another three hours,” the boy muttered.

“Would you prefer if I kept you here until morning?” the nurse shot back.

The boy immediately shook his head, but winced sharply at the movement, his expression screwing up in pain.

The nurse sighed, rubbing her temples. “I’ll get you another dose of a headache relief draught.” She turned to retrieve it, only to pause when she finally spotted Neville standing there.

“Oh, sweet Morgana—” She clutched her chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack! How long have you been standing there?”

Neville shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the boy—Wait. That was Harry Potter. His stomach twisted slightly.

Harry was watching him. His unsettling, Avada-green eyes locked onto Neville in a way that made his pulse jump. He looked… unreadable.

“Can you hear me, lad?” The nurse’s voice pulled him back.

Neville quickly snapped his attention back to her and nodded.

“Well, then, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I—um, someone hit me with a hex, and I—I tripped, and I think I sprained my ankle,” Neville stammered.

Harry’s gaze never wavered.

Neville swallowed thickly. Had he done something to offend him? Everyone he’d heard talking about Potter said he was approachable, nice even. So why did it feel like he was being evaluated?

“Well, take a seat on the bed. I’ll grab some supplies before I check your ankle.” Madam Pomfrey turned to Harry. “Potter, be a dear and keep him company while I’m away.”

Without waiting for a response, she bustled out of the room, leaving Neville alone with Harry.

Silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable. Neville felt like he’d do anything to break it, but his mind came up blank.

“What’s your name?”

Neville flinched at the sudden question. “N-Neville Longbottom.”

Harry smiled warmly, and Neville felt himself relax a fraction. “Nice to meet you, Longbottom. I’m Harry Potter.” He introduced himself like his name wasn’t the most talked about name in Wixen society.

“J-Just Neville is fine,” he mumbled.

Harry’s smile widened. “Then you can call me Harry.”

The silence returned, but this time it didn’t feel so stifling.

“So,” Harry started, leaning back against the bed frame, “it’s been a week since school started. Got a favorite class yet?”

Neville hesitated, looking down at his lap. He mumbled something under his breath.

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that,” Harry said, and Neville could practically hear the frown in his voice.

“I-um… like Herbology…” He braced himself, waiting for the usual laughter or dismissive remarks.

“That’s cool. I’m pretty shit at it, though.”

Neville blinked in surprise before a startled laugh escaped him.

Harry grinned, clearly amused. “Yeah, I’m decent at normal gardening and all, but magical plants? For the life of me, I just can’t figure out how to keep them from eating me.”

Neville envied that—the ease with which Harry admitted his shortcomings. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

Harry snorted. “I appreciate the optimism, but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

Neville chuckled again, feeling the tight knot of anxiety in his chest loosen. He had expected something different—something sharp, maybe even cold. Instead, Harry sat across from him, openly admitting he was terrible at something without a hint of embarrassment.

“You really think Herbology is cool?” Neville found himself asking.

“Of course,” Harry said easily. “Plants can be dangerous as hell if you don’t know what you’re doing. I mean, Devil’s Snare? Venomous Tentacula? That stuff’s terrifying.”

Neville brightened. “Oh! And there’s also—” He caught himself, suddenly self-conscious of his enthusiasm.

Harry just raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Neville hesitated before glancing up at him. “Well… there’s also the Mimbulus Mimbletonia. It’s a rare magical plant that can—”

He stopped when he noticed Harry watching him—not with boredom or amusement, but with genuine interest.

“That can?” Harry asked encouragingly.

So Neville stomped down his anxiety and started talking about magical plants, their uses, their dangers, and their unique properties. The more he spoke, the more he forgot to be nervous.

By the time Madam Pomfrey returned with her supplies, Neville realized that—for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts—he felt like someone was actually listening.

Chapter Text

PRESENT

BLAISE

Hadrian was ignoring him—or no, not quite. He was avoiding the issue, which was arguably worse.

They needed to talk. Needed to define what this was, set boundaries, figure out where the line was between them. Because the way Hadrian had been hoarding information like a dragon with its treasure… it wasn’t just frustrating—it was dangerous. Something was going to happen. Blaise could feel it deep in his gut, and he didn’t know if it was paranoia or instinct, but the sense of looming disaster clung to him like smoke.

He twisted the gold ring on his finger, trying to ground himself. Just breathe. Enjoy the present. Pretend like everything wasn’t balancing on the edge of a knife.

Daphne dropped her book in front of him with a dramatic thump, snapping him back to reality.

“You’re dozing off,” she said dryly. “Very unlike you, Blaise.”

“Apologies. I just have a lot on my mind right now,” Blaise said, frowning as his eyes drifted toward the fireplace. Hadrian was sitting there, Theo to his left, laughing softly at something Tracey had said. Blaise couldn’t hear the words, but the way Hadrian’s shoulders relaxed told him enough.

“You feel different,” Daphne said suddenly, her tone sharper than before.

Blaise blinked and turned back to her. “Different how?”

She frowned. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

So that was the problem. Blaise knew Daphne well—she hated being left in the dark. She prided herself on reading people like books, picking apart their moods and intentions with frightening accuracy. But it was hard to read someone when the pages were missing.

“Something must’ve happened over the summer,” she said, more firmly now. “We saw you mid-June and you were fine. Then come July, it was like you disappeared. No letters, no floo calls, you missed all our coming of age parties.” Her voice softened. “Blaise, what’s going on?”

The look in her eyes twisted something in his chest. Hurt, confusion, a flicker of betrayal.

“We’re your best friends,” she said quietly. “We’re worried.”

Blaise felt a sharp pang of guilt twist in his chest.

Daphne, Tracey, and Theo had been his closest friends for as long as he could remember—before they even knew what friendship meant. They had practically been raised together, with all of their mothers being grey witches from the same coven. From their perspective, it must’ve seemed like Blaise had simply... discarded them. Abandoned the bond they’d shared in favor of new connections now that they were stepping into a different chapter of their lives.

But gods, it was painful. Seeing them so young again. So untouched by everything that was coming in the next fifteen years.

They didn’t have those years yet—those stolen nights whispering secrets in the dark, the shared glances in crowded rooms, the fierce loyalty forged by time and trials. Blaise remembered all of it. But these versions of his friends… they weren’t there yet. And maybe they never would be, because just by being here—he and Hadrian, they had ruined whatever timeline had once existed. Whatever future had once been theirs.

He tried not to let it get to him. Really, he did. Tried to smile, to laugh, to pretend it didn’t feel like he was grieving ghosts that still breathed.

Because yes, he had Hadrian. But that bond hadn't been built on trust—it was formed from necessity. From fear. From the hollow, scraping ache of not wanting to be alone.

And wasn’t that a bitter realization.

Because no matter how much they relied on each other, Hadrian still didn’t trust him. Not truly. It was clear in the way he clutched his secrets like lifelines, kept his past buried under practiced misdirection. During the summer, Blaise had tried to ask—small things, simple questions—but Hadrian always deflected, always sidestepped.

Blaise had done his best to respect that. He had. But the more time passed, the more he realized he didn’t actually know the boy who now lived in his home. Who’d seen the most private corners of his world, who he’d confided in more quickly than he ever had with his closest friends the first time around.

It stung. The imbalance. The hollowness of it.

And now, watching Daphne look at him like he was the stranger—it hit him just how much he’d made them feel the same way.

Like he was someone wearing the face of a boy they had once known—but now, no longer recognized.

Blaise swallowed dryly. “Daphne, I—”

But the words never made it out. Before he could say anything, Tracey came bounding over, dragging Theo and Hadrian along behind her. The moment shattered like glass, the words dying in his throat just as easily as the boy they remembered had.

“Blaise,” Tracey said, determined and brimming with purpose, “what ritual would you use to give an inanimate object life?”

Blaise blinked, caught off-guard, but answered without hesitation. “You’d use an animation ritual. Something like Veni ad vitam.”

Tracey beamed in triumph and spun around to face the two boys she’d towed along. “Ha! Told you so.”

“I never disagreed with you,” Theo said as he took a seat beside Blaise on the bay window. “I just said using Piertotum Locomotor would’ve been a better, faster option.”

Tracey scoffed and flopped down beside Daphne, arms crossed. “Sure, but that doesn’t give the object any autonomy. And where’s the fun in a lifeless puppet that only does what you tell it to?”

Hadrian lingered nearby, smiling fondly at the back-and-forth like it was some lighthearted stage play. Blaise watched him quietly, the ache in his chest sharpening.

“What even brought this up?” Blaise asked, forcing a casual tone.

“The charms essay,” Theo replied with a shrug. “Best way to animate an object. Tracey wanted to write an unorthodox answer instead of the obvious Piertotum Locomotor like we’re all expected to.”

“She wanted to have fun,” Theo added, with an eye roll.

Daphne still hadn’t said anything. Her frown lingered. Her eyes remained on Blaise.

And Blaise... Blaise wondered if he’d ever be able to fix what felt broken.

“Anyway,” Tracey began, eyes bright with curiosity, “since we’re all here—why do you call Harry Hadrian?” She looked straight at Blaise, clearly expecting an answer.

Blaise blinked at her, confused. “Because it’s his name?”

Now she looked confused. She turned to Hadrian. “Is it?”

“It is,” Hadrian answered with a casual shrug.

Tracey frowned deeper. “But when we first met, you introduced yourself as Harry Potter. That’s what you told everyone to call you.”

“It’s what everyone knows me by,” Hadrian said plainly. “You don’t go around giving out your full government name to strangers.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Plus…” A faint, amused smile played on his lips. “Names have power.”

Daphne rolled her eyes beside him, unimpressed. “So do we call you Hadrian now?” she asked flatly.

Hadrian shook his head without hesitation. “Only Blaise can call me that.”

That earned him three pointed stares—and Blaise could feel the heat rush to his cheeks.

“Well, what about a nickname then?” Tracey jumped in, ever the peacekeeper and chaos-bringer all at once.

“A nickname?” Hadrian tilted his head, intrigued.

“I’m great at nicknames,” Tracey declared confidently, turning to the others for support. “Right, guys?”

The water outside the bay window suddenly became fascinating to all of them. All of them refused to meet her gaze.

“Traitors,” Tracey muttered, then turned back to Hadrian. “But I’ve got a really good one!”

“Alright, shoot.”

“Helios!” she said, beaming.

Hadrian blinked. “Like the Greek god of the Sun?”

Tracey nodded eagerly. “Exactly! And Helios was actually a Titan meaning he was more powerful than the gods. Cool, right?”

“Helios…” Daphne tested the name thoughtfully. “It does sound more like a proper wix name than ‘Harry.’” Then, with a glance, she added, “No offense.”

Hadrian laughed, warm and unbothered. “None taken. And sure, I’ve never had a nickname before.”

Theo gave Hadrian a long, unreadable look—but said nothing.

Helios.

Blaise considered it. The name fits in a strange, perfect way. Hadrian burned bright like the sun—warm, radiant, impossible to look away from. People naturally gravitated toward him, drawn to the light he gave off like moths to a flame. But people always forgot that just because the sun nurtures, doesn't mean it wasn't dangerous.

The sun could scorch. Blind. Consume. It was a force of life, yes, but also a force of destruction.

Hadrian was like that. Beautiful in the way something ancient and unknowable was beautiful. Kind, at times—but only to a point. The kind of person you wanted to trust, even when you knew better.

Yeah… he could see it.

DRACO

Draco had to admit—Harry Potter was nothing like he imagined.

For one, the boy was dark. Not just in the way he carried himself, but in the way his magic felt when you were close enough to brush against it. It was laughable that anyone ever considered him a light wix. And secondly—he was friends with Blaise Zabini. The son of one of the grayest witches in recent history.

They made an odd pair. Watching them interact was like witnessing two celestial bodies pretending to orbit on a human axis—gravitational forces wrapped in school robes and teenage faces. Powerful, poised, and terrifyingly synchronized.

It was... intriguing. And a little terrifying.

Draco wanted to be close to that. He wasn’t stupid—he could see the storm coming, and he’d rather be standing behind the ones conjuring it than swept up in the chaos. But that was easier said than done.

Blaise already had his group—tight-knit, loyal, quiet. Strategic. He’d somehow pulled Potter into that circle too, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Draco was supposed to be part of that group once. Before his father decided he needed to be surrounded by flatterers and sycophants, not equals. And look how well that turned out.

Now Blaise’s group held more power than anyone else in their year—politically, magically, socially. Potter’s name alone was a weighty thing, but Blaise? Blaise had always been his own brand of dangerous. His family's ancient knowledge of celestial runes had always set them apart, made them desirable, made them feared.

And Lady Zabini? The woman was an enigma cloaked in elegance and blood. Men chased her hand in marriage like it was the prize of a lifetime—until they wound up buried with barely a name on the headstone.

So you take two of the most potentially powerful wix of their generation, tie them together with quiet conversations and shared glances, wrap them in mystery and ambition—and what do you get?

A powerhouse. A gold mine of influence.

And Draco wanted in.

But how does one accomplish that? Simple. You draw their eyes to you.

Draco had noticed how, in the past few weeks, Potter had been getting close to the Longbottom boy—and he could use that.

He had gotten the perfect opportunity to do so during their first flying lesson. While everyone was focused on Madam Hooch’s instructions, Longbottom’s broom went haywire, sending the boy careening through the air.

When he crashed, his Remembrall clattered to the ground. It would’ve been a prime chance to humiliate him—but that wouldn’t serve Draco’s goal.

So instead, he picked it up and called out, “Potter! That friend of yours is no good on a broom. You ought to tell him to be more careful.”

Potter looked surprised. Good.

“He dropped this,” Draco added, holding up the Remembrall.

Potter’s expression shifted. “Give that back,” he said—low, dangerous. Draco had to fight not to flinch.

“No need to be so hostile,” he said smoothly. “Here.”

He tossed it over, and Potter caught it with ease.

The suspicion in his eyes didn’t waver. He looked like he was about to say something, but Blaise beat him to it.

“Thank you, Draco,” Blaise said pleasantly.

The watching crowd, disappointed by the lack of drama, slowly dispersed.

Once it was just the three of them, Draco turned back to Blaise. “I heard you were in the infirmary a while ago,” he said, letting his real concern bleed through his voice. “I hope everything’s alright.”

Blaise’s expression softened, just slightly. “I’m fine, Draco. It was just a bad headache.”

Draco nodded, eyes flicking to Potter—who was still watching him like a hawk, his gaze sharp enough to carve through stone. He didn’t look convinced.

Draco didn’t blame him. He wouldn’t trust himself either. But that didn’t matter.

What mattered was that Blaise had softened.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. A crack in the wall Blaise had built since they were children. A flicker of hope that maybe the boy Draco once knew was still in there—and maybe, just maybe, he’d let Draco back in.

Draco turned his attention back to him. “Still. If you ever need anything... I’m around.”

He said it lightly, like it was nothing. But Blaise looked at him like it was something rare. Trust, maybe. A second chance.

Potter said nothing. Just watched. Observing. Calculating.

He hadn’t bought the performance—not one bit.

That was fine. Draco didn’t need Potter’s trust. Not yet.

He just needed to stay on their radar. Needed them to see him.

Because the first step to becoming part of their orbit… was making sure they couldn’t look away.

ALBUS

He had finally called Harry into his office for a proper first introduction. Everything needed to go perfectly. He had to wear the grandfatherly mask, play the part of the warm, trustworthy mentor.

He had meant to work the boy into his schedule back in September—but the start of term was always chaos. So many responsibilities, so little time. But October… October was better anyway. It held more emotional weight. The month his parents had died. A perfect opportunity to steer the conversation—to show the boy he understood his grief.

The door to his office creaked open.

“Ah, Harry Potter. It’s so nice to officially meet you,” Albus said cheerfully, eyes twinkling with practiced warmth.

He finally got a good look at the boy. It was the weekend, and Harry wore simple but elegant casualwear: dark slacks and a forest green button-up shirt.

He looked every inch a respectable pureblood heir.

That had to be the Zabinis’ doing. The boy’s confidence, his posture, the easy way he moved—this wasn’t the broken, insecure child Albus had prepared for. This wasn’t a boy raised in neglect and poverty. He wasn't supposed to be accustomed to luxury.

That’s alright though, Albus schooled his expression. He could still work with this.

“Good afternoon, Headmaster,” Harry greeted him with a warm smile. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Albus’s hope flickered. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to pull the boy back from the edge. To save him from the path he was clearly walking.

“Please, take a seat,” Albus said, gesturing to the armchair. “Would you like a lemon drop?”

“Sorry,” Harry said, shaking his head politely. “I’m not the biggest fan of lemons.”

He sat down, posture relaxed but composed, and looked around the office with open curiosity.

“You have so many cool things in here,” he said, gaze drifting toward the corner of the room. His eyes lit up when they landed on the phoenix. “Is that a phoenix? I thought they were only legends.”

Albus chuckled, charmed by the boy’s wide-eyed wonder. “Anything is possible, my boy—so long as magic is involved.”

Harry nodded enthusiastically. “Still, it’s so cool how much stuff you have in here!”

Sitting across from the boy, Albus was struck by how much he reminded him of James. The resemblance wasn’t just in the face, though that was undeniable—it was in the way he carried himself. Warm. Charismatic. The kind of presence that drew people in, made them want to bask in it.

James had always had that—an effortless charm that made you want to get closer, to feel the warmth of his sun. But, like the sun, James could burn those he didn’t deem worthy of his light. Severus had been one of them.

At the time, Albus had dismissed it as typical teenage rivalry—two boys, one girl, predictable tension. But with hindsight… he saw the deeper fracture. The truth was, James had never liked Severus. And Severus, for all his bitterness now, had never been innocent either. He’d given as good as he got. Cruelty met with cruelty.

The whole thing had been a self-perpetuating cycle: James and his friends targeting Severus, and Severus retaliating in kind.

Albus exhaled softly through his nose. He was drifting. It had been a long time since he allowed himself to wander down that particular stretch of memory lane. Something about this boy had opened wounds he thought long since scabbed over.

He’d need to be careful.

Returning to the present, he smiled gently and asked, “How has your first month of school been, my boy?”

“It’s been awesome! I’ve made a ton of friends, and I really like my classes,” Harry said brightly.

Albus tried not to grimace at the word friends.

“And you’re not having a hard time?” he asked casually, schooling his expression into gentle curiosity.

Harry shook his head. “Not really. Most of my professors have been really helpful, and my friends fill me in on anything I don’t understand.” He flashed a sunny smile that was almost too perfect.

Albus offered a smile of his own, eyes twinkling. “I’ve heard about you leading your Potions class.”

That got the boy’s attention. “You know,” Albus continued lightly, “your mother had quite the knack for Potions as well.”

Harry’s eyes widened. Surprise flickered across his face, chased quickly by something deeper—something almost desperate.

“Really?” he asked, leaning forward ever so slightly. He sounded like someone starved for scraps.

Albus nodded thoughtfully, steepling his fingers. “Oh yes. Lily was one of the brightest students I ever had the pleasure of nurturing. She had a natural affinity for magic, but potions… that was her art. Professor Slughorn used to brag about her all the time.”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “I didn’t know that… I’ve only heard bits and pieces about my parents. It’s hard to know what’s true.”

Albus gave a sympathetic hum. “That is the tragedy of loss, my boy. We are left with memories shaped by others, and rarely the full picture.”

He paused, as if considering something carefully. “Your father, James, was quite the firebrand. A bit reckless in his youth—but brave, fiercely loyal to his friends, and… charming, in his own way. You remind me of him. The way you carry yourself.”

Harry looked both proud and unsure of what to do with that.

“But,” Albus continued gently, “as much as I see James in you… I also see Lily’s heart. That quiet strength. That desire to do good. It’s a powerful combination.”

Albus let the words settle. Let the boy feel the connection to parents he never truly knew. Then, with just the right amount of concerned softness, he added,

“I do worry, though, about the company we keep. I imagine some of your friends are truly kind-hearted—but others… well, children can be clever when they want to hide their true intentions. Especially children raised among more… ambitious circles.”

Harry tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his expression.

“I only say this because you are special, Harry,” Albus said, softening his tone. “And people will always be drawn to your light. Some will want to protect it. Others will want to use it.”

He let that warning sit, unspoken but clear.

“Do be careful about who you confinded your trust in, my boy.”

LOST FUTURE

???

“I trust you, Harry,” she said softly, watching as his fingers trembled over the final rune. She didn’t reach out, didn’t interrupt—just let him finish. She knew what this meant to him. This wasn’t just magic. This was survival. A desperate attempt to save the last fraying threads of his soul before the void swallowed them whole.

She would never say it aloud, but deep down she’d always known it would come to this. For a man so closely bound to death—so soaked in its scent, its shadow—it was only a matter of time before he called it to his side.

She began the chant, her voice steady and strong. Harry joined her, his tone weaving with hers like a second heartbeat.

“O mortem veniamus cum sacrificio, adiuva nos quod fractum est reparare.”

The ground trembled beneath them, the rune circle glowing with a light not quite gold, not quite silver—something older. More primal. But neither of them faltered.

“Obsecro, mors nostra suscipe sacrificium, et adiuva nos quod fractum est auxilium!”

The air thickened, tasted like iron. The candles guttered low—and then flared violently.

From the heart of the circle, a shape began to rise. Cloaked in shadows older than language, faceless and yet impossibly aware. The figure towered over them, still and silent, its presence pressing against the walls of the world.

They held their breath.

And then, the being spoke—voice echoing like a tolling bell in a forgotten crypt.

“Why have I been summoned?”

Chapter Text

LOST FUTURE

???

LUNA

Trolls were interesting creatures. At least Luna thought so. For beings so often dismissed as dimwitted brutes, they were surprisingly stealthy. A regular troll could stalk its prey for hours without making a sound. You’d think, given their size, it would be easy to hear them coming—but no, they were light on their feet when it mattered.

Especially the ones from the highlands. Food was scarcer there. The terrain harsher. And so, evolution had taught them patience. Silence. Precision. Luna found it all quite poetic—how something so large could still move like a whisper when survival demanded it.

She was pulled from her musings when Harry dropped an alarming stack of books onto her dining table. The thud was heavy, final. The titles even more so—books steeped in magic so dark and forgotten they could get you thrown into Azkaban a dozen times over just for owning them, let alone studying them.

Curious, she picked one up from the top of the pile. Its cover was etched in a language older than any spoken tongue, but thankfully Harry had gifted her a translation rune long ago—one that deciphered even the most stubborn texts with ease.

‘The Hidden Secrets of Soul Magic: An Extensive Guide to Soul and Core Restoration.’

“You really do know the way to a girl’s heart, Harry.” Luna smiled a dreamy smile and hugged the book to her chest like it was a rare bouquet.

Harry let out a soft chuckle, the kind he only seemed to share with her these days. It was nice—warm, gentle. But it also reminded her, painfully, how much of himself he’d tucked away from the world. He wasn’t meant to be this isolated. He shone too brightly for that.

“Only you,” he said, shaking his head with quiet affection, “would consider books on soul magic a thoughtful gift.”

He dropped into the chair across from her, the light in his eyes dimming just a touch. “Do you really think this will work?” he asked, his voice small in a way that made her chest ache.

Luna’s smile softened. “I truly do, Harry.”

Because it had to work. It had worked in her visions—flickering glimpses of possibility woven in moonlight and ink—but even she knew that sight was no guarantee. Just because she’d seen it didn’t mean it would come to pass. Futures were fragile, slippery things.

Still, she would cling to hope like it was the only thing tethering them to salvation.

She didn’t let her uncertainty show. Instead, she reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze.

Please, she prayed to whatever cosmic force might be listening. Let this be the path that saves him. Let this be the one that heals his soul before it fades completely.

PRESENT

BLAISE

Blaise ignored the tightening knots in his stomach and carefully rewrote the letter to his mother for the fourth time.

Dear Mother,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I apologize for missing last week’s letter—something unexpected came up and it slipped my mind. I trust everything has been going well on your end.

Classes have finally started to pick up, though I don’t find them particularly challenging for obvious reasons. I was wondering if you might send me a few books on advanced runes? I’d like to broaden my horizons.

There’s not much more to report, so I’ll end this letter here.

Love,

Your son, Blaise.

Once he finished the neat script, Blaise drew a concealment rune beneath the last line. As the ink faded into the parchment, he continued writing in the hidden section:

Attached to this letter is a second letter I’d like you to forward to the goblins. I had a peculiar dream recently, and I suspect they might have answers to the questions it raised. I would have asked you directly, but something tells me the goblins would be better suited to handling this inquiry.

He sat back, exhaling slowly as he reread the letter. It would have to be enough.

CARLOTTA

Carlotta set down her son’s letter and turned her attention to the second envelope in her hand. She trusted Blaise—if he believed the goblins held the answers he needed, she wasn’t going to interfere. Gently, she placed it aside and picked up the next letter—this one from Hadrian.

Dear Carlotta,

Being at Hogwarts has admittedly been a very odd experience. Everything feels so different, yet somehow still the same.

Classes have been fine so far; I’ve even started leading our potions class, much to Snape’s annoyance. It’s honestly hilarious to watch him get all pissy about it—but he’s the one who keeps dragging me up there to ‘embarrass’ me, so really, it’s his fault.

As much as I’d love to continue gossiping, I have to cut this letter short—I’m writing this right before class and I’m running late.

Stay safe,

Hadrian.

Carlotta smiled softly at the boy’s casual tone, but she caught the subtle flicker of magic beneath the parchment. A concealment rune—just like Blaise’s. With a casual flick of her wand, she dispelled it, and the hidden words revealed themselves.

I got a letter from the goblins about a week ago regarding my magical guardian situation. I hadn’t even known I had one.

Apparently, Dumbledore was supposed to be my magical guardian.

Obviously, that hasn’t exactly been the case, and I told them as much. The goblins said Dumbledore’s neglect gave me grounds to petition for a new guardian.

If it’s not too much to ask, would you be willing to take up the position? You’re the only adult I trust with something this important.

If you agree, it would also grant you my seat on the Wizengamot and make you my proxy until I come of age.

I’ve already informed the goblins I’d be reaching out to you.

The letter stopped there, leaving Carlotta staring at the parchment with a thousand thoughts racing through her mind.

First and foremost, how in Morgan's name had Hadrian managed to contact the goblins without Dumbledore—or anyone else—catching on?

Secondly, the guardianship offer itself. Accepting it would stir the political waters immensely. As the current leader of the Grey Faction, taking Hadrian’s proxy would grant her three additional seats—two of them belonging to ancient houses. The balance of power within the Wizengamot would shift dramatically.

She couldn’t stop the slow, victorious smile that curled across her face. Oh, she couldn't wait to see Dumbledore’s expression when he realized he’d been outmaneuvered.

With a flick of her wrist, she summoned her owl, Athena, and began drafting her response to the goblins—confirming her acceptance of Hadrian’s offer.

ALBUS

Albus stared down at the letter the goblins had sent him, utterly dumbfounded.

Apparently, during one of their regular audits, the goblins had discovered that he hadn't been consistent with his duties as Harry’s magical guardian. According to their detailed documentation, he had failed to meet the mandatory visitation quotas required to maintain a guardian bond—and, more damning still, he had not personally overseen Harry’s introduction to the magical world, as was his legal responsibility.

They were requesting full financial records accounting for every Galleon spent from Harry’s trust vault—the funds specifically allocated for his upbringing and welfare.

Albus felt his stomach twist painfully. He clenched the parchment tighter in his hand to stop himself from outright cursing.

Admittedly, most of the funds had been diverted to fund the Order of the Phoenix—cloaked under vague ‘necessary expenses’—and what remained had gone toward paying off the Dursleys to ensure Harry had a ‘roof over his head.’ In hindsight, a pathetic excuse. He had assumed, arrogantly, that no one would dare question his decisions where Harry Potter was concerned.

And now it was coming back to bite him.

As if that weren’t enough, the letter casually informed him that Harry had already selected a new magical guardian.

Worse yet, the goblins, ever fond of twisting the knife, refused to disclose who Harry had chosen. Since Albus was no longer the boy’s official guardian, he no longer had the legal right to request information regarding Harry’s personal affairs.

His teeth ground together painfully.

It wasn't just about Harry anymore—it was about the political disaster brewing on the horizon. A shift in guardianship could change everything. Harry's inheritance, his seats on the Wizengamot, his influence within the magical world—all of it could now fall into the hands of someone very inconvenient. Someone who might not be so... pliable.

Albus sat back heavily in his chair, staring at the letter as if it might change if he glared hard enough. He needed a plan—and quickly.

There was too much at stake to simply let Harry slip through his fingers without a fight.

DAPHNE

Daphne couldn’t handle change. It was probably her worst flaw—and the one she was most painfully aware of. She hated how the world never stayed still, how people shifted, how something as simple as summer could turn someone you loved into a stranger.

She gritted her teeth and smoothed her hair down with practiced, almost violent motions.

Blaise didn’t want to share his secrets. That was fine. That was fair. They’d always been careful with each other’s secrets, always respected the lines drawn in the sand. It was part of why their friendship had lasted as long as it had.

But even secrets had limits.

She had drawn her line—quiet but firm. And she had expected Blaise, of all people, to draw his in turn. Instead, he missed her coming-of-age celebration without even a letter. Without even a word.

Everyone had been there. Waiting. Expecting the ever-punctual Zabinis to stroll in with their effortless grace. But they never did.

And Daphne... Daphne had smiled through it. Had laughed and chatted and thanked guests like everything was perfect. Like she hadn’t felt a crack run right through her chest the moment she realized he wasn’t coming.

She would never say it aloud, not to anyone, but when the last guest had left and the doors were closed and the music had faded—she’d cried.

He was supposed to be there.

He was supposed to be hers—her constant, her anchor, her honorary brother. He was the boy she was supposed to give her first dance to during her coming-of-age celebration. They had made oaths when they were younger, sworn they'd be there for each other always. Had that meant nothing to him?

She swallowed hard, blinking back the burn in her eyes. No tears. Not here. Not where others might see. Slytherin House was filled with serpents coiled and waiting. You showed weakness, and they struck.

Daphne couldn’t afford to unravel.

She had to believe Blaise just needed time. That whatever had sunk its claws into him over the summer would pass. That he’d come back to her. To all of them.

Because Blaise couldn’t survive like this—not alone. Not even with Potter at his corner. The thought of the boy made her stomach turn with bitterness she never knew she possessed. She didn’t trust him. Too much rawness in his eyes. Too much broken. And Blaise didn’t need more broken.

Even now, Blaise walked around with shadows under his eyes and tension in his shoulders no one else seemed to notice. But they did. The ones who loved him most.

He wasn’t happy. Not like he used to be.

Something had happened. Something they hadn’t prepared for. But that was fine. They were Slytherins. They adapted.

Even if it broke her heart, she'd wait.

Just like always.

Because Blaise was theirs—was hers—and she wasn't going to let anyone take that away from her.

THEODORE

Theo quietly watched as Blaise curled up beside him on the couch.

He hadn’t said a word—had just slipped onto the seat next to Theo and rested his head on Theo’s shoulder while he was reading.

It wasn’t uncommon.

Blaise had always been the most touch-starved one among them, surprisingly so, considering they were friends with Tracey, who in her own right was plenty affectionate.

But Tracey's touch was energetic, playful—full of life.

Blaise's was different.

It was quieter. Heavier. A needy, silent cry for comfort that none of them had ever been able to turn away from.

Theo only found it strange that Blaise was doing it here, in the common room, where anyone could see.

But he said nothing. He shifted slightly to make more room, to make it easier. Blaise needed it, even if he couldn’t ask for it out loud.

Blaise was spiraling.

That was the common consensus amongst their friend group.

It felt like they were watching the moon lose its glow—and none of them knew how to make it shine again.

Of all of them though, Theo knew Daphne had been the most hurt.

She hid it well—like she always did—but Theo saw it. He saw how much she had bled inside when Blaise missed her coming-of-age celebration.

The grandest celebration, the final one among them. She had been the youngest, the last to come of age.

Blaise was supposed to be her first dance.

It wasn’t just a dance—it was a rite of passage. A public symbol of their bond, their families’ vows to each other.

Their mothers had been sworn sisters. Blaise had sworn to be Daphne’s sworn brother.

When he hadn’t shown up, when she’d stood there—waiting.

It had been Theo who stepped in. Theo who had to take Blaise’s place.

But it wasn’t supposed to be him.

It was never supposed to be him.

It had felt so wrong, taking his place.

Theo had danced with Tracey at her coming-of-age celebration—he knew how much it meant, how important that first dance was.

And he knew how excited Daphne had been, knowing Blaise would be hers.

She had planned everything.

They’d picked out matching outfits. She had choreographed a whole routine.

It was supposed to be their night—their union. A symbol of what they meant to each other.

But it hadn’t been.

And none of them knew why.

Theo shifted slightly, snuggling his head against Blaise’s hair.

He had originally planned to pull Blaise aside and chew him out for the stunt he'd pulled.

But then the whole Potter situation happened, and after that they’d been too busy scrambling to settle into the Hogwarts rhythm.

Eventually, the plan had died altogether.

It was hard to stay angry when you noticed how miserable Blaise had become.

He was constantly surrounded by people, and yet it felt like there was a wall between them—something invisible but impenetrable, keeping both sides from reaching each other.

Keeping them from understanding what had gone wrong, or how to even begin to fix it.

BLAISE

Blaise felt that sick, heavy sensation crawling up from his gut again, thick and sticky like honey catching in his throat.

It clung to him, sweet and rotten at once, making it hard to breathe.

He felt suffocated, like the very air was pressing in too tightly against his skin.

Something was wrong. He knew it in his bones.

A cold, bone-deep certainty that something was coming—and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Didn’t even know what it was.

Everything had come to a head on Halloween night.

He had to excuse himself from their Samhain celebration, mumbling something about the heat, the noise, anything that sounded believable.

He barely made it into the corridors of the dungeons before the world started to tilt.

The cold stone under his feet felt unsteady, like he was walking across a frozen lake just waiting to crack.

He didn’t even know where he was going anymore—he had lost track of time, of distance, of everything but the pounding in his head.

Blaise sucked in a shaky breath and leaned heavily against the damp stone wall, trying to steady himself.

His magic churned restlessly beneath his skin, wild and uneasy, pushing him forward—warning him.

Warning him of the wrongness that thickened the air around him.

Even Hogwarts itself seemed to thrum under his fingertips, magic sparking wild and frantic through the stone.

But what was it warning him of?

What was coming?

And why did it feel like no matter what he did, it was already too late?

As if the universe wanted to make its point unmistakably clear, he felt it—a slow, deliberate breath against the back of his head.

Warm. Damp. Too close.

Blaise froze.

His own breath caught in his throat, strangled silent by sheer terror.

He didn't dare move, didn't dare blink, his body locked in place by something ancient and primal.

The air around him seemed to thicken, growing heavy with a presence he couldn't see but could feel pressing against him, hungry and patient.

And then—something struck the back of his head.

Not a sharp blow.

No, it was almost gentle in its violence, like a hand guiding a puppet's final collapse.

There was a sickening moment where the world tilted sharply off its axis, and then Blaise heard it—the wet, graceless thud of his own body hitting the ground.

Darkness closed over him, thick and final.

The last thing he felt was the heat of another breath on the back of his neck— a whisper of something wrong, sinking its claws deeper as he fell into the waiting void.

Chapter Text

LOST FUTURE

LUNA

There was blood everywhere.

Luna grimaced, daintily lifting the hem of her robes to keep them from brushing the mess. It was supposed to be a quick and simple kill, but their sacrifice had turned out to be far more spirited than anticipated.

Which, in Luna's opinion, was awfully rude of her. Honestly—it wasn’t like the woman had anything left to live for. Some dreadful Muggle illness was already eating away at her insides.

They were doing her a favor, really. Easing her suffering in a meaningful way.

Harry exhaled beside her, calm as ever. “We better be quick before the authorities come.”

She hummed in agreement and knelt by the body, brushing a blood-soaked strand of hair from the woman’s pallid face.

Cleaning up took time. Not because they weren’t efficient—no, they'd done this before—but because they were thorough.

They knew what stains could whisper to muggle forensics, what traces clung to air and stone.

Eventually, all that remained was the preserved body, spell-bound in suspended stillness. No longer twitching. No longer screaming.

They Apparated directly into their base of operations, the air thick with protective wards and old candle smoke. Luna levitated the body carefully on to the ritual table, almost reverent in her movements.

“Scalp,” Harry said, voice flat and expectant.

Luna compiled without hesitation. Her scalp traced clean, practiced lines through skin and hair, exposing pale bone beneath. Blood pooled, but she was used to the mess. The sacrifice had to be prepared properly. They couldn’t afford mistakes—not this far in.

Harvesting the pieces was messy. Necessary.

They needed the heart of another. Of something untouched by magic.

Truly untouched.

No residual spells. No bloodlines. No lingering curses.

Pure.

When Luna had first read that part of the ritual, she’d thought it impossible. But Harry had found a way. He always did.

Tracking her down had taken months.

But tonight, the stars aligned. Tonight, they had everything.

HARRY

Beside him, Luna let out a hysterical laugh, the sound sharp and discordant in the charged silence of the night. Her hands trembled, smearing dried blood down her cheeks as she clutched her sides and stared up at the figure they had summoned.

The literal embodiment of Death.

They had actually done it.

Harry’s breath caught—then broke out into his own laughter. A raw, gut-wrenching thing that shook his shoulders.

His whole life had been a sprint through graveyards and war zones, dodging tombstones with his name on them. He had spent years outrunning Death.

And now? He had summoned him.

Successfully.

The irony was staggering. His life, it seemed, had always been a stage.

And now it felt like they were at the final act. The curtain had risen for the last time.

A deep, resonant voice echoed through the air, felt more in their bones than heard through their ears.

“Ah,” Death said, “I forgot you humans cannot comprehend my true form without slipping into madness.”

There was a flash—a burst of light so blinding and raw it stripped the forest of shape and shadow. Harry blinked through the haze, breath caught in his throat, as the shape before them began to settle.

Where madness had hovered, now stood something… comprehensible. Almost.

Death now wore the guise of a tall figure cloaked in a robe blacker than shadow itself, stitched with threads of starlight and decay. His skin was like bleached parchment stretched over bone, features sharp yet unreadable, as though carved from time itself. Eyes that weren’t truly eyes shimmered like twin dying suns, vast and endless and void of mercy.

His presence made the air heavier, as if gravity itself bowed before him.

He tilted his head, expression unreadable. “Better?”

Harry nodded stiffly, his limbs heavier than they’d ever felt. From the corner of his eye, he saw Luna mirroring the motion, her expression unreadable in the flickering candlelight. His throat burned, words caught somewhere between panic and surrender.

Then Death spoke again.

“What a massive hole you have in your soul, Κύριος.”

The ancient word curled in the air like smoke. Master. Lord. Or perhaps… just another broken man.

Harry flinched as if the words themselves had cut him open. He tried to find his voice, but it cracked before it even reached his lips. “I–um… yeah. That’s… that’s why we summoned you. We were wondering if… if you could do anything about it.”

His voice was brittle. He could feel his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. This was it. His final act. His last chance to stop the rot chewing through the hollow place where his magic used to live.

Death tilted his head again, a motion too fluid to be human, and let out a sound—a resonance somewhere between a hum and the rustling of dry leaves in a graveyard.

“I suppose I could do that,” Death said at last, voice thick with ancient weight.

Harry didn’t breathe.

Then the rest followed, like a guillotine falling, “But it will cost you.”

Of course it would. Harry closed his eyes, willing himself not to sag where he stood.

“I figured,” he said hoarsely. “Name it. I have nothing to lose anymore.”

Beside him, Luna sucked in a breath, sharp as a needle.

“Are you sure, Harry…?” she whispered. Her voice was fragile—so unlike the Luna he knew—and that’s what finally made him meet her eyes. Green met blue. And just like that, she understood.

“This is it for me, Luna,” he said, voice thick with quiet finality. “I’ve reached the end of my rope.”

His breath trembled in his lungs.

“No one’s waiting for me back home. I don’t even have a home I feel I can return to anymore. No job. No future. Every moment, every second has gone into finding something—anything—to fill this emptiness before it kills me. And this… this is all that’s left.”

Luna’s eyes shone with unshed tears. She took his hands gently in hers, fingers sticky with blood and ash. Her grip was firm, grounding. Like an anchor in a sea of madness.

“I’m going to miss you,” she whispered.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with a raised hand.

“Harry, you’re the only person who’s ever looked at me and seen… me. Not some freak. Not the loony girl. Just Luna. You’re my best friend. The closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother.”

Her lip quivered.

“I pray to whatever gods might be listening… that this trade is worth it. That you find what you’re looking for.”

They stood there in silence for a bit before Harry steeled his resolve and turned back to face Death.

“Your price?” he asked calmly.

Death’s form seemed to shift slightly, flickering between shadow and substance, presence and concept. “I want you to relinquish the control you have over me in this lifetime. It is far too early for you to wield my power.”

Harry blinked, confused. “What?”

“You are my—hm, I believe the English word is ‘master.’ You collected my three Hallows. You were never meant to carry that title in this life, not yet.”

“The stories were real…” Luna whispered, awe and unease in her voice.

Death inclined his head. “Of course they were.”

Harry frowned, struggling to piece it together. “So if I give up control—what happens then?”

“You will be free for the remainder of this life,” Death said simply.

That phrasing felt strange. Heavy. Sharp. Harry didn’t understand why, but it made something uneasy stir in the pit of his stomach. “This life?” he echoed, suspicious.

Death didn’t answer directly. Instead, he said, “All things end, Κύριος. But not all endings are final.”

Harry didn’t fully grasp the meaning, but Luna stiffened beside him. Her fingers twitched where they still held his. She looked up at Death, then at Harry—her expression pinched with quiet understanding.

“He didn’t say you wouldn’t be Master again,” she said softly, her eyes glassy.

“What?” Harry asked, confused.

“Nothing,” Luna said quickly, squeezing his hand tighter. “Just thinking.”

He gave her a long look, but he was too tired, too hollow to press further. The weight in his soul burned. He turned back to Death.

“Alright then,” Harry said. “Let’s do it.”

And Death smiled.

Somewhere—across time, across lifetimes—a thread loosened… but was not cut.

Not yet.

PRESENT

NEVILLE

Ever since he had befriended Harry, Neville had noticed how much lighter his life felt. He was still a nervous mess about most things, but school had gotten easier.

Harry, for whatever reason, had taken him under his wing. He answered his questions patiently, helped with schoolwork, and even distracted Professor Snape during potions so Neville could get through the class without being humiliated.

Because he wasn’t constantly worrying about surviving school, more people in Gryffindor started to tolerate his existence. Some even sat with him at meals. No more “Longbottom’s lost it again” every time he opened his mouth.

He’d even made a few friends on his own. He, Hermione, and Ron had quickly become close—well, sort of. They got along well enough when he was with them, but left alone, Ron and Hermione fought like cats in a sack.

It got tiring. So, deciding he deserved a break, Neville had slipped away to tend to the greenhouses. Professor Sprout had given him a charm that let him in any time. Plants didn’t argue, and he needed that.

Unfortunately, when he came back, everything had gone to hell.

Apparently Ron had said something that made Hermione cry and bolt, and now no one could find her. Neville scolded Ron a little—he did feel bad—but decided not to let their drama ruin the Halloween feast.

He was mid-listen to a Quidditch rant from one of the Weasley twins, he still couldn’t tell which, when Professor Quirrell burst into the Great Hall.

“Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know—”

Then he collapsed with a soft, sickly thump.

The hall erupted into screams, and Neville quickly locked eyes with Ron. They were thinking the same thing.

Hermione.

She was missing—and a troll was loose.

They slipped out of the hall as quickly and quietly as they could, their hearts pounding in their ears. Wandering the corridors was nerve-wracking, and every shadow felt too long, too deep.

Eventually, they found her. Hermione was just exiting the girls' bathroom, face puffy but otherwise unharmed. Relief crashed over Neville.

“Hermione! We need to go—there’s a troll on the loose!” Ron said quickly, reaching out to grab her arm.

Hermione batted him off with a glare. “Oh, please, Ron. Hogwarts is the safest place in the world. How would a troll even get in?” She rolled her eyes.

“He’s not lying, Hermione!” Neville said, his voice tense as he scanned the corridor. “Quirrell said so before he collapsed in the hall! Everyone saw it!”

Hermione faltered at that. Her eyes darted between the two of them. “Don’t tell me you’re in on this farce too, Neville,” she said, clearly disappointed.

Neville gritted his teeth. They didn’t have time for this.

“Fine. Don’t believe us. But can we at least argue somewhere other than the dungeons?”

He didn’t wait for her response. Neville grabbed both their arms and started dragging them toward where he thought the stairs were—right as a heavy, sickening thud echoed through the corridor behind them.

“What was that?” Hermione whispered, her voice sharp with nervous curiosity.

“We should check it out,” Ron said, already turning.

Neville nearly choked. “Why would we check it out?? Let’s just leave!” he hissed, already trying to drag them again, panic buzzing hot beneath his skin.

But Ron dug in his heels. “No, seriously—we should check it out.”

Neville whipped around to Hermione, expecting her to scold Ron into sense. But she was staring in the direction the sound had come from, eyes narrowed.

“Hermione! Tell me you’re not considering this?” Neville tugged at her sleeve, voice cracking.

“Neville, stop,” Ron said, and something in his voice made Neville freeze. Ron turned to Hermione. “You feel it too?”

Hermione frowned, confused at first—but then her expression shifted. Slowly, she nodded.

Neville looked between them, heart hammering. “Feel what??”

“Just—stop, and feel,” Ron said again, his tone unusually gentle. “Feel the magic around you.”

Neville furrowed his brow. That made no sense—until it did.

The air was thick, electric. It buzzed against his skin. Magic—old, vast magic—was humming all around them. Hogwarts herself felt… alert. Like she was pointing them somewhere. Tugging at their magic, trying to lead them to something.

Neville swallowed.

“We have to see what the commotion is about,” Hermione said, the firmness in her voice leaving no room for argument.

Ron nodded, jaw set.

Of course the one time they agreed on something, it was something Neville desperately didn’t want to do.

He let out a shaky sigh, hands trembling slightly. “Fine,” he muttered. “But if we get in trouble, I’m leaving you guys.”

They crept forward, shoes quiet against the cold stone floor. The corridor twisted ahead, dim and eerie under flickering torchlight. The smell hit them first—sharp, metallic, unmistakable.

Blood.

They rounded the corner.

Neville froze. His heart slammed into his ribs.

There it was.

The troll.

Massive and grotesque, it loomed over the body of a student—limp, crumpled. A smear of crimson led to the club still gripped in the troll’s massive hand, dripping thick with blood.

Hermione gasped. Ron’s breath caught. Neville’s legs threatened to give out.

Was that… Zabini?

The troll let out a low, rumbling snarl. Its tiny eyes snapped toward them.

Neville’s blood ran cold.

They were so screwed.

HARRY

Life, as of late, felt like it was stuck in some strange standstill.

The quiet was suffocating in its own way—wrong, somehow. He knew he should be grateful for the peace, but something under his skin itched. It whispered to him, persistent and cold: It won’t last.

He tried to ignore it. Pushed it down. He kept wandering, his footsteps echoing softly through the lower dungeons. He’d come looking for the troll—hoping to handle it before it could cause a panic—but he’d lost track of time. Down here, it was easy to forget when you were.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. That’s when the silver ring on his finger caught his eye.

It sparkled faintly in the low torchlight, and just looking at it sent a pang through his chest.

He hadn’t been a great friend to Blaise. Or… companion? Partner? He wasn’t even sure what they were.

But Blaise had been kind. Thoughtful. He and Carlotta both—offering kindness when Harry had been nothing but a mess of jagged edges.

He turned the ring around with his thumb, remembering how warm Blaise's smile had been when he gave it to him. The last time someone had really gotten him a gift, had been Luna—back in his original timeline.

Harry had no idea how to repay Blaise or Carlotta for any of it. Well—no. That wasn’t true. He did know. He just didn’t know how to open himself up enough to do it.

Another sigh. He dropped his hand and kept walking. He walked for what felt like forever.

Then the ring went cold.

Harry froze. The chill burned into his finger, unnatural and jarring.

He looked down. The silver had lost its shine—dull now. Dead.

Something twisted in his stomach. That same whisper from earlier roared back, louder now.

Run.

Hogwarts’ magic tugged sharply at his own, yanking it like a thread. Without thinking, he ran.

He didn’t know where he was going, but the castle was guiding him. Its magic pulling—screaming—for him to follow.

Voices. He could hear shouting. Panic.

He turned a corner—

—and the smell hit him.

Blood.

Thick and coppery, it clung to the walls and clawed its way up his throat.

The first thing he saw: Neville, Ron, and Hermione, desperately trying to hold their ground against a towering troll.

The second thing—

His heart dropped out of his chest.

A body. Crumpled on the floor. Limp.

His mind tried to reject it, even as recognition slammed into him like a freight train.

“B—Blaise…?”

His voice barely made it past his lips. His ears were ringing—everything muffled and far away, like he was underwater.

But the troll’s howl—that broke through.

It rattled his bones. His soul.

Something in him snapped.

His vision went red.

HERMIONE

Hermione had really enjoyed being at Hogwarts. There was just so much to learn about the magical world—it was fascinating, overwhelming, beautiful. She was a little peeved that Muggle-borns weren’t informed earlier about their magical status—honestly, how was she supposed to prepare herself properly?—but that was neither here nor there.

Her only real problem was the people.

Hermione could admit she wasn’t exactly the easiest person to get along with. She liked rules, order, structure. She liked being right. That didn’t mean she deserved the constant ridicule from her housemates and peers. The whispers, the sneers, the way people rolled their eyes when she spoke—it all wore on her more than she wanted to admit.

Her saving grace came in the form of Neville Longbottom.

He was just as ostracized as she was—awkward, unsure, quiet—but somehow, somehow, he’d managed to befriend Harry Potter of all people. And that had started to change things.

Neville had begun to come out of his shell, and somewhere in that process, he’d reached out to her. It started in Herbology—she had been confused about a particular assignment that wasn’t in the textbook, which was deeply frustrating, but Neville had effortlessly helped her through it. No judgment, no mockery. Just patience.

They’d become fast friends after that. Neville could handle her overbearing nature, and she found his calming presence a comfort she hadn’t realized she needed.

For a while, it was just the two of them. Then Ron sort of… happened.

Hermione honestly couldn’t remember when Ron started orbiting their friendship. Maybe it was because he was good at wizard’s chess and Neville liked chess. She’d seen the two of them playing in the common room, and while she didn’t particularly like Ron, she had to admit—wizard’s chess was far more interesting than the Muggle version.

She’d tried reading about it, of course, but it was like reading about a sport—none of it really clicked until she watched it firsthand. So sometimes, she sat with them.

Ron grated on her nerves more often than not. They clashed constantly. Still, she tolerated his presence because Neville liked him, and Ron seemed just as lost and lonely as the two of them had once been.

But Christ, he pissed her off.

Things finally exploded on Halloween night. She was already having a terrible day, and Ron—apparently on a personal mission to make it worse—said something particularly cruel.

She’d snapped. Ran off. Hid in the girls’ bathroom and cried.

It wasn’t her finest moment, but it was her moment. She just needed to be alone.

Then Neville and Ron had come running to find her, wild-eyed and breathless, rambling about a troll on the loose. She thought it was a prank—some twisted joke they’d come up with to scare her or get back at her for leaving.

But it hadn’t been a joke.

Oh Merlin, she wished it had been a joke.

The sight of the lifeless boy’s body made her stomach twist. She barely registered that it was Zabini—someone—because her brain was stuck on the blood. The stillness. The finality.

She gagged.

The troll turned to look at them.

It raised its club.

Ron moved first, snapping out of his frozen panic. He shouted a stunning spell—it hit, but it was weak. Barely slowed the troll down.

She realized, all at once, that this was real. That this wasn’t a prank or a story or something she could talk her way out of.

She was going to die if she didn’t do something.

So they did the only thing they could do—fumbled for their wands, shouted half-formed spells, and threw everything they had at the creature, hearts pounding, hands shaking, trying to survive.

Hermione pointed her wand, shouting the first spell that came to mind—“Incendio!”

The flame barely flickered before sputtering out. The troll roared and took a lumbering step forward, each footfall sending a tremor through the floor that rattled her bones.

Neville yanked her back just as the troll’s club came crashing down where she’d just been. Stone cracked, debris flew, and something sharp nicked her cheek—she wouldn’t register the sting until much later.

“Stupefy!” Ron tried again, but the troll barely flinched.

“Confringo!” Neville shouted. This time, the troll staggered, a burst of magic slamming into its side.

“Good—do that again!” Hermione yelled, heart racing. She flipped through her mental spellbook, but everything was jumbled, her thoughts scrambled by fear. Nothing useful came to mind.

The blood was still spreading.

The body on the floor hadn’t moved.

It wasn’t moving.

She had never seen someone die before. She wasn’t even sure she was seeing it now. Her brain rejected the sight—surely that wasn’t real, surely Blaise Zabini hadn’t just… died.

The troll bellowed again, club raised high.

And then—

The air shifted.

It was sharp, unnatural, like the moment before a storm hits.

Hermione’s head snapped up—and saw Harry, standing at the end of the corridor.

He wasn’t saying anything. Just staring. Pale. Eyes fixed on Zabinis's body.

“Harry—” she started, but her voice didn’t reach him.

He moved.

No words. No spells. Just motion—fast and deliberate.

And then the magic snapped.

Hermione felt it surge through the corridor, like lightning crawling under her skin. Hogwarts itself seemed to shudder.

The troll turned to face this new threat—but it was too slow.

Harry’s magic exploded. It wasn’t a spell. It wasn’t even controlled. It was raw, furious, and alive.

And for the first time that night, the troll looked afraid.

Hermione felt it too—that fear. There was something terrifying about the magic pouring off Harry. It was oppressive, heavy, wrong.

She blinked—

—and suddenly Harry was right there, in front of the troll.

What happened next didn’t look like magic. It didn’t look like anything she’d ever seen before.

She wasn’t sure if she’d just watched Harry Potter rip apart a fully-grown mountain troll with nothing but his magic, but—

There was blood. Everywhere.

And Harry—he was standing still. Covered in it.

They stood there in silence.

The only sound in the dungeon was their heavy, uneven breathing.

“Sweet Merlin.”

Hermione’s legs gave out the moment she heard Professor McGonagall’s voice behind her. She collapsed to the ground, her wand clattering beside her, and buried her face in her hands as a sob tore from her throat.

The whole weight of the night crashed down on her at once—Zabinis’s body, the troll, the blood, Harry. Harry.

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Her chest heaved as the horror finally caught up with her.

Footsteps rushed forward. Cloaks rustled. Someone gasped.

“Zabini—Merlin above—” one of the professors choked out.

Hermione didn’t lift her head. She couldn’t. She could only cry, curling in on herself as her world shattered around her.

MINERVA

Minerva didn’t even know what she was looking at.

Blood was everywhere—splattered on the walls, pooling across the stone floor, dripping from the ruined remains of what was once a mountain troll. And at the center of it all stood Harry Potter, motionless, soaked in red.

Behind her, the other professors had frozen in place, just as stunned as she was. The only sound in the dungeon was Ms. Granger’s quiet, gut-wrenching sobbing.

“Help him,” Harry croaked, voice raw.

No one moved.

“I said help him!” he shouted, and like a spell had broken, everyone snapped into action.

Severus surged forward first, dropping to his knees beside Blaise Zabini’s still body, already casting diagnostics and emergency healing charms in rapid succession. His movements were sharp and precise, a grim urgency in every flick of his wand.

Filius went to comfort the other children—Ron, Hermione, Neville—all of whom looked shaken to their cores. Minerva straightened her spine and slowly approached Harry, careful not to startle him.

He didn’t look at her. His eyes were locked on Zabini, unblinking, barely breathing.

He hadn’t moved since they arrived.

“Are you alright, Potter?” Minerva asked cautiously.

“I’m fine. It’s Blaise who needs help,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut. His magic flared again—hot, volatile, and so loud in the air that Minerva had to resist the instinct to step back.

“I’m going to have to ask you to control your magic,” she said slowly, carefully. “It’s… extremely distracting.”

Harry snarled, but she saw his fists clench, his chest rise and fall in deep, angry breaths as he forced himself to calm down. The pressure in the air lessened, and Minerva bit back a sigh of relief. It was easier to breathe again.

She cleared her throat, raised her wand, and cast a strong cleaning charm on him. The blood vanished, but the metallic scent still clung faintly to his robes.

Just then, Pomona returned, Poppy fast on her heels. The mediwitch took one look at Zabini’s motionless form and immediately sprang into action, barking rapid orders to Severus and Pomona.

Minerva let out a sigh this time, the weight of the moment settling on her shoulders like a heavy cloak. She suddenly felt every one of her years.

With the other professors handling the aftermath, she turned her attention back to the children—shell-shocked and blood-splattered—and began gently shepherding them toward the infirmary, with the help of Filius.

Chapter Text

BLAISE

Blaise’s head rested against what he assumed was a mock version of the planet Venus. At least, he hoped it was a mock planet—because he was pretty sure the real Venus wasn’t supposed to be waist-height or this breathtaking up close.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been here, or how much longer he was meant to stay. When he first woke in this vast, silent expanse—the same star-dusted void that haunted his dreams—it had confused him. It looked different now. The first time, everything had been distant and spread apart. But now? The planets hovered in place, orbit frozen mid-motion, like toys arranged on a shelf. They barely reached his waist. He could see clean over them.

Yet they weren’t static. Their gases still danced and swirled in mesmerizing patterns, alive with motion even as the planets themselves remained still.

Blaise, ever the curious observer, had spent time wandering between them. Studying them. Lifting each carefully to inspect it closer.

Venus had captivated him most of all.

It wasn’t the dull yellow sphere from textbook photos. Up close, it looked like a storm caught in a crystal globe—bruised clouds swirling in gold and smoke, its luminous horizon haloed in an almost blinding blue-white light. The light peeled back the shadows like sunrise slipping across glass, revealing details he'd never imagined. Amber-toned storms twisted through deep indigo fog, and there was a strange, ethereal beauty in how the colors layered and churned—like watching an oil painting come to life.

It was beautiful. Terrifyingly so.

And yet, even in awe, Blaise couldn’t shake the quiet gnawing inside him.

He didn’t know where exactly he was.

Or why he seemed to keep coming here.

But something was coming. He could feel it.

Maybe it was the figure from the first time he had been here. He never did get their name.

Blaise sat curled around the mock planet, head bowed and resting gently against its swirling, cloudy surface. His hands were spread across it like he was trying to hold the entire planet together, fingertips brushing the churning gases as if afraid they'd slip away. His eyes were closed, and for a moment, he imagined Venus was breathing with him—slow, quiet, steady.

For a planet so blue, it was so pleasantly warm. Not that Blaise was too surprised by that fact, seeing as it was the second planet closest to the Sun.

Speaking of the Sun… Blaise turned to look at it. He had quickly found out he didn't need to worry about being blinded just from gazing at it here—but even so, he didn’t touch it. Something in his gut told him not to.

And Blaise had recently learned, though the hard way, that he should really pay more attention to his gut.

He sighed and hugged Venus tighter, pressing his forehead into its soft glow, as though it might whisper some kind of reassurance into his skin.

He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it—but there was a very real chance he had died before getting here. The thought pulsed in the back of his mind, quiet and terrible.

He cursed himself under his breath.

How could he have forgotten the troll?

He took in a shaky breath and pressed the planet closer to himself. His arms wrapped tighter around it like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. He looked down at the swirling golden clouds of Venus, their movement slow and eternal, and felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

He truly hoped he hadn’t died—not like this. Not in such a meaningless way.

But even if he had, would it even matter? What was he even doing anymore?

In his original timeline, he had purpose. Clarity. He had wanted to learn everything he could about the magical world—its secrets, its lost histories, the ancient truths buried beneath politics and fear. That was why he became an Unspeakable. He’d seen things most wixen could barely imagine. He had lived in wonder.

Now, he just… existed.

He didn’t want to keep pretending. Hogwarts felt like a prison—full of noise and immaturity, a place built for people who hadn’t yet lived. He felt like an intruder, a ghost drifting through corridors meant for children. It didn't help that, his body was that of a child’s. Eleven years old and sliding fast into puberty again, with all its awkwardness and hormonal chaos, and none of the novelty.

Mentally, he was twenty-six. Or maybe twenty-seven now? Honestly, it was getting hard to keep track.

The isolation of it all, the loss of autonomy, the sense that he was trapped in some half-forgotten version of his life—it all clawed at him. He was wandering without direction, fumbling blindly through the dark, and all he wanted was something to remind him that he was still real. That this life meant something.

He curled in on himself as the emotions in his chest swelled, too big, too much, pressing against his ribs until it felt like he might shatter. He sniffled, hating how pathetic he felt. Everything was too much. He just wanted to cry.

“Oh Moon-Starved Child, what is it that you seek?” The bell-like voice rang out behind him.

He turned to look at the figure. The first time he’d seen them, he’d mistaken them for a woman—maybe because of the softness in their voice, the way it shimmered like light caught in water. But he knew better now.

They weren’t human. They only wore the idea of a body.

And it would be wrong to view them through human lenses.

Still cloaked in starlight and nebulae, they reached out, a finger brushing gently through his hair, grounding him. Comforting. Strange.

Moon-Starved Child, they’d called him. He didn’t know what it meant. But it felt important—like something he should already understand.

“I don’t know what I seek,” he whispered.

The figure hummed, and the sound was hauntingly familiar—like a lullaby his grandmother used to hum while she had been alive.

“Are you aware Venus symbolizes harmony within oneself?” they asked.

Blaise frowned. “I thought it meant beauty and love,” he said, confused.

“It does,” they agreed, “but it also symbolizes harmony. And victory.”

Blaise looked down at the planet cradled in his arms. “Victory?” he repeated, curiosity flickering in his tired eyes.

The figure chuckled, the sound distant, like stars laughing. “You cling to the wrong thing,” they said, shaking their head in a gesture that might have been fond. It was hard to tell—their face, if it could be called that, was hidden in shadow and light.

Blaise pouted. “What’s wrong with wanting victory?”

“I did not say there was anything wrong with victory,” they corrected gently. “I said you were clinging to the wrong thing.”

Harmony. That was the first word they had said. And maybe—maybe Blaise could use a little harmony right now.

He let out a quiet sigh, then finally dared to ask, “Am I dead...?”

His voice trembled, matching the smallness of his body. He sounded like the child he no longer was.

The figure's hum tapered off like wind rustling through time-worn trees.

“No,” they said, gently. “But you are unmoored.”

They moved closer—not quite walking, just shifting, like gravity itself bent in their favor. Their hand, if it could be called that, brushed over Venus, and the light in the planet flickered like a heartbeat.

“You are between stories,” they continued. “The thread that once tethered you to purpose has frayed, and you are grieving its loss.”

Blaise clutched Venus tighter, lips trembling. He was grieving, wasn’t he? But not a person—an idea. A life. A path.

The figure tilted their head. “Victory is loud. Final. It comes with trumpets and endings. But harmony...” They trailed off, voice turning reverent, “Harmony is quiet. It lasts. It is not the end—it is the way.”

Blaise didn’t answer right away. His throat felt tight. But something in him settled, even just a little.

He pressed his forehead to the glowing planet again. “Then I want that. Harmony.”

The figure’s form flickered—stars shifting through the silhouette of a smile.

“Then listen for it. Even in the silence. Especially in the silence.”

PRESENT

TRACEY

“Are you sure you’re alright, Blaise?” Daphne asked—for what felt like the hundredth time in the past hour alone.

Tracey couldn’t even blame her. Blaise looked awful. The entire week leading up to Samhain, he’d been looking worse and worse. His magic was tense too. He masked it well enough most of the time, but it was still painful to witness.

“I think I’m going to go lie down,” Blaise said, his voice strained and threadbare.

“I could walk you to the dorms,” Theo offered, already getting to his feet.

“No, no, it’s fine. I just— I just need to be alone right now.” Blaise’s words landed heavy in the quiet room.

It was Samhain night. Most pure-blood families celebrated differently, but the four of them were from the same coven—they always spent it together. This was their first year doing it without their parents’ guidance.

I need to be alone right now. That’s what he said. And Tracey had to swallow back the surge of frustration before it came out biting.

Alone? Alone!? That’s all he’d been lately. Ever since he vanished on them that summer, he’d done nothing but isolate himself. He rejected any attempt to help him, spiraling in this slow-motion, self-destructive mess—like he didn’t think he deserved their affection anymore. Like something inside him had broken.

Theo opened his mouth again—probably to offer once more—but Tracey had had enough.

“Theo, leave it. Blaise wants to be alone, so let’s not push it,” she said, sharper than intended.

She saw Blaise flinch. And, for a moment, she felt vindicated. Let him be alone, she had thought. Maybe that’ll knock some sense into him.

But when morning came and Theo said neither Blaise nor Harry had returned to the dorms last night, that sense of vindication curdled into nausea.

It only got worse when Professor Snape pulled them aside and explained, in a low, grave voice, that Blaise had been attacked the night before.

That he had almost died.

She didn’t have time to wallow in her guilt though.

“Attacked by what?” Theo gritted out, his fists clenched tight enough to shake.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s still alive,” Professor Snape deflected, arms crossed.

“What was he attacked by, Professor?” Theo asked again, voice sharp and low. There was something about the way he said it—like if he didn’t get an answer, he’d go digging for one himself.

The Nott family had always been protectors; their magic burned brightest when guarding someone dear. For Theo, knowing one of their own had been hurt without his knowledge had to feel like a betrayal.

Snape frowned. “A troll.”

“A troll?” Daphne asked, dangerously quiet.

The Greengrasses were different. Where the Notts protected, the Greengrasses avenged. Their family magic was strongest when driven by loss—by fury. And Daphne, always so composed, now looked like she was about to explode.

“How?” she demanded. “Isn’t Hogwarts supposed to be the safest place in the world? How the hell did you let a troll in? How did you let it hurt a student? Our best friend, no less!”

Snape flinched. Actually flinched—and Tracey couldn’t even blame him. Daphne wasn’t often provoked, but when she was, she was lethal.

“Miss Greengrass, watch your tone,” Snape said, voice clipped and neutral—but just barely.

“Watch her tone?” Tracey snapped. “Professor, Blaise was attacked! What kind of school lets a troll run loose and nearly kills a student without anyone noticing?”

The silence that followed was cold and furious.

They were at a standstill before Professor Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Professor Quirrell accidentally let loose the troll he had planned to use for a lesson,” he admitted.

“What kind of incompetent—” Daphne started, but Theo cut her off with a question that made Tracey’s stomach twist.

“Does Lady Zabini know?”

The hallway went dead silent. And that silence was all the answer they needed.

“You haven’t told Blaise’s mum yet?!” Tracey yelled, voice sharp with disbelief. “Are you insane?! Do you have any idea what’ll happen if she finds out her son nearly died and no one even told her?!”

Tracey had a healthy fear of Lady Zabini. Everyone with common sense did. She hadn’t earned the title of the greatest grey wixen of her generation by sitting around twiddling her thumbs.

Lady Zabini was terrifying in the way hurricanes and poisoned wine were terrifying. Just look at her track record with husbands. Once was an unfortunate accident. Twice was a tragedy. Three times? That’s a damn pattern.

Those men didn’t drop dead overnight.

Snape looked pained. “She’ll be informed once he wakes up.”

Tracey’s eyes darted to Theo and Daphne. From the look on their faces, they were thinking the same thing she was.

Dumbledore was covering things up. Keeping parents in the dark for the sake of his own agenda. And if Lady Zabini caught even a whiff of it—

They didn’t say it out loud. Not yet.

“We want to see him,” Daphne demanded, voice low and dangerous.

“Ms. Greengrass—”

“No,” Theo cut in firmly. “We’re going to see him.”

There was no room for argument. They would get in whether Snape allowed it or not.

Snape sighed, sounding like a man whose headache had just become terminal. “Do what you want.”

HARRY

The world looked gray.

Colors still existed—technically. He could see them. But they felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. The silver trim of the Slytherin common room was just gray. The sky outside was a bland, washed-out blue. Even the fire in the hearth cast more shadow than warmth.

Harry didn’t think he’d really breathed properly since Halloween night.

Every minute Blaise was unconscious was a minute Harry spent unraveling. He barely slept. Barely ate. Barely heard anything anyone said to him. Nothing mattered anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He was completely numb to the outside world—a world where Blaise wasn’t awake.

It wasn’t just that Blaise had been hurt. It was the way it had happened—alone, isolated, as if no one had been watching. As if the night had swallowed him whole and let Harry walk around like nothing was wrong.

But everything was wrong.

Blaise’s still, lifeless body in that dungeon—and later, in the hospital wing—haunted every corner of Harry’s thoughts. It didn’t help that Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t let him stay more than a few minutes at a time. She said it wasn’t good for him to hover. That Blaise needed peace and quiet to heal.

But there was no peace outside those walls. No quiet in Harry’s head. No anything.

He just kept thinking:

What if he doesn’t wake up?

What if he does wake up, and I have to see the hurt in his eyes?

What if he needed me—and I wasn’t there?

Each possibility cut deeper than the last. He hadn’t realized how much he depended on Blaise—on his steady, clever, warm presence—until it was gone. Replaced by silence and white sheets.

And the worst part?

No one else understood the ache in Harry’s chest. The slow-burning, all-consuming guilt that felt like it was hollowing him out from the inside.

Because he had known about the troll.

He’d had a faint idea of where it was going to be. He could’ve warned Blaise. He should’ve warned Blaise. But he didn’t. Too caught up in his own paranoia. Too tangled in his distrust to reach out.

Blaise’s warning echoed in his mind: All these secrets will come back to haunt us.

And it had.

Harry’s refusal to try—to truly trust Blaise—had led to this. His silence had led to this. His fear had led to this.

Blaise was the one asleep.

But Harry was the one who couldn’t wake up.

Harry had barely noticed the door opening—until Daphne gasped and rushed to Blaise’s side, her voice trembling with raw grief.

“Oh Blaise!”

Tracey followed close behind, hovering like a ghost over the bed, hands clenched at her sides, while Theo stood still at the foot of it, silent and sharp-eyed. His gaze locked onto Harry.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Blaise lay too still. Too pale. His skin looked a ghostly gray in the candlelight, like his body hadn’t decided yet whether to keep fighting.

Then Tracey broke the silence.

“Snape said it was a troll,” she said, voice tight. “But he didn’t give us any real details. Just said it was Quirrell’s fault. That Blaise got... caught in it.”

Harry swallowed hard. His mouth felt like sandpaper. He wanted to stay silent, bury it all inside, but the way Daphne’s fingers trembled around Blaise’s hand—it made something in him give.

They deserved to know. Even if it wasn’t the whole truth.

“What happened?” Theo asked. He wasn’t accusing—yet—but there was steel beneath the softness of the question. “I know you were there, so what happened?”

Harry hesitated. “I was... out late. Mourning my parents. Halloween, you know…” It sounded hollow, even to his own ears. But he knew they wouldn’t press him about it, not something so personal.

“I heard yelling,” he went on, voice hoarse. “Down in the dungeons. I went to check it out and the troll was just… there.”

Tracey sucked in a breath. Daphne didn’t even blink.

“There were also some students there as well—Neville, Ron, Hermione. They were trying to fight it, but it was too strong. Too big. I—I don’t even know how they managed to stay standing. Blaise—”

His voice cracked.

“Blaise was already on the ground when I got there.”

The words were small. Like him. Like the way he’d felt seeing Blaise lying there, unmoving, his blood pooling on the floor.

“I thought I was too late,” he whispered.

Daphne sobbed quietly. Theo’s jaw locked tight.

“I managed to… I killed it.” The words came out sharp. Ugly. “It’s dead.”

Daphne turned to him, eyes red and brimming but steady. “How?”

Harry flinched. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Theo said, calm but cold. “Because people don’t just kill trolls. Not even an adult wixen would try to take one alone, head-on no less.”

Harry looked away, jaw clenched. “I don’t want to talk about how I did it.”

A tense silence.

Tracey looked like she wanted to push—but didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, she said quietly, “You got him out. That’s what matters.”

“No,” Harry said, and this time his voice broke wide open. “I wasn’t there in time. If I had been just a little faster—if I had just—”

He cut himself off. His fists clenched in his lap, nails biting deep.

If I had trusted Blaise more.

He didn’t say that part out loud. He couldn’t.

“He shouldn’t have even been there,” he whispered. “Merlin, why was he there?”

No one answered.

His mouth tasted like ash. The room was too quiet. Too heavy. The world was gray and cold and he just—he just wanted Blaise to wake up.

He didn’t care if Blaise hated him for what happened. If he never spoke to him again.

He just wanted him alive.

A cry escaped before he could stop it. His shoulders curled in. He hadn’t even had time to process it—not really. He’d just kept moving, one step after the next, like he could outrun the terror.

But he couldn’t outrun this:

Blaise could have died.

He would have died—if Harry had been even a second later.

So caught up in his grief, Harry hadn’t even noticed when Theo stepped closer and pulled him into a hug.

He froze, momentarily shocked. Theo was the last person he ever expected comfort from. Always composed, always distant. But his arms were solid around Harry, steady in a way Harry hadn’t realized he needed.

A sob bubbled up in his throat before he could stop it.

Tracey joined a moment later, slipping into the embrace like she belonged there. “I—I just want him to wake up already,” Harry choked out, his fingers clinging to the fabric of Theo’s shirt like a lifeline.

“We all do, Harry.” Daphne’s voice was soft—gentle in a way he’d never heard it directed at him. It had always been reserved for her friends. For Blaise.

Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around them, folding into the grief like she’d carried it too. “Thank you, Harry,” she whispered. “For saving him.”

And that—those words—broke something open inside him.

The dam cracked and split, and Harry sobbed. Loud, broken, messy. He hadn’t cried like this since he was a small child—since the moment he first realized the world didn’t care about him. Not really.

He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve them.

If they knew—if they really knew—that Blaise had been hurt because Harry didn’t trust him… they’d hate him.

But the selfish part of him—the little boy who’d never been held, never been told it was going to be okay—clung to it. Clung to them.

He wanted this. He wanted to be held. To be told it would be okay. Even if it wasn’t.

He was wiry and bony and barely held together, but he let them hold him anyway. And he cried.

He was a Greedy. Needy. Human.

But yet they didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

BLAISE

Blaise lay in a pool of cosmos, cradled by stars.

When the figure had left, murmuring something about needing to “tend to matters,” the space had changed. Not all at once, but subtly, like reality had exhaled and settled into a new shape.

The vast, open stretch of starfield shrank down. Planets and stars, once distant and imposing, now floated gently above the surface like softly glowing crystal balls. There were more of them now, dozens—no, hundreds—all swirling with unique patterns of color. One shimmered in iridescent green, misty clouds wrapped around its equator like a serpent. Another pulsed gently with a faint crimson heartbeat. A third spun slowly, its entire surface wrapped in roiling lavender storms.

The floor—or what had been the floor—was no longer visible. It was filled with a substance that wasn’t quite liquid but wasn’t quite gas either. It moved like thick water but didn’t cling to his skin or wet his clothes. Instead, it flowed and rippled with soft cosmic hues, a radiant tapestry of purples, blues, and blacks stitched through with stardust.

Blaise had been startled at first. The strangeness of the place gnawed at the edges of his mind—but not in a frightening way. Just… unfamiliar. Intriguing.

And curiosity had always been his undoing.

It was that very curiosity that had almost landed him in Ravenclaw—only his silver tongue had convinced the Sorting Hat otherwise.

He knelt, hesitantly, and dipped his fingers into the cosmic current.

The surface rippled like silk in a breeze, light fractals dancing across his skin. The small planets bobbed with the motion, each one humming softly, their songs distant but distinctly alive.

It was beautiful. Strange and endless and maybe not entirely real.

Blaise had ended up lying down in the pool, the strange not-liquid-yet-not-gas substance lapping coolly against his back. It moved around him like a thick mist, gentle and weightless, and his short curls floated in it like strands of ink in water.

Something bumped against his side, and he turned his head.

It was the Sun.

Not a metaphor. Not a distant speck in the sky. A miniature sun—golden and softly glowing—drifting lazily toward him like it had simply decided to come say hello.

He didn’t feel the overwhelming, forbidding pressure from earlier, back when the star had reached just above his waist with unknowable heat. This was different. It felt... approachable now.

He rolled to his side, facing it fully, and hesitantly reached out.

His fingers brushed the surface. It radiated heat—of course it did—but not the kind that scorched. No, it was warm in a way that reminded him of summers in Venice. That specific kind of warmth that seeped into your bones while you sat beside the water with no rush to be anywhere.

It reminded him of Hadrian.

Normally, that thought would’ve wrapped around him like a blanket, comforting and sure. But now it left him feeling untethered. Hollow. Disjointed.

He didn’t know how to feel about Hadrian anymore.

He’d wanted so badly for the boy to trust him. Or at the very least, speak to him plainly, without always hiding behind curtains of half-truths and carefully constructed silences. But Hadrian wore his secrets like armor—no, like skin—and peeling them back had always seemed impossible.

Still, Blaise had tried. Still, Blaise had cared.

His gaze drifted back to the tiny sun in his hands.

He’d always compared Hadrian to the sun—brilliant, impossible, consuming. And he hadn’t been wrong.

Hadrian had been warm. So warm it fact that it made Blaise want to crawl under his skin, wrap himself in that light and never let go. He’d craved it, basked in it, clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

But he had forgotten something important.

The Sun was a destructive thing.

And in his desperation for warmth, Blaise hadn’t noticed he was getting burned in the process.

Hadrian had known about the troll, if Blaise remembered correctly. He had faced it in his first year during their original timeline. At least, that’s what the rumors had said.

And normally, Blaise would’ve taken such stories with a grain of salt. But most rumors, no matter how ridiculous, carried a sliver of truth. And given everything he knew now, the likelihood of Hadrian being aware of the troll was… very high.

Blaise let out a long, tired sigh. All of it—this situation, the silence, the secrets—it was exhausting.

He was exhausted.

It was hard trying to pull someone else out of the water when you were already drowning. It was hard watching someone wrap themselves in thorns and not being allowed to bleed.

Closing his eyes, he pressed the small sun to his chest, letting its warmth sink into his bones.

He had always ran colder than most. For as long as he could remember, he’d spent every summer sprawled in the sand at their coastal home, soaking up sunlight until his skin hummed with it. A reptile, his mother used to joke fondly—always curled up in the warmest spot she could find him in.

This warmth reminded him of that. Steady. Familiar. Safe.

But no matter how tightly he held the sun now, it wasn’t enough to chase away the cold creeping into his chest—the kind that came from heartbreak, not weather.

He felt foolish for feeling this way—like Hadrian had betrayed some unspoken expectation Blaise had never even admitted out loud.

But he had trusted Hadrian. He had liked him. He had wanted Hadrian to like him too. To trust him back. To meet him halfway in that space between silence and honesty.

And now, lying in a pool of stardust and silence, Blaise felt so utterly alone. Not the peaceful kind of alone that came with solitude, but the aching, scraping kind that lodged itself between his ribs and hollowed out his chest.

He had latched onto Hadrian like a lifeline. Desperate to have something—someone—that reminded him of the life he'd left behind. The life that had been stripped from him without warning.

He missed it.

Merlin, he missed it so badly.

He missed the quiet mornings. The subtle freedom of his work. His autonomy. And yet even then—even then—he hadn’t truly been content.

He’d enjoyed being an Unspeakable. There was a quiet sort of power in it, in knowing more than anyone else in the room. In observing without being observed. But even the Department of Mysteries had its limits. Its unspoken rules. Its chains.

And Blaise had always hated chains. Routine felt like a slow death. He thrived on movement, on change, on the thrill of the unknown—never staying in one place long enough to stagnate.

He’d only been with the Department a year before the time travel debacle. Just twelve months. Still sharp, still cocky, still convinced he was ready for anything.

His first on-field mission had been with Hadrian. Investigate the hole in time. Easy enough, on paper.

And yet it had gone so catastrophically sideways that he’d landed face-first in the past and woke up in a child’s body.

Brilliant.

He let out a laugh—dry, humorless—and pressed the miniature sun tighter against his chest.

It radiated warmth, gentle and steady.

But it couldn’t soothe the ache in his soul.

His mind went blank for a while. He just laid there, letting the Sun try its best to warm him up.

“Oh, Moon-Starved Child,” the figure said, voice like silk stretched across stardust. “What is it that you seek?”

Blaise blinked slowly. He hadn’t even noticed when they’d returned.

That question… it was the same one they had asked the last time they were here.

What is it that you seek?

He didn’t know.

He hugged the Sun tighter, feeling its warmth settle against his ribs.

What was he doing with his life? Where was he supposed to go from here?

“You rebuild,” the figure said, as if plucking the question straight from his mind. “You begin with the basics. What is it that you enjoy doing?”

Exploring.

The word came instantly. Instinctively. A truth that lived deep in his bones.

He had always loved exploring. Even as a child—curious to a fault, always poking and prodding at things he shouldn’t, slipping into rooms left locked for a reason, wandering places no one else dared to go simply because he had to know what was there. Learning was joy, yes, but discovery? Discovery was life.

“You’ve allowed yourself to grow stagnant,” the figure said softly.

Blaise sat up. The Sun shifted with him, settling warmly in his lap like a pet that refused to leave.

Stagnant.

He hated that word. Always had. Stagnation meant dullness, meant decay. It meant letting yourself rot quietly in the same place while your soul itched to move. It meant forgetting how to move forward.

His lips pulled into a frown. He wanted to deny it, but they weren’t wrong.

He had grown stagnant. Somewhere along the way, he had let something vital in him wither.

When had he stopped exploring?

Was it after Hogwarts, when he was expected to follow in his mother’s footsteps—to find a place, settle down, build a coven like a proper heir?

Was it during his stint as a potions master when he realized the work was more about routine than discovery? Brewing the same mixtures, refining the same formulas, over and over until the novelty bled out of it?

Or maybe it was when he joined the Department of Mysteries, thinking it would feed his curiosity, only to find himself smothered by layers of silence and secrecy. Shackled by rules, confined by classified walls.

When had he let his passion die?

He didn’t know. But he wanted it back.

Hadn’t exploration been the very reason he was so eager to graduate from Hogwarts?

The school had only been able to contain him for so long. The first few years had been thrilling—new spells, secret passageways, a castle alive with magic and mystery. It was the first time he’d lived without his mother’s guiding hand, and for a while, the freedom had tasted sweet.

But by fifth year, the novelty had worn off. The corridors grew familiar, the faces predictable. He had counted down the days until graduation, convinced that the real world would be his to explore.

And yet, once he had stepped into it, he had let himself grow stagnant.

Blaise had wanted to explore—not just the magical world, but the Muggle one, too.

Most purebloods scoffed at the idea. Looked down on Muggles, dismissed their world as mundane. But Blaise had never believed that. How could the Muggle world be dull when it coexisted alongside the magical one? When it thrived despite being blind to the magic that swirled all around it?

Still… he hadn’t gone. Hadn’t explored. Had confined himself to just four magical communities: Italy, Britain, Greece, and France.

But he wanted more.

He wanted to walk through Tokyo’s hidden wizard alleys, sample street food in Thailand, learn ancient rituals in the temples of India. He wanted to study the magic of cultures he’d never been taught, see what spells were whispered in languages he didn’t yet speak.

And the Muggle world? He wanted that, too.

He thought of the time Hadrian had taken him to the movies—his first time, a bizarre, brilliant experience he hadn’t fully understood, but had secretly loved. The flicker of the screen, the hum of the crowd, the electric feel of a world that ran entirely on technology and imagination.

They’d put a man on the moon.

The moon.

In every magical society he’d been part of, there were scholars who laughed at the idea. Said it was impossible. Said the moon belonged to the stars, not to men.

But the Muggles had done it. With no magic, no runes, no wands—they reached for the sky and succeeded.

How could he not want to see more of that?

The world was so massive. So complex. So alive with wonder.

And he’d only let himself nibble at the edges of it. He’d been starving.

He was starving.

He wanted more. He needed more.

And maybe, just maybe… he was finally ready to go after it.

“Find your Harmony, Moon Child,” the figure said softly, their cold fingers combing gently through his hair.

Blaise leaned into the touch. For the first time in what felt like ages, he felt… settled. Not whole, not healed—but aligned. His magic, once knotted with misunderstood emotion, unraveled gently beneath their touch, flowing calm and steady again.

A comfortable silence hung over them for a while. Until Blaise grew curious.

He had a question he’d been meaning to ask since he had met the figure, but the question had just kept slipping his mind until now.

He tilted his head up toward the figure. “You’ve never told me your name.”

The figure chuckled softly, the sound like the chime of wind through glass. “It’s been so long since this one has had a name.”

Blaise frowned. “You don’t have a name?”

“I’ve had many names, Moon Child. Names are like stars—burning bright for a time, then fading into myth.”

They paused, as if sifting through the weight of forgotten identities. “But I suppose you may call this one Astraios.”

The name settled in the air around them like stardust, ancient and heavy with meaning.

“Astraios,” Blaise repeated, quietly. He didn’t know why, but it felt right. Like naming a constellation he had always known was there, just waiting to be traced.

PRESENT

DRACO

Draco hadn’t expected Theo to approach him. Especially not without warning.

“Nott,” he said warily as Theo sat down across from him at the library table.

“Malfoy,” Theo returned, equally flat.

They sat in silence for a long moment, tension settling between them like a fog. Then Theo sighed, before casting a silencing charm.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What’s the matter?”

He knew Theo wouldn’t have approached him unless it was important. Not these days. Not with how things stood between them.

They weren’t friends anymore.

Draco’s chest tightened slightly at the thought. He respected his father—of course he did—but even he had to admit that his father could be… short-sighted. And it was that very short-sightedness that had driven a wedge between Draco and people he’d once considered allies. Friends.

“Has your mail been tampered with?” Theo asked suddenly, straight to the point, as always.

Draco blinked. “I don’t believe so. Why?”

Theo didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “Did you tell your father about the troll incident?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I did,” he said slowly, cautious now. “Why?”

“Did he respond?”

Draco stiffened at that. He kept his expression neutral, just like he’d been taught.

He didn’t answer right away.

But the silence was telling.

“Nott, what do you want?” Draco asked, voice flat but no longer indifferent.

“Dumbledore is tampering with what information gets in and out of the school,” Theo said bluntly.

Draco blenched. He couldn’t say he was surprised—not really. Dumbledore, for all his parading around as the supposed leader of the Light, the beacon of moral righteousness, was no stranger to manipulation. For all his Gryffindor pride and grandfatherly charm, the man was cunning—more so than most Slytherins Draco knew.

He wouldn’t put it past Dumbledore to control the flow of information. It wouldn’t even be hard. All he’d need to do was alter the wards, set them to flag outgoing letters that said too much, or incoming ones that said the wrong things.

But even that thought screeched to a halt when Theo spoke again.

“Blaise was attacked by the troll.”

Draco’s world stilled. Whatever thoughts had been building in his head drained out all at once.

“Excuse me?” he said sharply, eyes narrowing.

“Apparently, Professor Quirrell accidentally let loose a troll he was planning to use for a Defense class,” Theo said, tone dry and flat, like the words tasted foul in his mouth. “Me and the others weren’t in the Great Hall when he announced it.”

Draco didn’t need to ask why. Halloween had also been Samhain, and he remembered how seriously their coven took it, how sacred the night was. They would’ve been elsewhere, honoring tradition. Together.

Theo looked down at the table, voice quieter as he continued, “Blaise said he wasn’t feeling well. He left early to lie down.”

Draco’s stomach twisted.

“We didn’t know the troll had gotten into the dungeons,” Theo added, voice low.

Draco had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from reacting. “Is he… doing well?” He asked, carefully.

Theo looked up again, eyes tired. “Honestly? No. He’s been out for three days. Madam Pomfrey says she doesn’t know when he’ll wake up.”

Draco sat back, stunned.

He wasn’t ungrateful for the information, not by a long shot. But suspicion crept in. He and Theo hadn’t been friends in a long time. There were reasons for that, sharp words, sharper loyalties. And yet here Theo was, cracking open just enough to show Draco something vulnerable.

That alone was cause for suspicion.

“…How do I fit into this equation?” he asked eventually, voice low, calculating. Was this a trap? Or an opening?

Theo’s jaw tensed. “Dumbledore hasn’t told Lady Zabini what happened.”

Draco froze. “He hasn’t told her?” His voice pitched higher, incredulous. “Is he out of his mind?!”

Theo didn’t flinch at Draco’s outburst, though the corner of his mouth twitched—wry, bitter. “I don’t think he plans to.”

Draco stared. “He has to. That’s Lady Zanini! She’ll tear the castle down brick by brick if she thinks he’s been harmed and no one informed her—”

“She’s not even in the country,” Theo cut in, cold and sharp. “Last I heard, she was in Morocco. Dumbledore’s banking on that giving him time.”

“Time for what?” Draco hissed. “To cover it up?”

Theo’s silence was telling enough.

Draco ran a hand through his hair, mouth pressed in a line. This was bad. No, this was catastrophic. He didn’t know what kind of game Dumbledore was playing, but it wasn’t a safe one. You didn’t keep things from Lady Zabini. Not if you wanted to live.

“Why are you telling me this?” Draco finally asked. “You could’ve gone to—”

“Gone to who?” Theo snapped. “The professors? They already know. Half the staff is pretending it didn’t happen. And the others—” He exhaled sharply. “They’re scared. Or pretending not to be.”

Draco stared at him. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Theo looked at him, quiet. “Because you’re the only one who might actually do something.”

That stunned him into silence.

And somewhere, deep in his chest, something Draco thought long buried shifted—like a knot beginning to loosen.

HARRY

Harry watched silently as Blaise’s chest rose and fell.

It had been four days since Halloween. Four days, and Blaise had yet to wake up.

Harry found himself unconsciously matching his breathing—inhale, exhale, inhale again—like if he could just stay in rhythm, maybe Blaise would too. Maybe that was enough to keep him tethered.

His fingers toyed with the silver ring, the one Blaise had given him. He traced the little carving of the sun on its surface, thumb brushing over it again and again. Then he tapped it once, and it warmed under his skin.

Proof of life.

Proof that Blaise was still here.

Proof that he hadn’t died because of Harry’s paranoia.

Harry had seen people die. He’d caused some of those deaths. He thought, for a long time, that he’d grown numb to it. That Death didn’t scare him anymore—not after he’d met them. Not after everything.

But now?

Now he was terrified.

The thought of losing Blaise—really losing him—was paralyzing. The idea that Blaise could stop breathing while Harry blinked, that he could slip away without a sound…

It was suffocating.

He didn’t know what he’d do if Blaise died.

It would be like the moon vanishing from the sky.

Leaving him swallowed by eternal night.

Inhale, exhale.

Harry could barely bring himself to do anything. If it weren’t for Theo and the others, he wouldn’t have left the infirmary at all. Wouldn’t have left Blaise’s side.

The world felt so dull without Blaise in it. Like someone had drained all the color out of it.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d started to depend on Blaise—to lean on his steady presence like a compass, like a guiding light in the dark mess of their situation. Blaise, who always seemed to take things in stride. Who never demanded, never pushed—but still stood firm when it mattered.

Boundaries.

He had tried to set them. Gently. Repeatedly.

But Harry had been too stupid to see it.

Because Blaise hadn’t been asking for much. He hadn’t asked for control, or power, or even answers—not all of them. Just to be included. To know what they were walking into. What he was walking into.

Harry had lived through it once already. He remembered all the chaos, the danger. He’d been at the center of it, molded by it. Blaise hadn’t. Blaise didn’t have those memories, that preparation.

Blaise hadn’t remembered the troll.

And Harry couldn’t even blame him.

From what the others had said, Blaise hadn’t been in the Great Hall when the announcement was made.

He hadn’t known that the troll was in the dungeon. How could he have? For all Blaise knew, it might’ve just been another one of those wild Hogwarts rumors. One of those stories people whispered about, but no one really believed.

So how could he have known?

How could he have known that a troll was actually loose in the castle?

How could he have known that it wasn’t just a rumor?

That it was real.

And that it would nearly kill him.

Harry swallowed dryly. He reached out and held Blaise’s hand.

Gently. Carefully. Like a lifeline.

He was too scared to squeeze, afraid he might hurt him somehow—afraid that if he held on too tightly, Blaise might turn into star dust.

The gold moon ring rested on Blaise’s finger. A quiet contrast to the little silver sun on Harry’s own. Opposites. Matching. Tethered.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft meow.

Selina.

He’d brought her with him today. She’d been growing more distressed with each passing day she hadn’t seen her bonded, pacing the dorms like a ghost.

Harry let go of Blaise’s hand, hesitating for just a moment before he gently picked her up. Selina relaxed the moment she saw him, her meow turning from distressed to relieved.

He placed her on the bed beside Blaise, watching as she immediately curled up against his side, her purring soft and steady.

Finally at peace. Reunited.

Chapter Text

PRESENT

“We need to figure out how the wards work,” Draco stated, placing a thick copy of Hogwarts: A History on the table with a dull thud.

Tracey frowned, then asked, “How are we going to outsmart magic carved into the literal bones of the castle?”

“We don’t need to outsmart it,” Daphne said calmly, flipping the book open. “Just understand it well enough to poke holes.”

Theo leaned in, scanning the page over Daphne’s shoulder. “The wards are layered. Physical protections, magical defenses, tracking charms, mail filters—especially for anything going out. Dumbledore doesn’t want anyone knowing what really happens inside these walls.”

“Which is exactly the problem,” Draco said sharply. “If we want those letters to leave the castle, we’ll have to be careful.”

Tracey’s expression darkened. “Once Lady Zabini gets her letter, she’ll raze this place to the ground.”

“I’m counting on it,” Draco replied coolly.

Daphne traced a line down the index. “Here—communication protocols. Apparently, owl post routes through a sub-layer of wards centered at the Astronomy Tower. It’s the hub for all outbound messaging.”

Theo nodded slowly. “So we either convince the wards the letters are harmless… or bypass the system completely.”

“Could we enchant the letters to mimic school-approved content?” Tracey asked.

“That’s risky,” Theo said. “The wards check for intent as well as spellwork. If the enchantment doesn’t match the core purpose of the letter, it’ll get flagged.”

Daphne’s eyes lit up. “What about a diversion? Flood the wards with inappropriate mail to confuse the filters.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “That could work. But what qualifies as inappropriate?”

“Dark magic,” Draco said immediately, “obviously.”

“If it’s too dark, though we’ll get caught,” Daphne warned. “We need chaos—but the right amount. Just enough to raise eyebrows, not alarms.”

“Oh, I can do that!” Tracey grinned. “I’ll modify a bunch of parchment with mild jinxes and curses. Just enough to trip the filters.”

Theo nodded. “I’ll keep watch on the Astronomy Tower. If the wards react, I’ll slip out an anonymous letter laced with something darker—enough to cause a scene.”

“That should work,” Daphne said. “Draco and I will handle the actual letters. We need a timeline.”

“Saturday?” Theo suggested.

“More than enough time for me to prep thirty or so letters,” Tracey said confidently.

“All right, then,” Daphne said, voice calm but steely. “Saturday. We move.”

TRACEY

Tracey was tired.

She had ended up enchanting forty letters with minor jinxes and curses. It had been fun at first—dreaming up random spells designed to trip the wards—but it was still draining. Her magic ached, and so did her fingers.

She regrouped with Theo and the others in their hidden corner of the library, the table charmed to be silent and hard to notice unless you were actively looking for it.

“Here,” she said, dumping the stack of letters onto the table with dramatic flair. “Forty jinxed and cursed letters ready to go!”

She slumped into her seat with a proud smile.

“That’s wonderful, Tracey,” Daphne said, already flipping through them with an appraising eye.

“We’re done with ours too,” Draco said, holding up two plain-looking letters between his fingers.

Theo exhaled, looking genuinely relieved. “Everything’s ready, then.”

He pulled out his own letter and set it down on the table. It radiated with something foul—sticky and wrong, like rotten magic left in the sun.

Draco wrinkled his nose. “What spell did you use?”

“Engorgio Skullus,” Theo answered casually, like he hadn’t just admitted to casting one of the more grotesque and illegal variants of an engorgement charm.

Draco visibly shivered. Tracey had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing at his expression.

“Brutal,” she breathed in delight.

Daphne rolled her eyes. “All right then. Me, Tracey, and Draco will head to the Owlery and give these to the barn owls. One of them will deliver a decoy letter to Theo at the Astronomy Tower, so he can send his if the distraction fails.”

They all nodded. This was it.

“May Morgan aid us in our venture,” Daphne murmured.

And together, they echoed the prayer.

THEODORE

Theo watched as forty owls soared toward the edge of the Hogwarts wards, letters clutched in their talons like little bombs.

One by one, each owl shimmered red as it crossed the barrier—flagged, caught, and vanished from sight. The first few were seamless, but by the tenth, the wards began to shudder, the magic visibly straining under the volume.

By the time the twentieth owl hit, the air around the castle buzzed with tension. From his vantage point on the Astronomy Tower, Theo spotted several professors hurrying out of the castle, wands drawn, faces tight with concern.

Perfect.

While their backs were turned, Theo slipped his own letter to a waiting owl and released it into the air.

He didn’t wait to see it vanish. He turned and made his way down the stairs, keeping his pace quick but controlled. Still, he paused halfway down to glance out a window.

He saw it—just a flash—but that was all he needed.

The wards cracked, like lightning splitting glass, and something sleek and dark slipped through the break, most likely his letter.

Mission accomplished.

CARLOTTA

“Truly, Lady Zabini, your work never ceases to amaze.” The client turned her head from side to side, admiring the way the golden necklace caught the light and shimmered like sunlit honey. Runes etched subtly into the chain pulsed faintly, their magic reacting to her presence.

“I’m pleased that you’re satisfied with the results,” Carlotta said with a pleasant, practiced smile. “As promised, the runes offer layered protection—both physical and spiritual. And, of course, the additional enhancements you requested are embedded discreetly.”

The client’s eyes gleamed. “Subtle and deadly. You truly have a gift.”

Carlotta inclined her head graciously. “Only the best for those who can recognize true craftsmanship.”

“Now, as agreed upon earlier, it will cost you quite a bit,” Carlotta added carefully. Some clients had a tendency to grow skittish whenever the topic of compensation arose. That was why she’d taken to adding a fail-safe into her work. She always ensured the client wore the piece before discussing payment, because if they refused or attempted to shortchange her, the runes etched into the jewel would activate a curse that began to decay the skin around the area where it was worn.

“Of course, I wouldn’t dream of shortchanging you,” her client said with a flippant laugh.

Carlotta forced a pleasant chuckle in return. “Milly, bring Lady Zabini her money,” her client said with a snap of her fingers.

Her house-elf popped in with a heavy pouch clutched in her small arms.

“Twenty-five thousand galleons, as we agreed upon.”

Carlotta cast a quick counting charm—exactly twenty-five thousand. Not a sickle short.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Lady Idrissi,” Carlotta said smoothly, accepting the pouch with a gracious nod.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Lady Zabini,” Idrissi replied, her smile polished and perfectly unaware of just how close she had come to ruin.

Upon returning home, Carlotta spotted Athena perched atop her resting place, three letters lying innocently on the table beside her.

One bore the Wizengamot seal, another the Goblins' crest, and the last was a simple, unassuming envelope.

She could already guess the contents of the first two, but it was the plain letter that piqued her curiosity—so she decided to save it for last.

She picked up the letter from Gringotts and carefully slit it open.

Dear Lady Zabini,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits.

We have received your confirmation accepting guardianship of Heir Potter. All documentation has been processed, and as of today, you are officially listed as Heir Potter's legal guardian. With this guardianship comes access to his designated trust vault; please note that Heir Potter’s full inheritance remains sealed until he comes of age.

The trust vault allows for monthly disbursements of up to 30,000 Galleons, intended for Heir Potter’s expenses and general care. Unfortunately, his previous guardian demonstrated a concerning habit of treating the vault as a personal spending account. As such, we will require periodic financial transcripts of all expenditures drawn from the trust. No transaction is to be omitted, regardless of how trivial or inappropriate you may believe it to be.

Failure to comply with this policy will result in the immediate sealing of the trust vault and a mandatory in-person hearing to explain your noncompliance.

Should you have any questions or require clarification, you are welcome to request a meeting at your earliest convenience.

Wishing you a productive evening,

Griphook

Senior Account Manager

Gringotts Wizarding Bank

Carlotta frowned. Hadrian hadn’t told her that Dumbledore had been stealing from him. How much further could that man sink?

Still, it was good to know Gringotts had taken precautions to prevent any further misuse.

She turned her attention to the letter bearing the Wizengamot seal. A spark of glee rose in her chest. If the Gringotts letter had been the confirmation, then this was the coronation.

She slit open the envelope with practiced ease.

Dear Lady Zabini,

Congratulations on your appointment as the new Head of the Wizengamot.

As of this fine November day, you are now officially recognized as the Head of the Wizengamot.

Heir Potter has named you the legal proxy for his three seats:

• The Most Noble and Ancient House of Peverell (three votes),
• The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black (three votes), and
• The Noble and Ancient House of Potter (two votes).

In total, you now control eight votes.

As the former Head of the Grey Faction, your elevation has shifted the political balance:

• The Grey Faction now leads with 42 votes,
• The Light Faction holds 37 votes,
• And the Dark Faction remains at 37 votes.

Our first Wizengamot session to formally announce your appointment will be held on December 17th.

Should this date pose any scheduling conflicts, please contact the Ministry immediately to arrange an alternative.

Once again, congratulations on your new position.

Sincerely,

Cornelius Fudge

Minister for Magic

British Ministry for Magic

Carlotta's eyes widened.

Heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Peverell and Black.

She needed to sit down.

Lowering herself onto the nearest chair, she let the full weight of it sink in. She had only ever known Hadrian to be heir to the Noble House of Potter. But this—this changed everything.

From a mere 34 votes and leading the weakest faction…

To 42 votes, and leading the entirety of the Wizengamot.

It was absurd. It was poetic.

A sharp, disbelieving laugh burst from her lips—light at first, then louder, sharper, touched with hysteria.

Oh, to see Dumbledore’s face.

To witness the carefully curated mask of benevolence crack, just for a moment, when he realized he was no longer the Head of the Wizengamot.

How divine that moment would be.

She would pay good galleons for a portrait of his expression when the announcement was made.

Still chuckling, eyes gleaming with delight, Carlotta turned to the last letter. She scanned it carefully for hexes, curses, or even hidden enchantments.

It was plain. Unsealed with any crest.

How... curious.

Satisfied it bore no ill intent, she carefully split the envelope open, bracing herself. Because after the week she’d had, this one could either be a love letter or a declaration of war.

Dear Aunt Carlotta,

I’m writing to inform you that something terrible has happened to Blaise.

On Samhain night, a professor let a troll loose—and Blaise was attacked.

He’s in critical condition, and no one knows when he’ll wake up.

To my knowledge, none of the Hogwarts staff have written to inform you of what happened. Because of that, Theo, Tracey, Draco, and I have taken it upon ourselves to contact both you and Lord Malfoy to report what’s occurred, in hopes of securing justice for Blaise.

We await your response with urgency.

Yours truly,

Your niece,

Daphne Greengrass

All the previous joy Carlotta had felt over the previous joyful news had died the moment she had finished reading Daphne’s letter. A cold rage settled over Carlotta.

Her son—her treasure, her little moon—had been harmed. Injured while attending what was supposedly the safest place in the magical world. Not just injured, but left in critical condition because of some careless, incompetent professor.

And no one had thought to tell her.

Carlotta’s fingers tightened around the letter, her knuckles pale against the parchment.

Her eyes skimmed the words again, desperate for a misread, a mistake, some sign that it wasn’t as serious as it sounded.

But the words didn’t change.

Blaise.

Critical condition.

A troll.

A Troll!

And no one had told her.

Her lips parted in silent fury. Dumbledore hadn’t just failed her son—he had actively hidden it. Covered it up. Had Blaise died, would she have even known? Or would she have received a meaningless apology and a sealed coffin without ever being told what happened inside those cursed castle walls?

Her magic surged beneath her skin, simmering in raw, protective outrage.

Dumbledore had made a grave mistake.

With trembling grace, Carlotta stood and crossed to her writing desk. She didn’t need time to think—she needed parchment. Quills. Ink black as judgment.

Because if the Headmaster thought he could steal from her ward, endanger her son, and keep her in the dark—

Then he was about to learn, in front of all of magical Britain, just what kind of woman he had underestimated.

Just as she was about to start penning her letter, the soft chime of her Floo system echoed through the sitting room.

Someone was requesting entry.

Carlotta didn’t need to ask who.

She rose, waved her wand, and the green flames flared.

Lucius Malfoy stepped out of the Floo with practiced elegance, cane in hand, expression carved from stone.

“Lady Zabini,” he greeted, brushing a trace of soot from his sleeve. “I see you’ve received a letter as well.”

Carlotta set her quill down. “From Daphne and Draco, yes.” Her head tilted slightly, voice deceptively calm. “I take it you’re here for the same reason?”

Lucius’s jaw tightened. “To discuss the Headmaster’s gross negligence and begin preparations. Yes.”

Carlotta didn’t bother sitting. “We’ll need to move quickly—before Dumbledore has a chance to bury this.”

Lucius nodded. “I’ll speak with the education board. Draco informed me that Hogwarts has a ward system that flags letters Dumbledore deems too ‘inappropriate’ to leave campus.”

Carlotta frowned, recalling Blaise’s last letter. “I was aware of the warding, but I hadn’t realized it was powerful enough for Dumbledore to suppress critical information from reaching parents.”

“We can use that. I’ll also raise concerns about his handling of students’ personal affairs,” Lucius added smoothly. “If he’s willing to hide the fact that a student has been gravely injured, Merlin knows what else he’s keeping under lock and key.”

A long silence settled between them. The fire crackled in the hearth.

Then, more quietly, Lucius asked, “How is Blaise?”

Carlotta’s gaze dropped, just briefly—a flicker of emotion behind her otherwise steeled composure. “Unconscious. For days. And no one told me.”

“That changes now.” Lucius’s voice was equally sharp. “We won’t let our children’s pleas for help be ignored again.”

Carlotta’s magic surged, rippling faintly through the air. “Let’s raze him, Lucius,” she said, her eyes gleaming.

“Brick by brick,” he promised.

HARRY

Harry knew that at this point, his eyebags probably had eyebags of their own—but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Madam Pomfrey said Blaise’s vitals were improving and that there was a good chance he’d wake up any day now.

Harry glanced down at their joined hands and gave a gentle squeeze.

Selina meowed and shifted in his lap, getting more comfortable. She’d been keeping him company for a while now, and he’d taken to caring for her as a way to keep his mind from slipping into darker places.

He’d been going to class. He’d been eating—or at least, trying to eat more.

He didn’t want Blaise to wake up to a complete mess, so he was doing what he could to hold himself together.

But sometimes, it was hard. Harry would hear something and instinctively turn to look at Blaise, expecting some dry remark or an amused expression—only to be hit, all over again, by the empty space.

It felt like a knife to the throat every time.

He’d look, expecting Blaise to be there.

But he wasn’t.

And it hurt.

It hurt so much.

Harry was trying to be strong. He had to be. Because if he let himself crumble, he knew he’d tear himself apart.

He hummed softly to himself and brushed a piece of hair from Blaise’s face.

He looked peaceful now. Not like before—when he’d first been brought in, face contorted in pain, barely breathing. Now, he just looked like he was asleep. Like any moment, he’d open his eyes and crack some comment about how dramatic Harry was being.

Harry exhaled slowly, forcing down the creeping sadness.

Blaise was fine.

He was going to pull through this.

He had to.

Selina began to fuss in his lap. Harry tried to calm her, but she squirmed free, leapt onto Blaise’s bed, and began licking his forehead insistently.

He was about to pull her back when Blaise moved.

A weak moan escaped him as he tried to turn his head away from Selina’s affectionate assault.

Harry’s breath hitched. “B-Blaise?” he croaked, voice barely above a whisper. His heart slammed in his chest. Everything felt distant and too sharp, like he was dreaming.

“Ha…drain…?” Blaise slurred, voice hoarse and dazed.

Selina, satisfied with her reunion, curled up next to him, her purring now a steady rhythm against the quiet of the infirmary.

Harry choked on a sob and squeezed Blaise’s hand, grounding himself.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, then louder, a fragile laugh breaking through the tears, “You’re actually awake.”

And when Blaise weakly squeezed his hand back—just barely—Harry felt the world snap back into place.

Like it had been holding its breath.

Like it was finally breathing again.

Chapter Text

ALBUS

Albus gripped the letter from Gringotts in his hand, fingers trembling with barely contained fury. It took everything in him not to set the damned thing ablaze right then and there.

They had fined him.

Him.

Did they not understand who he was?

He was Albus Dumbledore—Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump, Leader of the Light.

With a disgusted scoff, he flung the parchment across the room, then turned to the next letter on his desk. This one filled him with immediate dread. The Wizengamot seal glared up at him like a curse.

Reluctantly, he tore it open. As his eyes scanned the first line, a high-pitched ringing filled his ears.

We regret to inform you that, as of this November day, you are no longer the Head of the Wizengamot.

His jaw tightened. As he read on, each word burned hotter than the last. By the time he reached the bottom, fury had eclipsed thought.

“That wench!” he roared, surging to his feet so fast the portraits flinched and Fawkes gave an indignant squawk from his perch.

He didn’t know how.

He didn’t know when.

But he knew exactly who was behind this.

Carlotta Zabini.

That cold-hearted, manipulative witch.

She had stolen the boy, twisted him against his destiny—and now, she had stolen his title.

His grip twisted in his hair, breaths shallow and sharp. Oh, he hated her. He hated her with a depth he hadn’t known he was capable of.

But she had made a mistake.

Because Albus Dumbledore did not lose.

Not for long.

He was broken from his seething thoughts by the sudden appearance of Minerva’s Patronus—a silver tabby cat sprinting across the floor, voice urgent and clipped:

“The wards have been breached! We don’t know how, but a swarm of owls just hammered into them—and they shattered!”

Albus paled. Without a word, he swept from his office, robes flaring behind him as he descended the stairs with increasing urgency.

Could this be an attack?

Voldemort?

No—impossible. The man couldn’t have risen again so quickly. The stone was still hidden within the Mirror. It hadn’t been touched.

Albus gritted his teeth and quickened his pace, rounding the corner where he saw Minerva and several staff members clustered in frantic conversation, wands drawn and eyes wide with disbelief.

The wards had held for centuries.

He didn’t pause to ask questions—he would get answers later.

He had to see the damage for himself.

The stone could wait for now.

TOM

It took everything in Tom not to break something.

He had been stuck sharing Quirrell’s feeble body for months now.

Months.

And still—no progress. No closer to regaining his body. No loyal followers left. All his so-called supporters had fled like rats from a sinking ship, leaving him to scrape together plans on his own.

The troll had been meant as a distraction, a delay tactic to buy him time to search for the Stone. He hadn’t expected it to attack a student, let alone a pure-blood.

A Slytherin.

A Slytherin with direct ties to that woman.

He didn’t fear Carlotta Zabini.

But he did respect her. Deeply.

The Zabini name didn’t carry the same ancient weight as the Blacks or even the Peverells, but they had power. Influence. Their command of Celestial Runes was unparalleled in magical Europe. That knowledge alone made them both valuable and dangerous.

That’s why people still whispered the name. That’s why men groveled at Carlotta’s feet, even knowing the risk of what loving her could cost them.

She wasn’t the kind of woman one wanted as an enemy.

And while she hadn’t been a friend to his cause, she hadn’t stood in opposition either. During the war, while others chose sides, she remained neutral. Unmoving. Unshakable.

So yes, Tom had released the troll.

But no, he had not meant for it to maim Carlotta Zabini’s son.

Unfortunately, trolls were simple-minded beasts. They were drawn to strong magical souls like moths to flame.

And Blaise Zabini had seemed to shine brighter than most.

Ah, he was wasting time musing.

Today, it seemed the heavens had shone down on him.

Someone—bless their reckless little soul—had managed to break one of the wards surrounding Hogwarts, leaving most of the staff scrambling to repair it.

And Dumbledore?

Dumbledore was practically panicking, patching holes in what was supposed to be an impenetrable defense.

Tom had to bite back a cackle when he caught sight of the man floundering.

From what he could gather, it looked like an inside job. Someone had wanted something to get out of Hogwarts, not in—and they had succeeded.

Served the old fool right for brushing off his staff’s complaints about the outdated ward structure.

Oh well.

Let Dumbledore clean up the mess.

Tom would just reap the rewards of his arrogance.

He slipped away while no one was looking, determined to find where the man had hidden the Stone.

NEVILLE

Everything had been off since Halloween.

Neville hadn’t said it out loud—didn’t think he could—but the memory was burned into him. That night, that horrible night, had clawed its way into his bones.

He had almost watched Zabini die.

The troll had been towering, snarling—wrong in a way that magic usually wasn’t. And Zabini—Merlin, Zabini had just lain there. His blood pooling beneath him, his body so still it looked lifeless. He hadn’t been breathing. Or maybe he had. Neville’s brain had slowed time to a crawl, stretching the seconds into something unbearable.

And then Harry had appeared from nowhere—and snapped.

Neville could still feel it, if he let himself think too hard. That crackle of raw, blinding power that had exploded out of him.

No wand.

No words.

The magic had just answered him, roaring, wild, and furious.

It tore the troll in half.

In half.

Neville had never seen anything like that before. He had never seen anyone die either. Not something that big. Not something that loud.

And the worst part? He hadn’t felt brave. Or heroic. Or Gryffindor for trying to fight it,

He’d felt weak, helpless.

Paralyzed.

Afterward, when the dust settled and Harry stood there in the middle of it all, covered in the troll’s blood, Neville had just… stayed there. Shaking.

He hadn’t told his gran. He didn’t want her to worry. But he still had nightmares of Zabini lying there and not waking up.

Of being too slow. Too weak. Too scared.

Ron and Hermione felt the same.

They’d all been so close to danger. They’d seen it—felt it. The panic. The adrenaline. The sickening realization that they might die. That someone might die, and they wouldn’t be able to stop it.

They didn’t talk about it much. Not directly. But after that, the three of them started spending more time together. Studying, walking to class together, constantly looking over each other’s shoulders. Even just sitting in the common room, sharing comfortable silence.

It helped. It lessened the fear and grounded them.

They trauma bonded, he supposed. And there was something strangely comforting in knowing that someone else had seen what he saw—had felt what he felt—and didn’t think he was weak for it.

They were all just trying to cope. Trying to understand what came next.

DAPHNE

Daphne sat by Blaise’s bedside, quietly slicing fruit. She’d always thought that sort of thing only happened in books—someone gently cutting fruit by a hospital bed—but it was surprisingly therapeutic.

Theo sat beside her, scribbling through the last of his homework, while Tracey animatedly filled Blaise in on everything he’d missed while he was comatose.

Across the room, Draco and Harry were locked in what looked suspiciously like a staring contest. Or at least, that’s what Daphne assumed it was. Boys were hard to understand sometimes.

She sighed softly and let her eyes settle on Blaise. He was still a couple of shades paler than his usual rich, dark complexion. Thinner, too. Sometimes he still struggled to follow what they were saying, but he was improving.

Bit by bit, he was coming back to them.

“And then Helios blew up a cauldron!” Tracey exclaimed, her voice bright with amusement as she recounted their latest Potions class.

They’d finally filled Harry in on everything that had happened while he’d been glued to Blaise’s side, refusing to leave the hospital wing for even a moment.

To say he was furious when he learned the professors hadn’t informed Carlotta would be an understatement. The boy had declared war—subtle, calculated, and thoroughly chaotic.

Since then, Harry had made it his personal mission to make every one of their professors’ lives a little harder, especially Snape and Quirrell.

Whenever the opportunity arose, he’d ‘accidentally’ add an extra ingredient to his potion, or get a spell just wrong enough to cause a small disaster. He was giving them all a run for their money, and the worst part for the staff?

No one could prove it was intentional.

“Hadrian blew up a cauldron?” Blaise asked, genuine confusion in his voice. “But he’s usually rather good at Potions.”

Theo snorted beside her. “He’s messing with the professors.”

“Whatever for?” Blaise blinked, smiling faintly. He’d usually be the first—right alongside Tracey—to join in on (mostly) harmless mischief.

None of them had told him the professors hadn’t informed his mother about what happened. They had decided, together, that it was best to let him recover without the added stress.

Well… she glanced at Harry. Mostly stress-free.

The tension between him and Blaise was suffocating.

“I wanted to see how long I could prank them without them being able to prove it was me,” Harry said casually. There was some truth to it—Daphne could tell—but he wasn’t being entirely honest.

She never would’ve pegged Harry as the type to lie by omission. He always struck her as the straightforward sort. Then again, maybe it wasn’t really lying. More like handing someone a single puzzle piece and pretending it was the whole picture.

Draco said with a sly grin on his face. “You ought to have seen Snape’s face. I thought he might have hexed the entire classroom.”

Theo didn’t even look up from his book. “Honestly, I wouldn’t blame him.”

“I mean, if you're going to run a classroom, maybe keep better track of your exploding cauldrons,” Tracey added, stretching her arms over her head.

Blaise chuckled faintly at that, the sound still a little hoarse. “Can’t believe I missed that.”

“You missed a lot,” Daphne said gently. “But we’ll catch you up.”

Her eyes flicked toward Harry again.

He was laughing too—but his eyes weren’t.

HARRY

Daphne, apparently fed up with the tension between him and Blaise, had taken matters into her own hands. She subtly ushered everyone else out of the room, then not-so-subtly threatened Harry that if he didn’t fix whatever was going on, there would be hell to pay.

Now they were alone.

Even Selina had been taken with Daphne, leaving Harry completely defenseless—no fluffy buffer, no distractions. Just him, Blaise, and the thick silence between them.

It stretched on for a while, neither of them speaking.

Then Blaise sighed. Long. Exhausted.

And Harry flinched like he’d been slapped.

“What are we doing, Hadrian?” Blaise asked quietly.

“Blaise, I—” Harry took a shaky breath and stepped closer to the bed. “I’m sorry.”

Blaise blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Whatever for? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I didn’t do anything right either,” Harry said, his voice low. “Not when it counted.”

And just like that, the silence returned—thick, uncertain. Neither of them seemed to know what to say next.

After a beat, Blaise reached out and hesitantly took Harry’s hand—the one with the ring on it. His fingers curled around it gently, like he was afraid it might vanish. “What are we?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know.” Harry’s answer was just as soft, but it carried the weight of everything they hadn’t said.

Blaise didn’t let go. Instead, he turned Harry’s hand over and started absentmindedly toying with the ring, tracing the metal and the space between Harry’s fingers with delicate precision.

“It’s odd,” he murmured, “being strangers with someone you’ve spent months with. Someone who’s seen you at your worst.”

Harry tilted his head. “Do you want to be friends?”

Blaise’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “That would be nice.”

There was a pause, but this one felt different. Lighter. Softer.

“I don’t think I can go back to the way things were before,” Blaise said, eyes still focused on the ring.

Harry nodded. “Me neither. But maybe we can start over.”

Blaise finally looked up and met his gaze. “Starting over sounds alright.”

And for the first time in a while, something unspoken between them seemed to settle—fragile, uncertain, but real.

Harry took a shaky breath. “I want to tell you something.”

His fingers twitched nervously, still caught in Blaise’s hold. His heart felt like it was rattling against his ribs, trying to claw its way out. This wasn’t just a confession—this was him offering a piece of himself, fragile and unguarded.

Blaise’s grip didn’t tighten or pull away. He just nodded, voice calm and steady. “I’m listening.”

Harry hesitated for a second longer, then looked him in the eye.

“I’m not used to having anyone,” he said quietly. “Not friends, not family, not a future. I was supposed to survive, and that was it. That was the deal. And then… you happened.”

He swallowed hard, feeling the heat rising in his face.

“You made me feel like more than just the boy who lived. Like I was someone worth knowing. Worth trusting. There was only one other person who made me feel that way, and their not here anymore. So when you got hurt, when I thought I’d lost you, I realized I couldn’t go back to before. Not now. Not after everything.”

His voice faltered slightly, raw and open. “So I don’t know what we are. But I know I care. And I think… I think that matters.”

Blaise didn’t speak at first, didn’t rush to fill the silence. He just looked at Harry—really looked at him—like he was seeing something delicate and real for the first time.

And then, softly, “It does matter. You matter.”

Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and for the first time in a long time, the weight on his shoulders felt a little lighter.

“And I don’t need to know everything—I could never ask that of you,” Blaise began, voice soft but steady as he laced their fingers together. “I just need to know enough.” He swallowed, eyes searching Harry’s face.

“But trust is a two-way thing. And I want to trust Hadrian—Merlin, I want to trust you so bad. But it’s hard, it’s so hard, when it feels like you don’t trust me in return. When you keep walls up, and I don’t know if it’s to protect me, or protect yourself.”

He took a shaky breath and looked Harry dead in the eye. “I’m scared, Hadrian.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m so damn scared.”

There was a beat of silence, and then he opened his eyes again, vulnerability stark in his gaze.

“I don’t know why we were sent back. I don’t know what the universe wants from us or why it was us, out of everyone. But I do know one thing—I don’t want to live a repeat of what happened the first time.”

His voice lowered to a whisper, barely audible. “I can’t lose you. I won’t survive it. And as selfish as it sounds, I don’t want to do this alone. I’m no good alone, so please, let me in.”

Harry stared at him, his heart cracking open under the weight of those words. For a moment, it felt like everything stilled—the world, the air, even the silence between them.

“Okay,” Harry whispered, voice thick, “I’ll try.”

He squeezed Blaise’s hand like a promise, like an anchor.

Blaise let out a soft, shaky breath and nodded. “That’s all I could ask for.”

Then they just stayed there, fingers intertwined, the quiet stretching between them not heavy or tense anymore, but something lighter. Something that felt a little bit like hope.

CARLOTTA

Carlotta strode through the halls of Hogwarts like she owned the place. At her side was Lucius Malfoy. Behind them marched the entire Hogwarts Board of Governors and a couple of Aurors, their steps echoing off the stone.

This wasn’t a meeting. It was a witch trial.

She didn’t slow as she reached the Great Hall. With a flick of her wand, the doors blasted open, slamming against the walls with a boom.

Silence fell instantly.

All eyes turned to her. She locked gazes with Dumbledore, who sat in the center of the High Table like some untouchable god.

Unfortunately for him, she had come to remind him just how mortal he really was.

The moment their eyes met, the hall grew tense—tight, electric.

“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” Carlotta’s voice rang out, clear and cold, “you are under investigation for child neglect, theft, and for withholding critical information from the families of the students you swore to protect.”

The silence that followed was a living thing—thick, unbreathing. Even the first years knew something monumental was happening.

Dumbledore rose slowly, his beard twitching slightly, lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. “Lady Zabini,” he said, voice warm, grandfatherly—almost. There was a tremor beneath it, a tension like a string pulled taut. “Surely we can discuss this matter in private—”

Carlotta raised a hand, silencing him instantly.

“No,” she said, her tone like shattered crystal. “You lost the right to privacy the moment you let my son bleed out on your castle floor without so much as a whisper to his family.”

Gasps rippled through the hall.

Lucius stepped forward, voice smooth as cold steel. “This is no longer a matter for private diplomacy, Headmaster. The Board of Governors has approved an emergency audit of your conduct. The Ministry has been informed. The Aurors are here to ensure compliance.”

The Aurors moved now, flanking either side of the Great Hall. Tension crackled through the air. Several teachers shifted in their seats.

“This is outrageous,” McGonagall said sharply, rising to her feet, her cheeks flushed. “You would humiliate the Headmaster—in front of the students?”

“Yes,” Carlotta said, without sparing her a glance. “Because the children deserve to know when the people entrusted with their safety have failed them.”

Snape looked like he wanted to disappear into his robes. Flitwick's expression was grim, his tiny fists clenched beneath the table. And Quirrell... Quirrell was sweating bullets, eyes darting like a cornered animal.

Dumbledore straightened. “You’ve made your position clear. But I must warn you—”

Carlotta’s magic surged around her like a second skin, flooding the hall with a pressure so heavy it made the candles flicker.

“No, Albus,” she said, voice low and deadly.

“I am the warning.”

And for once in its long, storied history, the Great Hall was silent.

Utterly, completely silent.

“It ends today,” Carlotta said. Her voice rang like a blade drawn across marble.

“How many children have been hurt under your care, only to be swept beneath the rug? How many minds have you molded before they could think for themselves? How many of them did you lead to war, only to let them die under your command?”

The air was so still, it could’ve cracked.

“I, Carlotta Lavinia Zabini, Head of the Wizengamot, formally ask you to comply.” She took a step forward. “Do not make this any more difficult than it needs to be.”

Chapter Text

CARLOTTA

Dumbledore’s sharp gaze flicked around the Great Hall, subtle but searching—clearly looking for a way out. But Carlotta had anticipated this.

A low hum vibrated through the floor as a bright rune ignited beneath the stone, casting a stark white glow. Gasps rippled through the hall. In an instant, chains of searing light erupted from the glowing lines, lashing out and binding Dumbledore with unrelenting force.

He yelped in surprise, instinctively struggling—only to find that each movement summoned more chains, each one tighter than the last.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t come prepared for you, Albus?” Carlotta said, voice calm but edged with steel, her glare cutting through the room.

“Fawkes!” Dumbledore roared, still thrashing against the bindings.

A piercing cry echoed overhead. In a brilliant flash of flame, the phoenix burst into the hall, wings flared and eyes blazing, diving toward its master.

“Someone stop that bird!” Lucius barked, and Aurors raised their wands in a flurry of motion, spells streaking toward the fiery blur.

Carlotta’s focus narrowed. Without a word, she reached out mentally, adjusting the runic lattice beneath her feet. The seals twisted subtly under her control, redirecting the containment magic toward the phoenix. She didn’t want to harm such a magnificent creature—but she had no intention of letting it interfere.

Not tonight.

A chain snapped upward, lashing toward the phoenix—only to melt the instant it touched the burning feathers. Carlotta’s jaw clenched. Of course. There was no true weakness to a phoenix, no known way to kill one outright. But there was a way to stun it.

Her eyes flashed as she reached inward, calling upon the constellation Aquarius, the ancient water-bearer. She felt its power stir—fluid, precise, relentless.

The rune circle flared again, and from it erupted a new chain—this one unlike the others. No pure white light, no holy gleam. Instead, it shimmered in shadow, pitch black and traced with the glowing stars of Aquarius, each one pulsing with celestial force.

The chain slithered through the air and coiled tightly around the phoenix. Fawkes shrieked, flames hissing into steam as the binding chain leeched the fire from its wings.

Then—crack!—a spell shot from the wand of a quick-thinking Auror. Brachiabindo. The magical ropes struck true, wrapping around the weakened bird. Fawkes screeched again, this time not in fury, but pain.

Trapped. Grounded. Flickering like a dying star.

“Fawkes!” Dumbledore cried again, this time in horror.

The sight of his phoenix—wings bound, flames extinguished—must have broken something in him. The struggle drained from his limbs. He went still.

Carlotta’s gaze snapped back to him. Around them, the other staff had finally moved into action, hurriedly ushering students out of the Great Hall, the full weight of the moment dawning far too late.

“I am informing you for the last time, Albus,” Carlotta said coldly. “Stop resisting and comply.”

Dumbledore's jaw tensed, the grandfatherly mask slipping from his face in an instant. No more twinkle in his eye. No more calm wisdom. Just fury and contempt.

Carlotta met his glare without flinching.

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and bitter—and finally, he stopped resisting.

With Dumbledore finally subdued and taken away, Carlotta turned to Lucius and gave a subtle nod. He returned it with equal precision before stepping forward to address the remaining Aurors.

“Search the school,” Lucius commanded, his voice cold and authoritative. “No stone left unturned, no room left uninvestigated. Reinforcements will arrive tomorrow—Madam Bones herself will be leading them. Be thorough.”

The Aurors dispersed with swift precision, spells already lighting the air as they began their sweep.

Lucius then turned his attention to the Hogwarts Board of Governors, who had remained silent throughout the confrontation.

“We must use this time wisely,” he said, adjusting his robes as he faced them. “We need to prepare our statement to the press and begin outlining the steps for Hogwarts' reformation—once we’ve fully assessed the damage Dumbledore’s tenure has caused.”

His words hung in the air like a judgment.

Change had begun. And there would be no turning back.

BLAISE

Blaise’s head hit the pillow, and exhaustion folded around him like a warm, heavy cloak. His body ached in that quiet way only stress could cause, but at last—he could rest.

He sighed, shifting until he was comfortable. Sleep tugged at him, steady and insistent.

His earlier conversation with Hadrian lingered in his mind, soft and strange. Enlightening, to say the least. They had finally laid out boundaries, clearing the unspoken tension that had always simmered beneath their dynamic. There was more to be said, of course, but they had agreed to talk further over the Yule holidays.

After that, the conversation had wandered into lighter things—nothing of great importance, yet Blaise had found himself truly learning Hadrian in a way he hadn’t before. It felt like the start of something solid.

Unfortunately, Hadrian had to leave—he’d skipped dinner and needed to reach the kitchens before curfew.

Blaise’s eyelids drooped, heavy under the effect of the Dreamless Sleep Draught Madam Pomfrey had given him. The haze descended fast.

He barely registered the sound of someone entering the infirmary. At first, he thought nothing of it—surely just Pomfrey checking in—but then he felt it.

Magic. Not just anyone’s.

Familiar.

The world tilted, blurred at the edges, and just as he began to slip under, delicate fingers threaded gently through his hair.

His heart stirred. His voice, thick with fatigue, barely broke above a whisper.

“Mamma…?”

He blinked sluggishly, fighting the fog. He’d know her magic anywhere.

“Oh, my poor tesoro,” she murmured, and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

Blaise leaned into her touch, his breath evening out.

“Sleep, vita mia,” she whispered, her voice a balm. “Mamma will make sure everything is alright.”

The warmth of her hand, the steady hum of her magic—familiar, protective, absolute—wrapped around him like a shield.

And with that, Blaise finally let go, her presence anchoring him as he slipped beneath the surface of sleep.

Peaceful. Safe.

Grounded.

HARRY

Harry had barely stepped into the common room when he was immediately surrounded by Blaise’s friends.

“Aunt Carlotta came,” Daphne blurted out, eyes wide with excitement.

Harry froze, stunned. The others, earlier, had filled him in—how they’d tampered with the wards, how they’d managed to get their letter out. It was clever, admittedly. Though, Harry couldn’t help but think how much simpler it all would’ve been if they’d just asked the house-elves. The creatures weren’t required to report everything to Dumbledore—mostly because the man had never considered anyone would use them against him.

“So soon?” he asked, still trying to wrap his head around it.

Tracey nodded, practically bouncing. “Oh, you should’ve seen it, Helios! Lady Zabini was badass! She stormed in like she owned the place—flanked by Aurors and the entire Hogwarts Board of Governors—and ripped into Dumbledore.”

“My father was there as well,” Draco added, chin lifted with pride.

“Do you guys know where she is now?” Harry asked, his voice quieter than before.

He could admit it—he’d missed Carlotta. She was one of the rare adults who actually knew what she was doing.

“She’s probably with Blaise,” Theo replied softly.

Harry nodded. Of course she would be. She’d been the last to know anything had happened to him. And Blaise—Blaise had nearly died in front of him. Harry had barely kept himself together. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how Carlotta felt—learning her son had almost died, and no one had told her.

He swallowed, then asked, “So... what happened to Dumbledore?”

Theo’s smirk was slow and sharp. “He was arrested.”

“Arrested!?” Harry blinked, stunned. That wasn’t supposed to happen. It hadn’t in the original timeline. Just how far had they diverged?

“What were the charges?”

“Theft. Child endangerment and neglect. Withholding critical information from parents,” Daphne listed, her expression dark. “Honestly, the real question is how he wasn’t arrested sooner, with everything that’s coming out.”

“Rumors?” Harry asked carefully.

“Rumors,” Theo confirmed with a nod. “But there’s truth in them. Apparently, a student died a few years ago—got lost wandering the castle. Dumbledore covered it up.”

Harry’s eyes widened. That hadn’t happened before. Or if it had, no one had ever told him.

“Some light leader he is,” Draco said with a sneer, rolling his eyes.

Theo snorted. “More like a shadow puppeteer with a god complex.”

The girls giggled and Harry had to fight back a smile.

The image of Dumbledore’s careful web unraveling—thread by thread—before he could even place his first real pawn... it was almost poetic.

All that manipulation, all those secrets, undone before the game had even begun.

Truly, what a despicable man.

CARLOTTA

Carlotta had decided to go hunting.

She needed something—anything—to take her mind off the sight of her son.

Her beautiful boy, her treasure, whose skin had once held a rich, healthy glow, now looked pale and hollow, his face drawn with exhaustion and pain. He had always radiated strength, poise, and vitality. But now… he looked as though he’d been drained of life.

And all because of one man’s foolishness.

Her jaw clenched, rage simmering beneath her skin.

She moved swiftly through the castle grounds, eyes like sharpened steel as Orion led the way. The rune she’d cast burned brighter with every step, its glow intensifying as it locked onto its prey.

Closer.

But not close enough.

Quirrell was a fool if he truly thought he could escape her wrath. If he truly thought she wouldn’t hunt him down for his transgressions against her family.

She had arrived at the third-floor corridor.

The door stood open.

Carlotta’s eyes narrowed. Found you.

She stepped inside—and froze at the sight of the massive, sleeping Cerberus sprawled across the room.

A Cerberus. In a school full of children.

She ground her teeth, barely restraining a snarl. Later, she promised herself. First, the hunt.

Without hesitation, she approached the trapdoor and dropped through. As she landed, the Devil’s Snare immediately slithered toward her—only to recoil when she summoned a radiant Sun rune. The golden light burned through the creeping vines, forcing them back. She landed gracefully, Orion pulsing brighter with every step forward.

The next chamber was filled with flittering, glowing keys. Useless. The door had already been unlocked. She didn’t spare them a second glance.

These were traps. She realized.

Layers of traps.

But for what?

Her frown deepened.

She pressed on.

The next room was a giant chessboard—the task already accomplished. The heavy silence was all that remained of the battle. She moved on without pause.

Then the room after was one with the massive chains.

She stopped for a moment, staring.

Troll chains.

Her hands clenched into fists. Dumbledore had allowed a troll—a troll—into a school, to guard some mystery under the guise of a puzzle. A creature that could snap a child’s spine like a twig.

It was because of this—because of this nonsense—that her son had nearly died.

She let the fury rise, stoked it, refined it. She would need it sharpened.

Her prey was close now. She could feel it—Quirrell’s magic, flickering behind the next door like a candle about to be snuffed.

She stepped into the next room. Empty, aside from a table lined with potions. Another puzzle, bypassed. The door beyond stood ajar.

And from the other side… voices.

Him.

Carlotta’s mouth curved into a cold, malicious smirk as she approached the door in utter silence.

Without a word, Carlotta flicked her wand.

A flash of light—Stupefy—and Quirrell froze mid-motion, locked in place like a puppet caught in its final dance.

“Did you really believe you could evade me?” she said, voice low and lethal.

She stepped fully into the chamber, eyes sweeping the space out of habit. A mirror stood at the far end—tall, ornate, and humming faintly with ancient magic—but she spared it only a glance. Her attention was fixed, unwavering, on her target.

She circled him slowly, the echo of her heels deliberate, each step its own sentence.

Quirrell remained frozen—body rigid, breath shallow—but his eyes followed her, wild and frantic.

Carlotta stopped in front of him, leaned in, and met his gaze with cold precision.

Predator. Prey.

His eyes pleaded.

She smiled and let the silence stretch on.

She watched him squirm in his own skin, trapped and helpless, only his frantic eyes betraying his thoughts. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone filled the chamber with tension—calm, composed, inevitable.

With a casual flick of her wand, she released just his mouth.

Quirrell gasped, the sound raspy with panic. “I—I can explain—”

“No,” she cut in, her voice soft as velvet and twice as suffocating. “You’ll answer.”

She raised her hand and pressed her fingers lightly to his temple. Her magic surged inward—not brutal, not yet—but sharp and invasive, like a scalpel. She sifted through the outermost thoughts, brushing against his fear, his guilt, his panicked desire to survive.

“I want to know what Dumbledore let fester in this school,” she murmured. “I want to know what he ignored.”

Quirrell whimpered, trying not to meet her gaze, but she snapped her fingers and his chin jerked back up, eyes locking to hers as if pulled by a hook.

“You reek of someone else’s magic,” she said, almost idly now. “Who are you sharing your soul with, Quirinus?”

He stiffened—slightly. Not enough for most to notice.

But she wasn’t most.

Her eyes narrowed. “Ah. There it is.”

Another flick of her wand, and a thin thread of magic curled from her fingertips—silver and burning cold—slipping past his skin like a needle through silk. She whispered an incantation under her breath, and Quirrell screamed.

Not loud. Choked. Raw.

Just enough to know she had touched something true.

“Thank you,” she said lightly. “That confirms it.”

His eyes watered, his body twitching within the magical paralysis, every muscle wanting to recoil, to run, to vanish.

But she was just getting started.

“You brought a parasite into my son’s school,” she said, almost contemplative now. “You conspired with something inhuman. And you placed my child between that thing, and it almost cost him his life.”

She stepped closer until she was mere inches from his face.

“I am going to peel your mind like an overripe fruit, Quirinus,” she whispered, her voice a dark promise. “And if the thing inside you resists, I will burn you both where you stand.”

Quirrell tried to speak—some half-formed plea—but her wand twitched again, and the sound died in his throat.

“Quiet,” she said. “I haven’t finished answering my questions.”

And she began.

Deliberately. Carefully.

She didn’t just extract memories—she took them, one by one, precise and surgical, watching his eyes go glassy, his mind fray at the edges.

Every name. Every step. Every whisper in the dark.

She saw the hand that had guided him. The voice that had shaped him. The plan that had been whispered, fed into his ear like poison.

And beneath it all, she saw the shadow.

Him.

Her smile was slow and cold.

“Oh… so you’re still alive.”

She leaned back and raised her wand once more.

“Thank you, Quirinus,” she said sweetly. “You’ve been so helpful.”

Then she whispered a final spell—one that didn't hurt, not at first—but Quirrell's eyes widened in horror as he realized something vital was being unwritten.

Carlotta watched the light begin to fade from his eyes.

But she wasn’t done.

Not yet.

Carlotta’s wand paused midair.

She could feel it—something shifting beneath Quirrell’s skin. The foreign magic that pulsed not in his veins, but through them. Corrupted. Anchored.

She leaned in again, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Come out,” she said. “I know you’re in there.”

Quirrell’s body shuddered, and for a moment it looked like he was seizing—but no, it was something else. A ripple beneath the flesh, as if something was crawling just under the surface, trying to retreat.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, tone mocking. “Don’t play shy now. You’ve already cost me enough.”

She pressed her wand against Quirrell’s chest and whispered an invocation that crackled in the air like static. The runes etched along her forearm flared to life, gold and cold.

The air grew thick, heavy with dread.

Then—there—a second voice tore itself free of Quirrell’s throat, guttural and wrong, like stone grinding on wet bone.

“…Carlotta Zabini…”

Her smirk deepened. “There you are. I was beginning to think you’d scurried off like the rest of your followers.”

A dry hiss. “You dare—”

“I do,” she cut him off sharply. “Because look at you. Once the Dark Lord. Feared. Revered.”

She stepped back slowly, circling the frozen body like a predator with time on her side.

“Now what are you?” she sneered. “A whisper. A parasite. A sliver of soul clinging to a coward’s scalp.”

The air around Quirrell vibrated with magical tension, the shadow of Voldemort struggling to manifest.

“You think this is power?” she laughed coldly. “Hiding behind the skull of a trembling academic? Is this what your glorious vision has come to?”

The voice snarled, low and vengeful. “I am eternal—”

“You’re rotting,” she snapped, eyes glittering with wrath. “And where are your loyal men now? Where are the ones who branded themselves for you?”

She leaned in, her voice venom-soft. “They fled. Scattered like rats the moment the ship began to sink. No rallies. No vengeance. Just silence and fear.”

She tilted her head. “Does it sting, I wonder? That you, the so-called master of death, were undone not by prophecy, not by fate… but by your own failure to inspire true loyalty?”

The silence that followed was jagged.

Then, from deep within Quirrell, came a growl.

“You will regret this…”

Carlotta’s lips curled, full of dark amusement. “I already do. I regret not hunting you down sooner.”

She raised her wand again.

“And now, little shade—let me show you what it means to be truly forgotten.”

Her next spell wasn’t fiery, wasn’t loud. It was ancient, cold, and final—a rune of banishment that carved its way into the very air. The floor beneath her pulsed with light as the runes she'd embedded on her way down responded to her call.

The fragment within Quirrell began to scream, not in pain, but in sheer terror—a sound more psychic than physical, like the wail of something that realized too late it could die.

Carlotta stood unmoved, watching dispassionately as the parasite was ripped from its host, unraveled like a threadbare soul cast into void.

And when it was done, there was nothing left but silence.

Quirrell collapsed to the floor like a sack of bones—lifeless. Empty.

Carlotta stared down at him for a moment.

Then she turned away.

And didn't look back.

Chapter Text

CARLOTTA

When Carlotta turned, she found herself face to face with a mirror.

She stilled.

It was tall, grand, framed in gilded gold tarnished with age. At its top, in curling script, a strange inscription ran like a crown:

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

At first glance, nonsense. But then—her mind flipped it, reversed the letters.

I show not your face but your heart's desire.

Carlotta frowned.

Another dangerous object. Another ancient artifact left within arm’s reach of children. What had Dumbledore been thinking? What hadn’t he been thinking?

Her gaze, once clinical, turned curious as she stepped toward the glass.

She already knew what she would see.

And still—it pulled at her.

She looked.

There she stood, in the mirror's depth, whole, calm, radiant with pride. One hand rested on Blaise’s shoulder, her son vibrant and healthy, skin glowing, eyes sharp. On her other side stood Hadrian, posture relaxed but alert, wearing a small, genuine smile she’d never quite seen on him in life.

They were hers. And she was theirs. Family, truly.

Behind them, more figures—some familiar, others less so—faces warm, not masks of alliance or diplomacy, but of belonging. Love without bloodlines. Peace without compromise.

Her reflection smiled at her, eyes shining.

Then, slowly, it extended its hand.

Carlotta’s breath caught as she saw what it held.

A stone. Blood-red. Pulsing softly as though alive—no, not alive. Bound. Magic, ancient and potent, throbbed beneath its surface.

She knew what it was.

It took only a second to name it.

The Philosopher’s Stone.

Her eyes widened, and the smile on the reflection’s face never wavered as the stone was offered, like a gift. A reward. A temptation.

Carlotta stepped back, slowly, lips parting in horror.

“Sweet Morgana,” she whispered. “He’s insane.”

The Mirror of Erised.

The Philosopher’s Stone.

The traps.

The Cerberus.

The troll.

All of it, a grand, deadly puzzle, left in reach of children. Not even protected properly—not with real intent—but designed like some type of test.

And for what?

Carlotta’s hands curled into fists.

Dumbledore hadn’t just been negligent.

He had tried to play god while putting other people’s children in harm's way.

And now, she had the proof.

AMELIA

Dumbledore was an absolute madman.

A delusional, dangerously idealistic madman who believed he could orchestrate everything—power, secrecy, control—and walk away untouched.

Amelia Bones genuinely couldn’t comprehend how it had gotten this bad. How so much rot had been allowed to fester beneath the Ministry’s nose, the Board’s, all of magical society’s.

Her week had started like any other: routine casework, an upcoming policy meeting, a pile of paperwork on her desk. Then came the alert—Albus Dumbledore under formal investigation.

Allegations of theft. Child endangerment. Educational negligence. And worse.

She’d expected a political snarl. A mess of rumors and half-truths. Something to clean up quietly.

She had been so, so wrong.

The morning after his arrest, she arrived at Hogwarts with a full task force, complete investigative authority, and the growing suspicion that the truth would be uglier than anything in the file.

She was right.

Lady Zabini met them at the gates—poised, efficient, and grim. Her eyes were tired but sharp, her magic coiled tight beneath her skin.

Without ceremony, Lady Zabini led her straight into madness.

Down the third-floor corridor. Through the trapdoor. Into the gauntlet.

Devil’s Snare, curling like a living nightmare. A swarm of enchanted keys, razor-winged and fast. A life-sized chessboard with sentient pieces strong enough to shatter bone.

And at the end of it all—a mirror.

Lady Zabini’s voice was flat. “The Mirror of Erised. It shows your heart’s desire. People have wasted away in front of it. Dumbledore placed the Philosopher’s Stone inside.”

Amelia stared at the glass, hands clenched at her sides.

“He hid a world-altering magical artifact inside a cursed mirror... and surrounded it with death traps... in a school?”

Lady Zabini nodded once. “And that’s not even the worst of it.”

It wasn’t.

Not by far.

A junior agent burst in, breathless. “Director Bones—you’re going to want to see this.”

They led her outside.

And there it was.

A Cerberus.

Fifteen feet tall. Three heads, all sedated. Chained, muzzled, drooling in its sleep. A Cerberus—smuggled into Hogwarts. On the same grounds that hundreds of children resided.

Amelia turned on the assembled staff, her voice sharp and merciless.

“Who authorized this?”

Silence.

It was Filius Flitwick who stepped forward, face drawn and pale.

“It was... for protection,” he said quietly. “Dumbledore insisted the Stone needed safeguarding. He never explained why it was necessary. Just said it was vital.”

Amelia’s voice snapped like a lash. “So you just went along with it? Let him turn the school into a death trap? Did none of you stop to question the man? Did none of you think to ask what was being protected?”

Not a soul answered.

Then—Hagrid.

Lurking at the edge of the crowd, wide-eyed and nervous.

Amelia’s gaze narrowed. “What now?”

One of her investigators stepped up, expression unreadable. “We found a dragon egg. In his hut. Class A Non-Tradeable Magical Creature. Illegal possession.”

Her head turned sharply.

Hagrid paled. “It’s just an egg! Ain’t even hatched yet!”

She didn’t blink. “You’re keeping a dragon egg in a wooden hut—on school grounds—a hundred yards from the children’s dormitories?”

He tried again. “I—I won it! Weren’t meant to harm anyone!”

Her tone was stone. “Take the egg. And take him.”

“But—!”

“No buts,” she snapped. “Secure the creature. And I want a full report on how he won it.”

The Aurors closed in. Hagrid didn’t resist—just stood there, crestfallen, as if only now realizing that good intentions couldn’t erase recklessness.

As he was led away, Amelia turned back to Lady Zabini.

Her voice dropped low. Cold. Unyielding.

“He built a fortress of madness and called it wisdom,” she said.

Then, louder, for all to hear:

“No more.”

Her eyes burned with certainty as she gave the only order that mattered now.

“From this day forward—Hogwarts belongs to the law.”

Amelia wished she could say things had gotten easier after they’d cleared out the creatures and scoured most of the castle.

They hadn’t.

Now came the worst part.

She and Lady Zabini had taken personal charge of dismantling the last sanctuary of Albus Dumbledore’s power—his office.

The moment they stepped through the threshold, Amelia’s eyes swept the room and instantly spotted no fewer than five magical artifacts that had no business being anywhere near children. Two were outright illegal. One was cursed. All were unstable.

Lady Zabini wasted no time. She moved between the portraits like a silent storm, her voice a quiet command that compelled painted headmasters and headmistresses to speak—names, dates, cover-ups whispered from oil and canvas like confessions from the dead.

Meanwhile, Amelia worked through the shelves. Paper files. Spell-sealed drawers. Hidden compartments tucked beneath illusory wards. Private correspondence, some written in Dumbledore’s own looping hand. She sifted through the detritus of a paper empire built on secrets.

They worked in silence.

Efficient.

Ruthless.

Until Amelia stopped.

Her brow furrowed. She reread the line.

Then again.

It wasn’t a mistake.

“Sadly, another Muggle-born student has perished—”

The tone was dry. Detached. The sort of clinical language one might use in a weather report, not the death of a child.

She turned the page.

And another.

And another.

Her chest tightened.

The records stretched back decades. Hidden in plain sight, woven between budget requests and curriculum notes. But the pattern was unmistakable.

Muggle-born. Half-blood. Names most wouldn’t remember. Described as ‘lost,’ ‘missing,’ ‘tragic accidents.’ And always with careful footnotes. Coded language.

“No next of kin within the magical world.”
“Parents unaware of magical causes—standard memory dampening advised.”
“Non-actionable by Muggle legal systems.”

Amelia's fingers curled around the parchment, trembling with restrained fury.

They never knew. The families. The Muggle parents left behind with grief and confusion, never told why their child never came home. Never knowing that behind this office door, their child’s death had been reduced to a margin note. An inconvenience.

She looked up, her voice like broken stone.

“They’ve been covering it up.”

Lady Zabini turned instantly, reading the weight in her expression.

Amelia held up the file. “Not just endangerment. Not just negligence.”

Her voice cracked sharp and brittle.

“He and his predecessors let them die. And he buried it in paperwork.”

Lady Zabini didn’t move, but her eyes said everything—cold, calculating rage that could ignite stars.

“I want every file copied. Cataloged. Sent to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Amelia said. Her voice had gone cold again—weaponized. “Then we find their names. Every child. Everyone who died under his watch. Under any of their watches.”

Her jaw locked, her voice now pure iron.

“And then—we tell their families the truth.”

She turned toward the stained glass window behind the desk, where colored light filtered across a desk once owned by the most dangerous man in wizarding Britain.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” she said.

“We dig until there’s nothing left to hide.”

LUCIUS

Lucius pressed his hand to the invisible lattice of wards surrounding Hogwarts, his brow furrowing.

They were thin—faint, strained, barely holding.

A school once touted as the safest place in Britain… and its defenses felt like worn fabric on the edge of tearing.

He turned, expression cool but edged with displeasure, to one of the professional warders brought in to assess the damage.

“Well?” Lucius asked, voice silk over steel. “Tell me I’m not feeling what I think I am.”

The warder swallowed, his robes still dusted with ash from their last diagnostic flare.

“You’re not mistaken, Lord Malfoy,” he said carefully. “The ward structure has degraded badly. Layering inconsistencies. Anchor erosion. Too many patches and add-ons without full resets. It’s… a miracle they’ve held this long.”

Lucius’s lip curled. “A miracle,” he echoed dryly. “Or a convenient illusion.”

He turned back toward the castle, eyes narrowing.

This wasn’t just negligence. It was deliberate neglect, and perhaps worse—a foundation quietly rotting while the so-called guardians of the realm looked elsewhere.

Lucius stared out across the grounds, jaw tight.

The stones of Hogwarts still stood—majestic, towering—but beneath the surface, everything was decay. Fragile wards. Forgotten enchantments. Misused magic. Neglect disguised as progress.

He turned sharply, his cloak snapping behind him as he faced the assembled warders, Board members, and ministry liaisons gathered near the courtyard.

“This isn’t repair work,” he said coolly. “This is reclamation.”

Murmurs rippled through the group, but Lucius raised a hand, and silence fell.

“The wards are compromised. The foundational enchantments are unanchored. The magical infrastructure is an insult to the architects who built this castle.” His eyes swept across the group, cold and gleaming. “And what do we have to show for it? A staff afraid to ask questions. Children dying in a place meant to protect them. And generations graduating without understanding the origin of the magic they wield.”

He walked slowly, deliberately, past the gathering. “Our ancestors knew better. Wards were not just walls—they were philosophy. Discipline. The great runes carved into this castle were meant to teach as much as they protected.”

He stopped before one of the old stones, placing a gloved hand against its weathered surface.

“This place wasn’t just meant to be safe. It was meant to shape them. The next generation of magical Britain. What they are being given now is half-knowledge, half-ritual. Nothing rooted. Nothing sacred.”

The silence was heavy.

Then Lucius turned back toward them, his voice low and commanding.

“We are not patching this school. We are rebuilding it—from the foundations up. The wards will be rewritten. The ancestral magics restored. The education restructured. And every single faded rune, every forgotten carving, will shine again.”

“And who,” one of the younger Board members asked cautiously, “would oversee something of that magnitude?”

Lucius smiled.

Cool. Measured.

“Someone who still remembers what this place was meant to be.”

HARRY

“I want to tell them,” Blaise said plainly.

It was lunchtime, though neither of them had much of an appetite. The infirmary was quiet, their corner tucked away from the low hum of mediwitches and whispering students. The air felt suspended—like the pause before a closing act. Classes had been suspended. The year, all but abandoned. Students were being sent home tomorrow—some thrilled, most shaken.

Harry blinked. “You want to tell your friends that we… traveled back in time?”

Blaise didn’t flinch.

He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the half-eaten plate balanced on his knees. “They deserve to know.”

Harry frowned, unsure. “Blaise, that’s not a small thing. You know that, right? This isn’t telling them we snuck into the library or hexed a professor’s chair. This is time travel.”

“I know what it is.” Blaise’s voice wasn’t sharp—just tired. Steady. “But they deserve to know. Do you really think I wouldn’t have found out what they did for me? They went behind Dumbledore’s back. They tore through the wards. They fought for me, Hadrian. And they did it without knowing anything—without demanding answers.”

He shook his head, jaw clenched. “My friends and I—we don’t keep secrets with no borders. To them, it’s like I woke up one day and decided they couldn’t be trusted. And I hate it.”

His eyes finally met Harry’s. Steady. Earnest.

“They deserve the truth. Or at the very least… they deserve to know that the reason I changed had nothing to do with them.”

Harry looked away, chewing the inside of his cheek.

He understood the instinct to hide things—he lived in secrets. Had been raised in them. Secrets were armor, leverage, survival. But Blaise wasn’t like that.

They had always viewed secrets differently.

For Harry, they were sacred—kept close to the chest, each one a shield or a weapon. Secrets were how you stayed safe, how you kept control when the world spun too fast or too loud.

But Blaise? Blaise shared them with his people. To him, secrecy wasn’t safety—it was distance. Cold. Distrust. Something that built walls where there should’ve been bridges.

They’d argued about it before—subtly, in tone and action more than words. But it had always been there, unspoken. Blaise didn’t understand why Harry kept so much to himself; he respected it, sure, but he didn’t understand it, and Harry didn’t know how not to.

Honestly, it had been one of the most prominent differences between them.

Still, Harry wasn’t unreasonable. He was guarded, but not blind. He’d seen the weight Blaise carried these past months—the tension, the restraint, the quiet ache when his friends tiptoed around him like strangers.

And for once, Harry didn’t want to be the reason someone else felt alone.

He sighed, glancing back at Blaise, whose hands still rested limply in his lap.

“All right,” Harry said softly. “Tell them.”

The way Blaise’s expression lit up at his agreement made the whole thing feel worth it.

It wasn’t a dramatic change—he didn’t grin or exhale some cinematic sigh of relief. But his shoulders eased. The tightness around his mouth softened. His eyes—dark, often unreadable—sparked with something unmistakably warm.

Trust. Gratitude. Relief.

And Harry felt it settle in his chest—like maybe, just maybe, he was doing the right thing.

Blaise didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to.

Harry simply nodded, barely suppressing a small smile, and leaned back against the chair he sat in.

Yeah, Blaise’s gratitude made it worth it.

Chapter Text

???

The deity plucked their cloak from where it had been carelessly discarded. A fickle little construct—so small, so fragile—yet it had unraveled more threads than even they had intended. Just like the other two trinkets gifted to those mortal brothers so many centuries ago.

It amused them, remembering the arrogance of men. How the brothers had stood so proud, clutching their prizes, convinced they had conquered Death itself, only to meet their ends like moths drawn too close to the flame.

All but the youngest. The clever one. The one who had chosen the cloak. He alone had lived to see the slow grace of old age.

Their musing stilled as reality rippled. A soft tremor brushed against their skin like a whisper, an arrival.

“Beloved Asteria,” they murmured, voice colored with amusement as they turned, “what brings you to my corner of the universe?”

She shimmered into being like a constellation being born. Hair spilled behind her in a veil of darkness dusted with stars, each strand a cosmos in miniature. Her presence bent the air into reverence.

“The timeline has diverged,” Asteria said, direct, unyielding as ever.

They smiled faintly, lifting the cloak as though weighing its worth against her concern. “We predicted as much when we sent those two back,” they replied, their tone edged with mockery, though soft as velvet.

Asteria sighed, the sound drifting like a solar wind across the void. “You know what I’m referring to, Thanatos. The shifts are accelerating. Events are colliding too quickly.”

They studied her through half-lidded eyes, indulgent, almost fond. She was not wrong. The threads tangled faster with each cycle, and yet—

“The acceleration is necessary,” Thanatos said at last, their voice carrying the gravity of falling stars. “Too many souls were misplaced in the last timeline. Too many pushed off course. In their confusion, they clawed at reality itself, tearing holes in the fabric as they sought to return to where they believed they belonged.”

The cloak shimmered faintly in their hand, a ripple of hidden power. Thanatos smiled again, soft and sharp all at once.

“And this time,” they murmured, “we will not allow them to wander astray.”

She didn’t seem convinced, and Thanatos couldn’t fault her for it.

Phanes had been furious the last time they had to wind the tapestry back. This was the third cycle, three attempts at salvaging a reality already fraying at its edges. And this time, they had set two pieces upon the board instead of one.

“I fear if we keep this up,” Asteria began, her voice carrying the weary resonance of collapsing stars, “there will be no timeline left to restart.”

She paused, gaze fixed on some distant horizon only she could see. “Aion grows restless. Each cycle collapses closer to the last. His patience is not infinite.”

The irony of such statement was not lost on either of them.

Thanatos’s expression didn’t shift, but their voice carried the weight of finality, a blade laid across fate itself. “This will be the last time, then. If it fails, we burn the tapestry and repaint the canvas from the void.”

Asteria exhaled, a sigh threaded with starlight. “Very well. But tell me—why choose the child Astraios has marked as his own?”

Thanatos smiled, a slow curve sharp as moonlight on a scythe. “No sun can burn without the moon to guide it.”

They tilted their head, amusement ghosting across their tone, though the words carried hidden gravity. “And besides, your little seer walks the path this time. She will ensure the threads weave true.”

Asteria only hummed in answer, though the sound was not agreement so much as resignation, a star acknowledging the inevitability of its own collapse.

BLAISE

Blaise felt marginally better. His body still protested every movement though, his vision blurred at the edges, his balance grew unsteady at moments, his limbs felt heavy as if they no longer fully belonged to him.

Madam Pomfrey had explained it in that brisk, clinical way of hers: the troll’s club had struck a part of his brain tied to sight and motor control. The wound should have killed him. The club had missed his brain stem by less than an inch, had it struck true, he would have been dead in an instant. The blood loss alone had nearly finished the job.

It would take time for the healing spells and potions to finish their work. Weeks, maybe months, before the lingering haze lifted. But the damage wasn’t permanent.

Small victories, he supposed.

He sighed, easing back into the compartment seat, careful not to strain himself.

“Are you feeling alright, Blaise?” Daphne’s voice broke through, gentle and threaded with worry.

He nodded instinctively, then immediately regretted it as a sharp wave of dizziness tilted his world off balance.

Blaise held up a hand before Daphne could worry any further. He already knew the words forming on her tongue. “I’ll be fine, Daphne,” he said with a small, reassuring smile. “Just moved too fast.”

He didn’t want her dwelling on it, so he shifted the conversation. “On a lighter note, are any of you coming over this year for Yule?”

Theo nodded almost immediately. “My father wants the house to himself.” His tone was casual, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug.

But Blaise knew better. He always had. Theo would never admit how much it stung, not outright, but Blaise could read the weight in the lines of his posture. And as cruel as it sounded, Blaise preferred it this way, Theo in his home, not drowning in his father’s shadow.

He had never liked Mr. Nott. The man carried grief like a stormcloud, leeching the energy from every room he entered. He’d been tolerable once, when Theo’s mother still lived. But after her death, his bitterness had hardened, calcified into cruelty.

Theo might not voice it now—not yet—but Blaise remembered. Years from now, with firewhisky between them, Theo would finally let it slip, how his father had spelled him into silence, forced docility on him for years, until Theo was old enough to fight back.

In the original timeline, when Blaise had truly been a child, Theo had practically lived in the Zabini household, especially once his mother had pieced together the truth. She had never tolerated cruelty where children were concerned.

So now, Blaise could accelerate the process. Get Theo out of that house sooner. Out of harm’s way.

Blaise smiled encouragingly at Theo. “I’ll have Mother set up your room, then.” He turned toward the others. “What about you two?” he asked, though the answer was already written across the years he remembered.

Both their mothers were alive, and steadfast members of his mother’s coven, there was never any doubt.

“As if I’d miss the chance to have Yule at your place!” Tracey said, her grin bright and unrestrained.

Daphne chuckled, more reserved, but no less warm. “Of course we’ll be there.”

Blaise returned her smile, though his thoughts strayed. He wasn’t sure about Draco. Narcissa Malfoy had once stood in his mother’s circle, until Lucius decided the coven was of no use to his family and had her withdraw. It had been taken as an insult, a deliberate slight against his mother’s influence, and she had never forgiven it. Since then, dealings between the Malfoys and the Zabinies had been cool, professional, and nothing more.

And so, Draco was absent from their little corner now. He had chosen instead to sit with those his father had picked for him, the companions dictated by lineage and expectation rather than bond or trust.

Blaise leaned back against the seat, the hum of the train beneath him, and let the thought linger. It was odd, remembering the boy who would one day step away from his father’s path, and seeing the one who had not yet begun to.

“Are you not going to ask me?” Hadrian teased, the corner of his mouth quirking upward in quiet mischief.

Blaise snorted, eyes glinting. “As if my mother hadn’t already hand-delivered your invitation over the summer. Don’t fish for what you already have, Hadrian.”

Hadrian only smirked wider, clearly pleased with himself.

HADRIAN

Harry honestly wasn’t expecting any packages. He frowned at the plain, unassuming parcel resting before him, as though it had simply appeared rather than been delivered. Blaise had received mail as well, though his had been from the goblins, their seal of approval stamped boldly on the parchment, weighty with legitimacy.

“I’m guessing you weren’t expecting anything?” Carlotta’s voice was calm, measured. She had already examined the package herself, fingers tracing every seam and fold for curses, hexes, or lingering malice. Nothing dangerous had revealed itself. At least, not in ways she could confirm.

But Harry’s stomach twisted all the same. A low, thrumming pool of dread stirred in his gut, his blood pulsing with unease. It wasn’t fear exactly, it was recognition, deep in his bones, in his very soul.

Somehow, he knew what it was.

And that knowledge made his throat tighten.

“Blaise should open his first,” Harry said instead, his tone carefully neutral.

Blaise hesitated, studying him for a moment, but eventually nodded and pulled his parcel closer. The box was medium-sized, solid beneath his fingers, with a neatly folded letter affixed to the top.

He broke the seal and read in silence. Harry watched as subtle shifts crossed his face—confusion, disbelief, awe—before finally settling into something sharper, brighter. Anticipation.

Without another word, Blaise set the letter aside and opened the box. A pulse of magic rippled out as the lid lifted, faint but undeniable, brushing against their skin like static.

Blaise reached inside and carefully drew out the object.

A book.

Ancient. Its leather was darkened with age, the corners worn, but the script etched into its cover glimmered faintly, as though refusing to fade. The air around it seemed heavier now, thick with the weight of knowledge that had not seen the light of day for centuries.

Blaise held it reverently, almost disbelieving.

Harry leaned closer, studying the book. The script along its cover twisted just enough to elude recognition, sharp and fluid at once, alive, almost. Whatever language it was, it wasn’t one that belonged to the present world. Ancient. Probably lost to time.

Harry cursed under his breath. He’d have to set up the translation ritual again.

“What exactly is it?” Carlotta asked, her tone careful, deliberately even.

Instead of answering, Blaise lowered the book onto the table with deliberate gentleness, as though the weight of it demanded respect. His expression tightened, shadows flickering across his face.

“Before I explain, I need to come clean about something.”

Harry frowned, the words stirring unease in his chest. “What is it, Blaise?”

Blaise inhaled deeply, steadying himself. For a moment, he looked almost as if he might keep it to himself after all. Then he exhaled, the decision settling.

“A little while before Samhain,” he said slowly, “I had a dream. Or what I assumed was a dream. In it, I met something. Someone. A being I believe to be a deity.”

The air in the room shifted, subtle but undeniable. Even the book on the table seemed to thrum in response, like it had been waiting for that confession.

“Pardon…?” Carlotta’s eyes narrowed, her tone cutting sharp as glass. She did not raise her voice, but the weight behind it pressed down all the same.

Harry’s frown deepened. Unease coiled in his chest, heavy and cold. It wasn’t impossible, he knew firsthand that gods existed. He had stood before Death, summoned it, bargained with it. That much was true.

But hearing that Blaise had brushed against one in his sleep was a different matter entirely. A dangerous one.

“Explain the dream,” Harry said at last. His voice was steady, but there was an edge beneath it.

Blaise nodded, gaze fixed on the book as if the memory itself was etched into its cover.

“When I awoke, I wasn’t in my bed. I was… elsewhere. A place filled with stars and planets, infinite and yet close enough to touch. I was alone there for what felt like an eternity, until the deity came.” He paused, the faintest reverence softening his voice. “We talked. About many things. About nothing. Their presence was…” He hesitated, searching for words. “Overwhelming. But not cruel. At the end, they gave me their name.”

“What name?” Carlotta pressed.

Blaise looked up, and a small smile ghosted across his face. “Astraios.”

For the first time since the conversation began, Carlotta’s composure cracked. The shift was subtle, but unmistakable, her eyes widened, her lips parting ever so slightly.

Harry glanced between them, confusion deepening. The name meant nothing to him, but Carlotta’s reaction made it clear enough: it mattered.

“Who… exactly is Astraios?” Harry asked slowly.

CARLOTTA

Astraios.

The name echoed in her skull like a bell tolling at the end of the world. Her son was marked—claimed—by Astraios.

Carlotta’s breath caught. Her knees almost gave out beneath her. She needed to sit, to lie down, to breathe.

Too much.

Far too much, all at once.

She hadn’t even finished processing the truth that her son—her flesh and blood—was a time traveler, carrying knowledge from a future that had already burned away. That revelation alone should have taken months, years, to reconcile. But now this—this impossible, cosmic weight—had been dropped into her lap without warning.

Her son was tangled up with the stars themselves.

In hindsight, Carlotta supposed it should have been obvious. Two boys ripped from the fabric of time and thrown backward into their own past, of course cosmic forces were at play. But knowing it in theory was one thing. To be confronted with it, raw and undeniable, was something else entirely.

Her voice was steadier than she felt when she finally spoke, fixing Hadrian with a grave look.

“Astraios is no minor god,” she said. “They are the Deity of dusk, the father of the winds, the keeper of the stars themselves. They are old—so old that most wizards have forgotten their name—and ancient.” She exhaled, every syllable heavy with unspoken warning.

“And most importantly…” her gaze flicked to Blaise, lingering, protective, stricken.

“…dangerous.”

The boys frowned, but they didn’t interrupt her.

“Our family has… history with the divine,” Carlotta began at last, her voice low, every word dragging the weight of something rarely spoken aloud. “Long ago, the House of Zabini was blessed by Astraios Themselves. We bore Their favor, Their power, but our ancestors, in their arrogance, offended Them. The blessing was not revoked, but sealed instead. Bound, so that only echoes remained.”

She exhaled slowly, her gaze distant, as though looking back through centuries of memory not her own.

“The Zabinis were once conquerors of the stars,” she said, almost reverent, almost bitter. “We carried fire in our veins, spoke to the stars, and walked as though we belonged to the constellations themselves. That was what made us feared. That was what made us untouchable.”

Her expression tightened. “But blessings from gods are never gifts without a cost. It made us… less than human. Our otherness unsettled our peers. We were spirits masquerading in flesh, never fully bound by mortal laws. That difference bred arrogance. We began to believe ourselves gods among men.”

Blaise frowned. “But isn’t that blasphemy…?” he asked softly, hesitant.

“It is,” Hadrian answered before Carlotta could, his tone thoughtful, his eyes shadowed. “That’s why your ancestors lost their gifts, isn’t it?” He looked directly at her.

She nodded once, sharp.

“It is. Which is why I am so very surprised that Astraios claimed you.” Her gaze lingered on Blaise then, sharp and almost afraid, as though searching his face for the reason why the stars themselves had reached down and touched him.

Blaise was silent for a long heartbeat before lowering his gaze to the book resting heavy on the table.

“After I had that dream, I contacted the goblins and asked for a book about the gods of old,” he continued, his voice steadier now. “I wanted to know why I had been contacted. But what you’ve just said, Mother—it’s put things into perspective.”

He lifted his head, meeting her eyes with a quiet certainty that carried far more age than it should have. “We were sent here for a greater purpose. We just don’t know what it is yet. But I intend to find out.”

For a heartbeat, Carlotta could not breathe. He reminded her so much of his father in that moment—that same unwavering fire that had once both steadied and frightened her, his certainty, the way his resolve could shift a room. She let that memory wash through her and dissolve before it could sting. Then allowed a smile to soften her face.

Even with years of memories pressed into him from a timeline that no longer existed, he was still her son.

“I will help you in any way I can,” she said. The words rang with quiet finality, a promise heavier than steel.

She recomposed herself and turned to Hadrian, her resolve ironclad. “This includes you as well, Hadrian. I don’t know what either of you have endured—or what has scarred you so deeply—but I mean to help, if you’ll let me.”

Hadrian’s gaze met hers. And for a fleeting instant, she swore it wasn’t a boy staring back at her, but a man—eyes burdened with centuries of memory, of choices no child should ever bear. Merlin, they were still so young, even with a lifetime of memories embedded in them.

“I haven’t been fair to you,” he admitted, his voice rougher than before. “You and Blaise have shown me nothing but kindness since we came back. And I… I haven’t returned it.”

He drew in a long breath, squared his shoulders, and broke the seal on his parcel.

The air changed instantly.

Magic burst outward in a suffocating wave, dense and ancient, pressing against their skin like a storm made of ash and bone. It clung to the lungs, tasted of endings. It was older than the book, older than the room, older than Hogwarts itself.

Carlotta’s wards prickled violently. The stones of the floor seemed to groan in protest. Her stomach twisted.

Blaise gasped, recognition flashing across his face. His breath caught, then broke into raw astonishment.

“Hallows…!” Blaise choked out, eyes wide, voice trembling with awe and disbelief. Before laughter broke loose a second later—sharp, hysterical, bubbling out of him in waves that didn’t quite sound like him at all. It was the kind of laughter that bordered on tears, wild and unrestrained, as though something inside him had cracked open.

Carlotta’s blood ran cold.

Her eyes widened, horror and disbelief colliding in her chest. The sound of Blaise’s laughter filled the room, echoing too loudly against the walls, and all she could think was—no, not this, not him.

Something she had read years ago, a scrap of lore tucked away in one of her mother’s forbidden books, surged back to the forefront of her mind like a curse recalled too late:

Those touched by the gods tend to fall into fits of hysteria when faced with a different divine or relics blessed by powers not their own. The soul recoils. The body trembles. It is recognition and rejection both, for the divine cannot touch without tearing.

And Blaise—her son—was tearing.

The laugh still poured out of him, ragged now, almost a sob.

Hadrian’s hand shot out, steady and unyielding, clamping onto Blaise’s shoulder as though anchoring him to the world.

The effect was immediate.

Blaise collapsed into him, his body slack, laughter cut off as if someone had stolen the breath from his lungs. For a single, terrifying heartbeat, he was nothing more than dead weight in Hadrian’s arms, pale, eyes glassy, lips parted without sound.

Hadrian’s own face betrayed his surprise, a flicker of shock flashing across features usually so carefully guarded. But he didn’t let go. He held on, fingers pressed firm, as though some silent instinct warned him of what would happen if he released him.

Together, they half-carried, half-guided Blaise to the couch. He was pliant, boneless, as though something vast had burned through him and left him hollow in its wake.

Hadrian’s hand never left him. Not even for a moment.

Carlotta realized it with a start, whatever had touched Blaise, whatever divine hysteria it had awakened, Hadrian was keeping it contained. His grip wasn’t just grounding; it was warding, siphoning, holding the madness at bay.

She moved quickly, pouring water into a cup with hands steadier than she felt, then kneeling at Blaise’s side to tilt it carefully to his lips. He sputtered, coughed against it, but the sound—wet and human—was almost a relief. Color slowly began to creep back into his face. His chest rose with measured breaths.

The glossy haze faded from his eyes by slow degrees, until Blaise’s sharp awareness returned.

Only then did Carlotta let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

They lingered in silence, the room heavy with the ghost of what had just happened. Carlotta watched Blaise’s chest rise and fall, each breath steadier than the last, though still shaky, like someone relearning how to exist in his own skin.

Finally, he exhaled and broke the hush.

“I did not expect that to happen,” Blaise admitted, his voice thin but even, as though he were making a simple observation instead of confessing he’d nearly been consumed.

Hadrian let out a startled snort, the sound edged with disbelief more than humor. The corner of Blaise’s mouth twitched, like he’d been aiming for levity but didn’t have the strength to fully commit.

“When exactly did you become the Master of Death?” Blaise asked, half in jest, half with genuine curiosity flickering behind his tired eyes.

Hadrian only shrugged, the motion understated, as though the title were just another weight he carried without ceremony.

Carlotta closed her eyes briefly, a sigh spilling from her lips. Not one, but two children under her roof had been marked by forces older than the stars. One by Astraios, bearer of the endless sky, and the other by Death itself.

The thought pressed against her ribs like a truth too vast to contain.