Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry is eight when he catches the flu. The Dursleys, thus, decide that the best course of action would be to lock him out of the house.

“Get out of here, freak, before you contaminate us normal people with your freakishness!” Aunt Petunia screams.

Harry ducks just in time as a pan goes flying where his face had been a moment ago. He stumbles out and slams the door shut behind him; Aunt Petunia is still shrieking about having to sanitize the house.

For the life of him, Harry cannot understand how a simple flu could be freakish. Dudley had had it just last month, and Aunt Petunia had doted on him without a single complaint. It was probably his fault. Maybe Dudley hadn’t sneezed as loudly. Maybe Aunt Petunia didn’t mind regular colds, just freak colds.

He shivers as a strong gust of wind rushes past, his baggy clothes fluttering around his thin frame. It’s cold. He walks aimlessly through the neighborhood. There’s no Dudley or his gang to chase him tonight—just quiet. Peaceful, almost.

He doesn’t realize when his feet carry him to the main road. It’s empty—no cars, no people, just silence. The only light comes from the full moon overhead, casting the world in cold silver.

It must be nearing midnight now, he thinks. The air feels like it’s holding its breath.

A howl pierces the night— low, guttural. Harry freezes. For a moment, he forgets to breathe. Then instinct takes over, and he runs. He doesn’t look back. He just runs, as fast as his little legs will let him.

The thing which is chasing him – for it is not a dog, nor a wolf and definitely not a human – is catching up. He hears the soft pads of feet gaining behind him, but it’s the growls that make him whimper.

The monster catches up, slamming him to the rough road. He flinches as his elbows scrape painfully against the asphalt. If werewolves existed, Harry would bet this was one.

Claws dig into his leg. Harry screams, white-hot pain exploding through him. He kicks wildly, trying to fight it off. The thing slashes at his chest, like it’s trying to tear his heart out. He lets out another scream, trying to form words.

His breath catches. His vision blurs.

Then everything goes dark.

The first thing Harry registers is noise. Five voices, overlapping, rising and falling like waves crashing over his head.

“…he’s bleeding out, you stupid piece of shit, we can’t just—”

“Not our problem. Dump him back where you found him.”

“Are you insane, Art? He’ll die!”

“Exactly, Olly. Why deal with someone else's mess?”

A sharper voice cuts in. “He’s just a kid.”

“Exactly,” another replies, almost sneering. “He won’t survive a week here, Kelly. You want another mouth to feed?”

Harry’s eyes snap open. The world tilts— ceiling, shadows. There’s too much light yet not enough to see clearly. His chest burns, his leg aches, and the scent of blood and smoke and old brick overwhelms him.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s not sure he could, even if he wanted to.

Someone shifts near him. A pair of shoes steps into view— worn leather, scuffed and cracked. Their owner crouches.

“I think he’s awake.”

“We have eyes too, Xan.”

The voices stop. Just like that—gone. The silence is louder.

Harry's breath quickens. He forces himself not to sit up, not to flinch. He doesn’t know who they are, what they want. His fingers curl into whatever fabric he’s lying on—rough, scratchy. A blanket?

Someone else speaks – a girl maybe – softer. “You alright, kid?”

“Shut up, Maddie!”

Harry doesn’t answer. He can’t tell if the voice is kind or just bored.

He blinks slowly, trying to piece things together. His last memory is teeth and claws and pain—and then nothing.

Now he's here. Wherever here is. Surrounded by strangers.

His throat is dry. His head hurts. But above everything else, Harry feels one thing.

Trapped.

“I think he’s overwhelmed.” A hand reaches out to him, first into his blurry line of sight and then to his shoulder. Harry flinches anyway, instincts sharper than memory.

“Don’t you see, Maddie? He’s got no bite to him! We can’t babysit the kid! Besides, he’s what – six?” The same voice, still arguing, still bitter. One against four.

Harry looks up sharply, ignoring the way the room spins, “The dogs who bark don’t recognize the ones who bite. And for the record, I’m eight.”

The boy scoffs. His ears are pointed in a way that is decidedly not human.

“Don’t move so suddenly.” A tall and lanky boy darts forward, hands steady but unsure. “I’m no good at healing. Your wounds could open up again.”

‘Maddie’ pushes a misshapen glass of water into his hands. “Drink,” she says simply. She doesn’t look much too older than Harry, himself. He realizes that he’s only a few inches shorter than her.

“I don’t think I will.” Harry eyes the people around him warily.

They’re all nearly the same age as him. The boy still hovering over him seems to be the oldest.

“I’m Olly. I was the one who found you. Do you remember anything?” he asks.

He sounds concerned. But there’s a sharpness in his gaze — it tells he’s alert for any threats Harry might pose.

“I remember that... werewolf... coming at me and clawing at me. Nothing after that.” Harry admits.

“You aren’t sure it was a werewolf.” The raven haired boy in the corner observes. “Oh, I’m Xan, by the way,” he smiles, but it’s so glaringly empty and superfluous that Harry almost recoils in shock.

“I’m Kelly.” The only other girl in the room except Maddie tilts her head, studying him. “The asshole who was shouting is Art.”

Art makes an oddly strangled noise in the back of his throat. He looks like he’s one second away from tackling Kelly to the floor.

“You don’t smell like fresh magic,” Xan says, stepping closer. His curiosity is too blunt to be polite.

“Magic is a figment of imagination,” Harry protests.

“An orphan and a waif, then,” Olly mutters, “How do all of them end up in Knockturn?”

“I know the names of my parents,” Harry says stiffly. “And I had a place to sleep—until I got locked out for catching a cold. So—”

He lifts his chin.

“— an orphan and recently turned waif.”

It sinks in as he says it. He really has nowhere to go now. No cupboard. No bed. No door that might open in the morning.

And apparently... Magic exists. And he has it.

“You’re staying, aren’t you?” Art drags his hands down his face in exaggerated frustration.

Harry leans forward, eyes sharp despite the lingering pain. “I’ll cut you all a deal,” he says. “Show me the ropes. Teach me how to survive here— and I’ll help you live a much more stable life.”

Olly narrows his eyes. Suspicion is practically written into his bones. “And how do you plan to do that?”

Harry shrugs, casually. “Every place has people willing to do anything for a bit of food or coin. I know how to sniff them out. You can help me and share the benefits or...” he lets the sentence trail off, “...well, more for me, I guess.”

Harry has no idea what he is saying. He’s parroting lines he remembers from a movie, one he heard through the cracks of his cupboard door.

Maddie gets up and announces, “I don’t care what you guys say. He’s staying.”

And that is that.

The wand wasn’t supposed to be the hard part.

It had taken two weeks, a cracked rib (Art’s), four bruised egos and a lot of scoffing on Harry’s part before they finally got their hands on one. Second-hand, wonky core, and snapped cleanly once before someone patched it up with Spellotape. Useless for anything delicate, but Harry didn’t need delicate. He needed force. A conduit to channel his reserves.

Kelly slipped it into his hand like it was a knife. “Don’t blow your own face off,” she muttered. “We can’t afford another Art. His medication was hard enough to look for.”

“Thanks for the concern,” Harry replied dryly.

Olly, behind her, was fussing over Maddie’s scraped palms. “At least let me fix that before you go picking more fights,” he said, dabbing with something that smelled suspiciously like stolen burn salve.

“Didn’t pick the fight,” Maddie chirped, grinning. “It picked me.”

Art grumbled in the corner, arms crossed and lip curled. “Still think this whole thing’s a waste of time.”

“You would have walked away if you really thought so,” Harry said, not looking at him.

Art scoffed, but he didn’t deny it.

“Go on then. Let’s hear your master plan.” Xan’s eyes gleamed. His smile was all teeth.

“There’s so many creatures and half breeds here in Knockturn. All of them have no other place to go, no other way to earn. The Ministry and the wizarding population could care less about them. We give them a way to survive, and in return, they give us a way to thrive. I saw a factory in Muggle London last month. It’s been abandoned for five years apparently. We can seal it down and turn it into a ring of sorts for them,” Harry explained, watching carefully as the others understood what he was getting at.

“And why would they come to this ring? There has to be a good reason,” Kelly asked shrewdly.

“Vampyres feast on blood and we have plenty of that. Werewolves need money and I’m sure we can figure something out. Hags just want their weird ingredients to do whatever it is they do with them. We give them that, but only if they fight for us. It’s going attract audience too. And in the audience will be gamblers. They can put their stakes and bets but they do it through us. We just need to spread the word in the right places,” Harry smiled. It wasn’t pretty.

“We can’t be seen as the Maw’s hosts or whatever. That will be an invitation for them to attack it,” Olly warned.

“No, it needs to be established that the Maw is owned by creatures and wizards alike,” Harry reasoned.

“We will be seen as children!” Olly argued hotly.

“The children of Knockturn! And that is exactly what we need. We have a half incubus,” Harry gestured towards Xan, “a half Fae,” he nodded towards Art, “and a half veela in the form of Maddie and some sort of weird werewolf in me. If nothing else, all of us have enough stubbornness and magical power to blast people apart.”

“You don’t count. You just have enhanced senses, bloodlust, scars and anger issues from that incident,” Art rolled his eyes.

“Let’s put that theory to test. I bet I could snap your arm in two like a twig,” Harry got up, jaw clenched in anger, chair falling back.

Art got up just as quickly, ready to take on the challenge.

Maddie glared at them both, “Sit the hell down, both of you nutjobs!”

The rune book came from a dying cursebreaker’s attic. Maddie heard about it from a hag in the back of a Knockturn alleyway pub who wanted a place to gamble her husband's teeth.

“We can’t read this,” Olly had protested, staring at the cramped, archaic runes on yellowed pages.

“I can,” Harry said.

“You can’t,” Kelly said.

“I’ll learn, Kelsey.”

It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t safe. But it worked. Late nights under candlelight, the pages spread across dusty concrete, Kelly and Olly standing guard while Harry whispered half-understood syllables into the open dark.

And the cursebreaker’s shop blew apart as he practiced carving the runes.

The factory was nothing at first. Just broken walls and old machines that hadn’t groaned in years. The roof leaked. The floor was a graveyard of rusted bolts and lost time. But it had walls, space, and a lock on the main door that Harry managed to magically seal shut with a burst of will and too much blood.

They cleared the place together. Olly barking orders, Kelly organizing piles of salvage, Maddie singing to herself as she swept broken glass into corners.

Art stayed by the doorway most of the time, knife in his belt and another stolen wand tucked away under his sleeve, not helping unless explicitly told. But Harry noticed how he took the night shifts without complaint. How he scowled at Xan whenever the half-incubus disappeared for too long.

Xan, of course, was the only one who never worked— but always appeared when something interesting was about to happen.

“Blood smells better when it’s earned,” he said once, watching Harry paint runes into the ground with chalk and spit.

“You’re disturbing,” Kelly said, wrinkling her nose, not looking up.

“I do my part,” he said. “Chaos keeps people talking.”

And it did.

The Maw took shape from the bones of the place and their blood and sweat.

They roped off space for the ring using chains from old conveyor belts. Scrap metal and tarps turned into makeshift walls. An old boiler room was converted into a private “healing” station—Kelly’s idea— where minor hexes and bruises could be patched up for a fee. Maddie painted signs in jagged, childlike strokes. Olly organized a schedule. Harry burned the first rune into the entrance floor with the broken wand, grinning when it held. Art fixed the lights with some sort of overpowered Lumos and frustration. Xan kept the rumors going.

The first fighter was a werewolf with a missing eye and too many debts.

The first audience was three hags, one goblin, and a toothless vampire.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

They spread the whispers through Maddie and Xan, mostly. She was the least threatening, the easiest to overlook. He knew all of the shadiest corners and dirtiest people. She slipped coins to barkeeps, told jokes to beggars, whispered to bloodthirsty beasts about a place where they could win something again. He ensnared people with words, threatened shop owners and mocked those with fragile egos.

“No names just yet,” Harry reminded everyone. “The Maw is faceless. The rules are simple.”

“Bet, bleed, or walk,” Maddie recited, swinging her feet over the edge of a broken platform.

Art carved the words into the factory wall in dripping red. Xan made sure the blood was real.

The first few weeks were slow.

Too many fights ended too quickly. No one stayed to bet. The air was too tense. The rhythm was absent. They opened the Maw day and night. The kids took turns sleeping in shifts, eating barely enough to stand. Harry lost weight. Maddie got sick. Kelly picked fights with everyone just to feel something.

Xander laughed through it all. “We should burn something. Want me to stir the pot?”

“Not yet,” Harry said.

Olly nearly punched him once. “This was your idea. It’s falling apart.”

“No,” Harry had said, sitting in the dust. “We’re just still invisible.”

Then the rich, Dark sadists came.

It started with a well-dressed man with a cane and a sneer who looked down on everything but the ring. He placed a single sickle on the table and watched a vampire tear into a banshee like it was art.

Then another came. And another.

By the end of the month, the walls of the factory echoed with chants and roars. The entrance fee tripled. The Maw opened at sundown and stayed alive till sunrise. Bets flowed like wine. The children had coins in their pockets for the first time in their lives.

Harry sat on a crate, the wand at his side, watching it all unfold with hollow, dark-ringed eyes.

“This isn’t survival anymore,” Kelly muttered, standing beside him.

“No,” he agreed. “It’s control.” Harry smiled wryly.

And just like that, the boy who had once slept in a cupboard beneath the stairs became the ghost-story prince of Knockturn Alley.

Then came the brawls.

The bets devolved into fighting with no one to truly supervise the fights.

So, Harry learned to infuse magic into his muscles, his voice, his eyes. He still looked like the nine year old he was, but could pull apart two men brawling on the floor with his arms.

He got challenged for the Maw a lot because of how quick he was to anger. But he didn’t need a wand to channel magic into himself, did he? He lost in the beginning, people enjoying betting against him.

Then he began to win. Every match, no matter who or what it was against, that he fought, he drew blood.

Harry stopped getting in that often. People learned not to pick fights when he was there to monitor.

He became a storm, a force to be reckoned with. Olly, Art, Kelly, Xan and Maddie became his team, his family and the violent sea to his storm.

Chapter Text

Harry is nine when he finds Abby.

He’s out dallying in Muggle London before they open up the Maw for the night. He almost walks into her when he sees the little kid sitting on the pavement.

“What are you doing here, kid?” Harry asks, although he has an idea of what this is.

“Waiting for my Mummy. What is it to you?” the girl doesn’t even look up from where she’s arranging pebbles into letters.

Harry notices when she tenses, ready to flee at the first sign of danger. He’s right; she’s a stray.

“You don’t have a Mummy, do you?” he asks bluntly.

Maddie would have been horrified at him talking like that to a child but she’s passed out in the Maw, so— irrelevant.

“What’s it to you?” the kid reiterates, getting up and dusting her dirty frock.

“Do you know how to sweep?” Harry asks. He knows he’ll take her back with him, whatever her answer might be. He hates how a man is eying her across the street.

“I do.” She tries to hide it but there’s a tinge of hope in her voice. Her eyes glimmer like little sapphires.

“Then come on. I’ll feed you if you help keep the place clean,” he says, already walking away. “I’m Harry.” The girl nearly runs to catch up with him.

“I’m Abigail – Abby.”

Xan says that she has magic and that it smells odd, like she’s not entirely human.

“Well, obviously. She’s half veela, you oblivious little brats,” Maddie sighs.

“You are the brat here, and also the little one, Maude,” Xan flicks her forehead, “And of course, you can sense that she’s half veela, you’re part veela too.”

“I hate both that name and you, Xander,” Maddie lunges at Xan to punch him. Xan is faster.

Abby fits right in. She’s only three but argues and wins against Art like she’s been doing it for decades.

“You stay upstairs at night. No peeking or I’m making Olly babysit you the whole time,” Harry warns. Abby hates the way Olly treats her like the three year old she is.

Somehow, he’s become Abby’s ‘hero.’ He’s not sure when it happened, but now she follows him everywhere. The others don’t mind. It keeps her out of their hair.

“But why?” she whines. “I hear the cheers downstairs all the time! I wanna see what’s happening.”

And so Harry takes her.

She’s back on her mattress in five minutes. Abby never asks to see the downstairs at night again.

And then comes Leo.

He’s the very embodiment of his name— bold, loud, golden in the way kids who grow up feral sometimes are.

He doesn’t care who he’s pickpocketing, or how much it’ll hurt if they catch him. He’s cocky. Too fast for most people. Too smart for his own good.

That’s how Harry finds him.

He’s in Muggle London again, out scouting near the Tube entrance where rich people tend to forget their wallets. There’s a jostle behind him— nothing he hasn’t felt a dozen times before— but this time, he feels fingers brush against the fabric of his back pocket.

Harry moves fast.

He spins, grabs the wrist before it can disappear, and yanks. The boy stumbles forward into the half-lit alley, caught and scowling.

“I wasn’t taking anything,” he lies, so confidently that it might’ve worked on someone else.

Harry raises a brow. “You were wrist-deep in my pocket, kid.”

“I was checking if you dropped something. What if it was money? You’d want it back, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Harry doesn’t let go. “And you’d definitely give it back, right?”

The kid snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself. Besides, I wasn’t after your whole ass, just your wallet.”

Harry stares at him. The kid can’t be older than six, and he’s already got the mouth of a Knockturn hustler. Worse, he’s got the nerve to hold his gaze like he’s daring Harry to make something of it.

Harry sighs and lets go. “What’s your name?”

“Leo.” He dusts his stolen-jacket sleeves like Harry’s the one who’s dirty. “And I’m good at this, you know.”

“Clearly,” Harry says dryly. “You’re also terrible at choosing targets.”

“Didn’t think you'd catch me.”

“Now you know.”

Leo frowns thoughtfully. “You’re Hewn, right? The one who runs the Maw?”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Who told you that?”

“No one had to.” Leo shrugs. “You're always watching, always talking like you own the place. You smell like smoke and magic and you carry yourself like you’ve never lost a fight. I pay attention.”

Harry blinks. That’s... honestly more than most adults can pick up.

“So,” Leo says, straightening up, “are you gonna hex me or hire me?”

Harry almost laughs.

Instead, he squints down at the tiny thief, considering. “You know numbers?”

“Numbers and faces. I remember everything.”

Of course he does.

That’s how Leo ends up at the front desk of the Maw two nights later, feet swinging off a too-high stool, a wand holster sewn into the inside of his patched coat (empty, for now— he isn’t allowed one yet). He runs bets with ruthless precision, scrawling figures on the board faster than Kelly can keep up. He’s loud, cheeky, and way too good at extracting extra knuts from smug gamblers who think they can outsmart a scraggly six-year-old.

They can’t.

“He’s terrifying,” Kelly mutters, watching Leo haggle with a hag.

“He’s thriving,” Olly says, somewhat fondly. “Kid finally found a kingdom.”

“More like a den,” Art snorts.

The Maw roars.

It isn’t just loud— it throbs with noise. The sort of sound that crawls into your ribs and rewires your heartbeat to match.

In the center of the ring, under flickering overhead runes, Harry stands shirtless and barefoot, spine straight, expression unreadable. His opponent—some barrel-chested werewolf twice his size—was pacing like a caged beast, teeth bared.

Leo perches on the edge of the betting table, legs swinging, grinning like the devil’s favorite mistake.

“Two minutes!” he yells over the crowd. “Two minutes ‘til Hewn folds meathead here like wet parchment— any takers?”

Coins clink and hands wave.

“Thirty seconds!” someone shouts.

“Oh-ho, ambitious! I like that,” Leo says, scribbling fast and taking names. “You’ll be eating humble pie in thirty-one seconds, mate.”

Xan leans against the post nearby, arms crossed, watching the match with a knowing grin. “He’s baiting them.”

Maddie finishes layering a protective ward beneath the bleachers, her face tight with concentration. “Idiots, betting against Hewn.”

“I put five on fifteen seconds,” Olly admits, quietly.

“You’re too sentimental,” Maddie says, then pauses. “...but probably right.”

In the ring, the werewolf lunges.

Harry doesn’t flinch. He moves, the werewolf manages to land his one and only blow. Fast and fluid, like he’s been fighting monsters since he learned to walk. A duck, a pivot, a sharp crack of knee into ribs— then the werewolf’s on the ground, choking in the dirt, coughing blood and pride.

And that’s why they had started calling him Hewn. Someone from the Alley, maybe one of the bartenders or maybe it was Xan, called him it once— said something like he’s “hewn from ruin.” The name now echoes in the Maw like a prophecy.

“FIFTEEN SECONDS!” Leo screams, triumphant, arms thrown wide like a god accepting worship. “ALL HAIL OLLY, KEEPER OF WITS, DESTROYER OF DOUBTERS!”

The crowd erupts. Coins fly.

Maddie rolls her eyes. “Next time, we bet on how many bones Hewn breaks.”

“Three,” Xan says absently.

The noise begins to fade as the crowd shuffles back, already buzzing about the next fight.

Soft footsteps echo on the stairwell.

Abby appears at the bottom, wide-eyed and stubborn as ever, still clutching the ragged stuffed fox Harry had found for her weeks ago. Her eyes are wide, but she holds her chin up like she belongs here. Like she’s always belonged here.

Leo looks down from his throne of chaos.

“How was it?” she asks, voice low like she is asking for a bedtime story.

Leo beams. “Legendary. He broke the guy in half. Fifteen seconds flat.”

Her eyes narrow. “Did Hewn get hurt?”

“Pfft. He sneezed and the guy dropped. Total joke.”

She nods solemnly, like that answers everything. “Good. I’ll tell him he did okay.”

“Tell him he owes me half the winnings,” Leo calls as she trots off, stuffed fox bouncing at her side. “I made him look very competent.”

Abby rolls her eyes with the weight of someone far too used to his nonsense and trots off to find Harry.

Behind them, the Maw is already resetting for the next match.

Harry’s ten when Kelly brings a heavily pregnant Violet to the Maw.

“She’s due any day now. I promise she’ll leave after that,” Kelly tells them firmly.

“She’s barely seventeen and it’s freezing outside! She can’t raise a baby alone – that too on the streets,” Maddie protests.

“She looks like a wind would blow her over. The girl’s hanging on for her child,” Art says bitterly. That’s when Harry learns that Art was left on the streets because his mother got married to someone else after having him.

Violet is sweet and gentle. She’s someone who should be cherished and kept away from somewhere like the Maw.

“I’m used to this. I lived on the streets too, before a brothel found me,” she tells them, her matter- of- fact voice contradicting the pain in her eyes.

“I thought he loved me, so I agreed to run away with him but then I found out he was engaged to someone else. I was supposed to be his dirty little secret. Then, I ran away,” she continues, chuckling humorlessly.

She goes into labor at midnight. It’s Yule.

Harry and Olly run to Knockturn to find the only hag who can help them. In return, the hag just asks for the femur bone of a cow who died during childbirth. They agree.

St. Mungo’s is likely to do more damage than help someone like them.

And so, a little boy with the brightest, biggest, greenest eyes is born.

“Tristan Malcolm Moon,” Violet coos, clutching her baby to her chest. “I’ll give you my name. Maybe your bastard of a father will see you someday and remember me as a ghost who haunts him.”

She dies within two days.

“We are not leaving a two days old baby for the Muggles to find, Xan! I expect something like this from Art, not you,” Leo says exasperatedly.

Art and Harry snort in unison. Then they look at each other like the other is something particularly foul and turn away.

“If you guys want to emulate your birth givers, fine by me, but Tristan is staying. He’s one of mine – just like Abby and Leo,” Harry is getting up before anyone can protest.

“Oi Helga Hufflepuff reincarnate, sit back down! You’re ten and already have these two to look after. And despite anything we might say, you’re the one who built the Maw and looks after it the most. You have too much on your plate,” Olly physically pulls him back onto his seat.

“I’m with Harry,” Kelly has fire burning in her eyes.

And so, Tristan stays too.

Tristan is barely toddling but already full of menace.

He’s got Maddie’s frown, Leo’s grin, and Art’s complete lack of shame. At one year old, he waddles around the Maw like he owns it— chin up, arms swinging, mimicking Xan’s cocky strut with frightening accuracy.

He’s picked up phrases none of them remember saying out loud.

“Oi, sod off!” he yells at a rat, hurling a pebble with disturbing aim. Abby nearly chokes on her food.

“Hewn!” she calls, scandalized. “He said a bad word!”

“He’s learning from Leo and Oliver,” Harry sighs from across the room, not even looking up from the rune he’s carving into the floor.

“Ew, don’t call me that awful name! I’m glad to have given it up,” Olly shudders with disgust.

 “I never said ‘sod off,’” Leo says, utterly offended.

 “You literally said it this morning when Art finished your soup,” Maddie deadpans.

Tristan scampers over to where Olly is counting coins from the fight last night. He plops down, mouth open in wonder, and then suddenly screeches, “Money!” before grabbing a handful and making a break for it.

He doesn’t get far— his legs are still too stubby— but he howls like a banshee when Art scoops him up.

“He’s gonna grow up into a criminal,” Maddie groans.

“Sweetheart, he already is one,” Xan barks out a laugh, ruffling Tristan’s wild tufts of hair.

Harry just watches from his usual corner, one knee pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around it. He smiles faintly. “Good. That means he’ll survive.”

Tris plops himself beside Leo like he owns the seat.

He’s still in his too-big jumper, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in messy cuffs. The toddler looks like someone’s stuffed a raccoon into knitwear— eyes sharp, hands fast, mischief radiating off him in waves.

Leo doesn’t even flinch when Tris steals one of his coins.

“Gonna bet on Hewn again?” Leo asks lazily, scribbling down odds on a bit of parchment like he's running a legit business and not a rigged betting racket.

Tris slaps the coin onto the table with all the confidence of someone who understands none of it but likes pretending.

“Two coins. For Har— Hewn!” he declares proudly, struggling a bit on the name but getting there.

Leo snorts. “That's one coin, gremlin. Also, you don't bet on the house fighter. That’s not how we make money.”

Tris pouts. “He always wins.”

“Exactly. Which is why you let the others bet on him, and then we pocket the difference.”

He says it slow, like he's explaining it to a toddler— which, to be fair, he is. But Tris is watching him with intense, furrowed focus, the kind of look that says he’s storing this knowledge for later and will absolutely use it against someone.

A roar goes up from the pit— cheering, gasping, someone screaming about losing ten galleons.

Tristan’s head snaps toward the ring. His eyes gleam when he sees Hewn— Harry— plant his boot squarely in some grown man’s chest and send him flying backwards.

“Whoa,” he breathes, clutching the edge of the table. “Did you see that?! He flew like— like a broomstick!”

Leo chuckles. “He’s a bit heavier than a broomstick, you little pixie.”

“He’s so cool,” Tris whispers, transfixed. “He punched him in the face.”

Leo hums. “And he’ll do it again in five minutes. We’re on round two.”

Tris nods solemnly like he’s just witnessed something sacred. “I wanna fight like that when I’m big.”

“You and every other idiot here,” Leo mutters, rolling his eyes. “How about you start by learning not to lose your shoes every time you run?”

A scuffle breaks out in the line, two older kids arguing about odds.

“Oi! One at a time!” Leo barks without looking up, palm out for their money. “No bets under seven sickles! If you don't like it, get lost.”

Tris copies him instantly. “Get lost!” he squeaks, banging the table with a tiny fist.

Leo laughs so hard he nearly drops his quill.

“Look at you,” he says, ruffling Tris’s hair. “Mini-mafioso in training.”

Tristan beams, then grabs another coin and offers it to Leo.

“For snack,” he says solemnly.

Leo raises a brow. “For me?”

“No. For me. You do snack now.”

And just like that, Leo’s being extorted by a toddler.

He sighs dramatically, pockets the coin, and gets up. “Fine. But if you scam anyone while I’m gone, I’m not bailing you out again.”

Tris grins, all teeth, eyes drifting back to the ring.

Hewn’s just cracked his knuckles.

“Okay!” Tristan chirps. “Smash him, Hewn!”

And the scary part is— Leo knows he means it.

“Did you ever get a Hogwarts letter, Olly?” Harry stares at the letter which has found him the second year in a row.

“Once, I must have been eleven then. It’s not like I know my birth date,” Olly frowns at the letter suspiciously.

“I got one too, but they said I would have to cover the costs on my own, so I obviously declined,” Kelly chirps from where she’s braiding Maddie’s hair.

“Leo, if you get the letter next year, will you go?” Harry asks while tearing the letter without even opening it.

“Nah, it’s only going to be a hassle. You guys already got me a wand and I can do enough magic to make do, and what my wand can’t, my hands do,” Leo grins roguishly, holding a pen just out of Abby’s reach.

“I don’t get why people even go there,” Abby wrinkles her nose. Art makes a noise of agreement while oiling the mesh around the Maw’s ring.

“It’s a school, Abby. Kids study there,” Xan scoffs at the girl.

“What’s the need, though? We’re doing just fine without it,” Maddie adds her own two cents.

“Even if you wanted to go, they wouldn’t accept half breeds like you, me, Abby or Xan. The fact that they’ve sent letters for Harry is a big deal in itself,” Art sneers.

“Do you guys not know what my last name is?” Harry asks with a fake gasp.

Tris stands up and screams, “I’m trying to work here.” And like he usually does, stumbles on his ‘r’s.

Maddie snorts from her place in front of Kelly. “You’re literally just sorting money on the basis of how shiny the coins are.”

Harry flashes Tris a lazy salute. “Apologies, Boss.”

Tris puffs up like a baby rooster, dramatically slamming a Galleon onto a pile. “Exactly.”

Everyone laughs.

Olly leans over and whispers, “He’s going to start collecting taxes next.”

Leo groans. “He already demanded two Sickles for ‘emotional distress’ yesterday – and he’s not even two. Said I scared him awake.”

“You did,” Tris huffs, without looking up. “I was dreaming about dragons. Nice ones.”

“Better than dreaming about Hogwarts,” Abby mutters, climbing into Harry’s lap like she still fits there.

He ruffles her hair. “It’s not our place anyway.”

“No,” Kelly agrees, voice soft. “This is.”

The night falls and fights start. The Maw comes alive. Under conjured lighting and between piles of coins and mismatched socks, children play at being kings.

Chapter Text

Harry is fourteen and running a very successful fighting and betting business. It’s Samhain (because everyone in Knockturn is adamant that Halloween is rubbish) but that simply means even more business.

Everything is perfectly normal and relatively peaceful. What could possibly go wrong... right?

“Abby, is Tris asl- ” Harry stops short at the sight in front of him.

Abby is sitting on the floor, watching in fascination as Tris gorges chocolates hastily. She startles at hearing his voice and jumps up to cover the crime scene.

“You evil little demon child! You’re doing this intentionally! Give him a sugar rush, and then, when it’s time to sleep you’ll watch us all snap at him for entertainment.” Harry pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You spend too much time near Xan.”

“Hewn! This is all his fault,” Abby jabs a finger in Tris’s direction, “He wouldn’t stop crying till I gave him some.”

“Fine, then you’ll babysit him after sunrise too. We’ll all sleep like Tris would have been, had you not done this,” Harry huffs and picks up the toddler from the midst of wrappers.

Then, he suddenly sets Tris down and clutches at his wand.

“Abby, I— I’ll be back, I think. Just… hold down the fort. I don’t know what this is, but I’ll be back. Don’t make a scene.” Harry breathes heavily as he leans against the wall.

“I – what-“

“No, Abby, just get past a few hours. It won’t be long. Probably. Just— don’t panic, alright? Don’t shout about it, tell the others in whispers,” Harry manages to say before he pops away.

Abby stops breathing for a second.

“Hewn? Hewn! Harry!”

Then, she squares her shoulders and sets her jaw. She glances at Tris and says, “Tris, I’ll give you a chocolate if you stay here and don’t go looking for trouble while I’m down there.”

“No. I want three,” Tris replies, showing two fingers.

“Whatever, you little Crooklet! Just stay here,” Abby shouts, already halfway down the stairs.

She finds Art first, but knows he is not the person to be told first.

“Where’s Olly?” Abby asks as calmly as she can.

Art looks at her like she’s mad and points towards the ‘Patch-Up Corner’.

“Olly!” she bursts in, then leans close and whispers, “Ha—Hewn disappeared.”

Olly looks at her in scrutiny for a second as the words sink in.

He’s grabbing her and dashing to Kelly before she realizes that she’s moving.

“Kelly – get to the Patch-up Corner. Leo!” he shouts towards Leo’s little Betting Throne, “You’re on Tris duty.”

“Roger that!” Leo does a two finger salute and they’re rushing upstairs before even hearing his reply.

“Tris, Maddie’s at the bottom of the stairs. Tell her to get you to Leo. Me and Abby are going to the Alley,” Olly barks at the kid who’s getting up on his chubby little legs and doing a two finger salute just like Leo.

Olly, who’s twenty but has been disapparating for nearly seven years, pops them in front of a small store.

“Jamie! I need your pensive,” Olly calls out.

“Sure,” comes the reply, dry as bone. “That’ll be nine galleons and six sickles. Pay up front, war hero.”

A minute later, a disfigured person is walking out, holding what is probably the pensive. Olly throws the exact amount on the table.

“Think about when Hewn disappeared.” Olly points a wand near her temple.

Abby eyes it for a while but then does as asked.

Abby bites her thumb as Olly disappears into the memory. She paces in front of the counter like a mad Hippogriff.

“He’s been cursed,” she mutters. “No— definitely hexed. Maybe abducted by a banshee with a vendetta against underground economic systems.”

She pauses.

“... Or he’s turned evil and left us to start a rival crime ring. We’ll be called the Mawless and live in a sewer.”

The weird person behind the counter gives her a look. Abby glares right back.

“I can see you judging me,” she says, pointing at them accusingly. “This is how tension works, you know!”

“Shit, that solved barely anything and I wasted so much money,” Olly mourns.

 “Did it show a banshee? Or was he glowing green? That’s usually evil,” Abby asks quickly. “Oh shit, is he glowing green?”

“No – also, language,” Olly says, deadpan. “He vanished like someone yanked him out by the soul. No glow. No banshees.”

Abby breathes out in visible relief. “Okay, good. So we’re not at war with the sewers. Yet.”

Olly flicks her forehead.

He nods at the weird person and grabs her hand. They reach the Maw back, right on the spot they left.

Olly shakes his head in resignation and heads back down.

Harry is poised to fight as soon as his feet touch the ground.

It’s a huge hall of some kind. There’s dead silence as rows of children stare at him in shock. Everyone bursts into whispers when he turns towards them.

“Where am I?” he asks to no one in particular.                                                                     

“This is Hogwarts, Mr. Potter, and you were summoned here by the Goblet of Fire as the fourth participant of the Triwizard tournament,” an old man, with the longest beard and creepiest eyes he has ever seen, says.

“I did not consent, and I refuse to partake. Kindly show me to the exit.” Harry eyes the people standing on the dais.

The woman in green robes looks a little too relieved to see him. The man standing beside her, with very poor sense of hygiene, seems to take his presence as a personal insult. And the others, while not as extreme have just as interesting reactions to his mere presence.

“Now, now, we can talk in the chamber. Mr. Potter, please step inside,” a blond man smiles at him nervously.

“I trust none of you,” Harry replies bluntly without once lowering his wand.

“You have your wand, right? You can defend yourself, besides, there are children here. No one is going to hurt you Mr. Potter. I, myself, am a Ministry official – the head of Department of International Magical Co-operation – Bartemius Crouch.” a pale man frowns at him.

The woman in green robes steps forward slowly. “Mr. Potter, please. The chamber is secure. We need only a moment.”

Harry doesn’t budge for a breath, his gaze cold and unblinking, until the whispering students behind him start growing louder. He doesn’t want to be here, but a fight in front of hoards of children isn't his goal either.

So, he relents. He walks into the chamber, wand still held tight within his grasp.

The room beyond the doors is circular, warm, and less overwhelming — until he clocks the three other people inside. Teenagers, older than him. All of them turn as he steps in, and the mood shifts like a cold wind.

A tall boy with sharp features narrows his eyes, confused and — yeah, insulted. The blonde girl beside him crosses her arms, suspicious but measured. The last one, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, just stares, mouth set in a hard line.

Harry almost snorts at the dramatics. They all seem as harmless as kittens.

He thinks he recognizes the broad shouldered one from somewhere – posters, maybe.

They try to look sure and calm but are confused at his presence here.

They’re waiting for him to say something but two (or four, here, maybe?) can play a game.

The very useless and space consuming adults file in a moment later.

The old man with creepy eyes leads, face tight with forced calm. A man with a strange fur coat is bristling like a wet cat beside him, sneering at Harry like the boy spat in his soup. A very tall woman towers beside them, eyeing Harry curiously. The man who looks at Harry like he was the one who broke his nose enters with a dramatic billow of his robes, dark eyes alight with senseless hate.

The nervous blond bounces in like a man at the wrong party, cheerful and sweaty. Crouch walks in behind him like a corpse missing a soul.

The man with a fake eye and leg enters last. He stares at Harry like Harry is a piece of puzzle that refuses to fit.

“Mr. Potter- ,” the man with creepy eyes starts, like this is going to be a polite conversation.

Harry cut in. “Why am I here?”

“The Goblet of Fire selected you—”

“I didn’t put my name in any fire. I don’t want to be here. I’m not interested in games that get people killed,” Harry says in his most unimpressed voice.

The man clears his throat. “The Goblet is a magically binding contract, Harry. Ancient magic—”

“When did I give you permission to call me that, sir?” Harry interrupts again.

“Potter, you arrogant brat,” another man – the greasy one – snarls, “Dumbledore is at least four times your age. Is this how you speak to adults, boy?”

Harry tilts his head, just slightly. “Only the ones who think they can bully me into obedience.”

The man’s wand hand twitches.

Dumbledore exhales sharply. “Please, Severus. Let’s not escalate. Harry, we will get to the bottom of this—”

“No,” Harry says again. “You’ll try to preserve your precious tournament. I’ll get to the bottom of it. You can watch.”

“Mr. Potter, please,” Dumbledore tries again. “If you’d just allow us to—”

“You're all assuming I’m staying.” Harry’s eyes sweep the room. “Which I’m not.”

“You can’t just leave,” the nervous blond says, voice too light. “The contract—”

“I’ve walked away from worse contracts.”

Another pause.

“The other champions will also be endangered if you do this,” the blonde girl says in heavily accented English.

Harry turns to her and shrugs. “That, ma’am, sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”

"You will compete," Crouch Sr. says, voice cold as stone. "The contract—"

Harry is reaching the end of his patience now. He has already stretched it thinner than he thought was possible but even that has its limit.

Harry reins in his temper. Think of Olly and Maddie fighting like little shits. Think of Leo and Tris being gremlins.

It doesn’t help. “You can all keep your little tournament. I have work to do.”

Crouch’s mouth tightens, his hands clenching at his sides like he’s imagining throttling Harry into submission.

"You do not understand the gravity of your situation, boy— " he begins, voice cold enough to frost windows.

Harry gives him a flat look. “Old man, I stopped giving a damn about ‘gravity’ when I was six and dodging worse things than your bureaucratic mess.”

A strangled cough — half horror, half hilarity — comes from the broad-shouldered boy (Krum, Harry thinks now, finally placing the face with the poster he saw once pinned in Leo’s nest of stolen junk).

The man who’s half body is fake steps forward now, thudding his cane against the stone floor, his fake eye twitching madly. "The lad's got guts," he growls. "Or a death wish."

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone accused me of that,” Harry replies, tone dry as the Sahara. “Still alive, though. Sorry to disappoint.”

The woman in green robes has her lips pinched so tightly it looks painful. ‘Severus’ looks two seconds away from throwing a hex. The man in strange fur coat is sneering like he smells something rotting (Harry would bet gold that it's just his own cologne). The huge woman, to her credit, just watches him with narrowed, weighing eyes.

The blond man laughs a little too loudly, a little too nervously. "Well! No need for dramatics! Just a bit of misunderstanding, eh? Happens to the best of us!"

Harry eyes him like he’s something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "A misunderstanding is tripping over a stair, sir. Not being kidnapped into mortal combat."

The room goes very still.

"If you refuse to participate, Mr. Potter," Dumbledore says, voice low and steady like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal, "the magic of the Goblet will—"

"Will what?" Harry cuts in, raising an eyebrow. “Chain me to it? Burn me alive? Strike me down on the spot?” He laughs, low and sharp. “You should pray it’s that quick.”

The French girl shifts uneasily, but says nothing. The boy with sharp features looks somewhere between apologetic and deeply annoyed. Krum looks like he’s seriously considering recruiting Harry for his own purposes.

The half prosthetic man steps closer again, squinting at Harry with that weird, too-intense stare. "You smell it, don’t you?" he mutters, mostly to himself. "The wrongness."

Harry’s gaze snaps to him, sharp as a blade. "I smell liars."

Another beat of silence. Even ‘Severus’ doesn't interrupt this time.

"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore says, and this time there's steel under the silk, "there are forces at play larger than you or any of us. Leaving could have dire consequences."

Harry tilts his head again, birdlike, considering him.

“Then you’d better figure them out fast,” he says. “Because I’m not your puppet.”

With that, he tucks his wand higher into his sleeve, turns on his heel, and starts for the door — like he dares them to try stopping him.

Nobody moves.

Because even idiots recognize a storm when it’s right in front of them.

The woman in green robes follows after him through the door. He keeps walking and she keeps following.

“I’m Minerva McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress,” she begins as if unsure of her own purpose in approaching him.

“I assume you already know my name,” Harry responds dryly.

McGonagall ignores him. “If you participate, you have a chance at winning a thousand galleons. You will be provided accommodations for the year at Hogwarts.”

“I don’t care. If I have time, I’ll show up for the tasks.”

“You have to stay at the host school during the duration of the tournament Mr. Potter. I will send a portkey tomorrow at noon, through owl.”

“I want to leave once a week, each week. One or two people might come with me,” Harry says with finality.

“Fine,” McGonagall sighs.

“Awesome,” Harry grins cheerily, “Can I have someone show me out so I can leave?”

“How do you plan to leave Mr. Potter?” McGonagall eyes him warily, as if dreading the answer.

Harry pretends not to hear, whistling a merry tune.

They reach the massive entrance doors, carved oak and iron, as if they were trying to hold back gods. McGonagall waves her wand stiffly; the doors groan and swing open.

The night beyond is dark and cold.

Perfect.

"Goodnight, Professor," Harry says, all mock-politeness, tipping two fingers to his forehead like a soldier before battle.

McGonagall pinches the bridge of her nose and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "Merlin help us all."

“Where the hell did you disappear, Harry?” a ball of a child slams into him, making him stumble.

Harry looks at everyone’s faces carefully. He sighs.

“You might want to sit down for this one.”

He tells them everything (omitting the parts where he was clearly goading the adults) and lapses into silence.

Olly is the first to react, because of course he is. He explodes upward like someone lit a firecracker under his feet.

"WHAT—" Olly's voice cracks halfway through, but he charges through anyway, waving his arms around like a deranged conductor. "THE ACTUAL FUCK? Some crusty old cup kidnapped you?! And then what, they just expected you to be like, 'Oh sure, I'll die for your entertainment'?!"

He gestures so violently he almost smacks Kelly in the face.

He looks like he’s genuinely about to go find Hogwarts and burn it down with his bare hands.

Kelly, who’s normally the calm one, folds her arms tight across her chest, face twisted in a grim, dark look Harry's only seen a few times — usually right before Kelly does something very illegal. "You should’ve hexed them all where they stood," she says in a low, sharp voice. "Every last one of them. Starting with the smug one."

Art is practically vibrating where he sits, fists clenched on the table so hard his knuckles are white. "Name one," he snarls. "Just one. I'll break their nose. Or their ribs. Whatever." He looks eager about it, like he's already mentally mapping out the assault.

Xan, predictably, looks half-curious, half-disgusted. "I can smell politics all over this," he mutters, nose wrinkling like something foul had entered the room. "You can’t trust a single one of those pureblood bastards. Not one. They see a random kid — who didn't even sign up — and their first idea is, 'Wow, perfect! Let's risk child death!' Are they collectively brain-damaged?”

Maddie’s arms are crossed, jaw set stubbornly. "We should send a message," she says, voice dark. "First dumbass who tries something gets hexed into next year. Maybe they'll think twice about kidnapping next time."

Abby, fierce little fireball that she is, storms across the room, grabs Harry’s sleeve and glares up at him. "You don’t get to go back alone," she snaps. "You don’t leave us behind like that. Not for some stupid old people games."

Leo kicks the chair leg — bang — and scowls. "And if you try," he says mutinously, "I’ll just follow you. Even if I have to hide in your luggage."

The little menace that he is, kicks the leg of the table next and mutters, "Bet I could pickpocket half those old farts if I tried."

Harry opens his mouth to argue but is immediately cut off by Tris, who — solemn-faced and deadly serious in his too-big jumper — points dramatically at him.

"Bad Da!" Tris says like he’s laying down the law of the universe itself.

Harry blames Abby for it. She started calling him ‘Hade’ of all of the ridiculous things she could when she was feeling vindictive. Tris molded it into ‘Da’ and stuck with it.

Harry lets out a breath that’s half-laugh, half-sigh. "Right," he says, ruffling Tris’s hair. "Bad Da."

"But," Tris says gravely, "we still love you."

He says it like it's an oath. Like it's a thing that can’t be taken back or twisted or stolen.

Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, alright," he says. "I’m taking two of you with me."

Instantly, chaos erupts.

"No way—"

"I’m going—"

"I’m the best at sneaking around!"

"You’ll need muscle, obviously!"

"He’s gonna need someone responsible there, that's me!"

"You’re nine, Abby—"

"Yeah, and smarter than you, Leo!"

“Alright, shut up you idiots. Abby and Tris are going with me, and it’s final. While I’m gone, Olly is in charge of you all and Leo is in charge of the Maw,” Harry says flatly.

“Whyyy,” all voices (minus Abby and Tris) whine in unison.

“Tris is a child and I don’t trust you all to not give him a potty mouth as bad as yours. Abby is a manipulative child who’ll tire you guys to the ground,” Harry explained exasperatedly.

Art opens his mouth to protest.

Harry ignores him like he ignores his anger issues. “Olly is the oldest and could shut you all in separate rooms if the need arose but could also heal you depending on the situation. Leo might be young but he knows how to handle the crowd. Art, you would just burn the place down. Xan would laugh like the piece of shit he is and walk away. Kelly, you’re awesome but you would throw Art, Xan, Leo and Maddie out if they insulted you. Maddie, sweet, your violent tendencies are worse than Art’s.”

Predictably, everyone explodes again.

Olly throws his hands up. "You trust me with authority? I’m flattered but deeply concerned for all of us."

Leo, scowling so hard his face might crack, jabs a finger at Olly. "You’re gonna let him boss us around? He still can’t cook noodles without starting a fire!"

"I WAS NINETEEN," Olly yells.

"Last year!"

"WHATEVER."

Maddie starts muttering about "unionizing against tyrants," while Art growls something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a death threat against all authority everywhere.

Xan just leans back against the wall, arms crossed, wearing that infuriating smirk like he’s already plotting how to make Olly’s life a living hell. "Oh yeah," he says lazily. "This’ll end well."

Kelly’s still got her arms folded, but her mouth twitches like she’s trying really hard not to smile. "Someone’s gotta supervise this circus," she says dryly. "Might as well be you two."

Meanwhile, Abby — nine years old and already more terrifying than half the Alley — looks smug. Absolutely insufferably smug. Like she just won the world’s greatest competition.

Tris just beams, hugging Harry’s leg like a barnacle.

Harry rubs at his face, feeling about thirty years older. "This is gonna be a disaster," he mutters.

Olly grins. "Yeah, but it'll be our disaster."

Leo whoops and jumps up to his Betting Throne and stands on it.

Packing, as it turns out, is an absolute nightmare.

Harry had foolishly thought — hoped — that Abby and Tris would be easy to pack for.
You know. Because they’re children.

Ha.
Ha. Ha.

He should've known better.

First, there’s Abby. She takes one look at the sad little pile of clothes Harry throws in a bag and immediately shoves it aside like it's an insult to her existence.

"You're packing like a homeless man," she declares (which, fair, but still rude), and then proceeds to start cramming her essentials into the bag:

Three full sets of daggers (yes, daggers), half a dozen cursed trinkets, a potion that’s probably technically classified as a biohazard and a book titled "One Hundred and One Ways to Ruin a Man’s Life and Reputation" that she stole from Kelly.

"Abby," Harry says weakly, watching his life flash before his eyes, "You’re going to a school, not prison."

Abby, dead serious: "Preparation is key."

Meanwhile, Tris is squatting on the floor next to his bag, holding...a rock. Not a special rock. Not a shiny rock. Just a sad grey lump he found on the street.

"Pack rock," Tris says solemnly.

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. "You can’t bring a rock."

"Rock is friend," Tris insists, with the same gravity one might use to discuss sacred blood oaths.

Harry caves immediately because he’s weak for that kid. The rock goes in. So does a dead beetle, a bent nail, and something Tris claims is a "treasure map" but is just a crumpled receipt.

By the time Harry turns around, Abby’s somehow added more weapons to the pile. He doesn’t even ask where she got a crossbow small enough to fit in a child's backpack.

As Harry knew would happen, Leo is not taking this well.

"I'm coming too," he declares, hands on hips, glaring up at Olly like a very small, very angry revolutionary.

"No," Harry says for the sixth time.

"You’re gonna forget about us!" Leo accuses, voice cracking from sheer betrayal.

Harry stares at him, deadpan. "You’ve known me for years. When have I ever been allowed to forget anything?"

Leo's scowl deepens. He clearly decides emotional manipulation isn’t working, because two minutes later, Harry catches him trying to shove himself into the giant battered trunk Abby’s luggage is in.

"I weigh like, nothing," Leo protests when Harry hauls him out by the scruff of his neck. "It would’ve worked!"

"It absolutely would not have," Harry says, dropping him on the couch like a misbehaving cat.

"I would've punched anyone who found me!" Leo huffs, all wounded pride.

"That's what I'm afraid of!"

Olly, bless him, is trying to be responsible. (And failing. Spectacularly.)

He’s running around with a battered notepad, yelling things like "Who tried to kill Jet last time, again?!" and "Does anyone remember if the wards will automatically kill trespassers or just maim them??"

Maddie keeps whispering "revolution" whenever Olly passes by. Art's gone suspiciously quiet, which is concerning because that usually means plans are happening. And Xan keeps smirking and muttering things like, "Bet he’ll come back missing a limb."

("Only if you’re in charge," Harry fires back, making Xan snort.)

Harry drags his hands across his face in dread.

The place is going to blow up before he comes to check in later that week. He just knows it.

Chapter Text

Harry, with Abby and Tris in tow, arrives at Hogsmeade through a portkey sent by McGonagall — just as promised, at noon, on a completely normal Tuesday.

A half giant waves him over from a few meters away. “Ah, Harry, you’ve grown up so much! The last time I saw you, was when I brought you to Professor Dumbledore after your parents died.”

Harry smiles tightly and grips Abby’s arm to keep her close. She has Tris cradled in her arms, careful but wobbling.

Their escort leads the way, chatting about his parents with a kind of clumsy fondness.

“It was Dumbledore who left me at Private Drive?” Harry prods carefully.

He throws Abby a warning glance to keep her mouth shut. Abby looks at him innocently, holding Tris out expectantly. Harry sighs internally and shifts the toddler onto his hip, dragging his suitcase along with the other hand.

“They were your only living family, Harry,” the man says, then eyes Tris curiously. “And who are these little companions?”

“This is Tristan and the older one is Abby, Mr. ...” Harry trails off, letting it hang.

The man laughs loudly, big and booming. “None of that ‘Mr.’ nonsense! Just Hagrid, if you will.”

Harry nods absently as the castle comes into view.

The woman from before – McGonagall, Harry recalls – is standing at the gate, waiting for them.

“Afternoon, Mr. Potter. I hope you had no problems getting here,” she says, curt but not unkind.

“Afternoon, Ms. McGonagall. It was no trouble.” (Minus the chaos of packing in under seven hours — the Maw wasn’t about to shut down just because he disappeared.)

“Professor McGonagall,” she corrects, as she leads him inside.

There are hardly any students lingering in the corridors, courtesy of the weekday that he has arrived on.

Harry looks around, just as curious as Abby and Tris — though he keeps it to himself. They, on the other hand, gawk freely, wide-eyed.

“I must admit, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall says, “I did not expect the companions you mentioned to be... quite so young.”

Harry considers ignoring the statement, but decides against offending the one sensible adult that he has seen so far.

“They can’t take care of themselves,” he says, steady. “Left alone, they would’ve burned the place down. Naturally, they had to come with me.”

Abby gapes at him exaggeratedly and mouths ‘I didn’t know you could talk so politely’.

Harry lowers Tris just enough for the kid to whack Abby over the head. He does not disappoint.

McGonagall leads them to a portrait and knocks thrice. The portrait swings open to reveal a living room of sorts, with three doors on the left wall – presumably leading to bedrooms.

“I assumed you would want separate rooms, but you may arrange it as you see fit,” McGonagall says, stepping aside to let them through.

Abby squeals excitedly and rushes in, climbing on the armchair and jumping on it. Tris leaps out of his arms and joins Abby in her exploration.

Getting them to behave is going to be chore in its own right.

“Well, I’ll leave you all to settle in. A prefect will come to fetch you at lunchtime,” McGonagall says, and disappears down the hall without a backward glance.

The prefect comes after nearly two hours.

By then, Abby and Tris are locked in a heated debate about the superior form of chocolate. Tris is losing. Spectacularly.

The prefect — tall, confident, and vaguely amused — leads them toward the Great Hall.

“I’m Angelina Johnson, by the way. Gryffindor, sixth year, prefect,” she introduces herself with an easy grin.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Harry says, polite but cool.

Angelina tilts her head, eyeing him. “So... why didn’t you come to Hogwarts before?”

“I had better things to do with my time.” Like survive. And raise an infant.

“Oh.” Her smile dims, like she expected a nobler answer. But it bounces back fast. “Still, if you had, you’d have been a Gryffindor, right?”

“I don’t even know what the Houses stand for,” Harry lies flatly. He knows. Just... not in the neat, slogan-y way.

“Gryffindor for courage and chivalry, Hufflepuff for loyalty and hard work, Ravenclaw for creativity and intelligence, Slytherin for cunning and ambition,” Johnson recites from memory.

“But what if a person embodies the traits of more than one house?” Abby interjects.

“Then the Sorting Hat either gives you a choice or goes with the trait you lean toward more,” Angelina shrugs, like it doesn’t matter to her.

When they reach the Hall, Johnson invites them to sit with her but Tris is already bolting towards the blue table – Ravenclaw, if he recalls correctly.

“Tris,” Abby says, an exasperated yet knowing edge to her voice, “why are we sitting here?”

Tris climbs onto the bench like he owns it and declares, “Because Ravenclaws are blue and they eat smart chocolate. Obviously.”

“Ravenclaws are not blue and smart chocolate isn’t real,” Abby mutters, but she sits beside him anyway, dropping her elbows on the table with dramatic flair. Harry follows, too tired to argue.

Across from them, a girl with long, straw-colored hair and radish earrings tilts her head curiously. Her eyes land on Tris first — no judgment, just quiet interest.

“They do say Ravenclaw chocolate improves memory,” she says dreamily. “But only if it’s been blessed by moonlight and marinated with tuna for a fortnight.”

Tris gasps, delighted. “See?”

Abby squints at her. “That’s not real science.”

“Oh, no,” the girl says. “It’s far better than science. It’s belief.”

Harry blinks. “You believe in moon-blessed chocolate?”

She nods serenely, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course. I also believe toads can curse people if you stare at them too long.”

There’s a short, stunned silence.

Then Tris leans in and whispers, “You’re amazing.”

The girl smiles at him, dreamy and genuine. “Thank you. I’m Luna, by the way. Luna Lovegood.”

“Tristan,” Tris says proudly. “And this is Abby and Harry. He’s basically the king of knock-you-out fighting.”

Luna’s gaze slides to Harry, curious but not reverent. “Oh. You’re the boy everyone talks about.”

“And who’s everyone?” Harry asks, without missing a beat.

“The wrackspurts, of course,” Luna replies, already peeling the paper off a chocolate frog.

Luna peers at Tris like she’s deciding whether he’s real or not. Then she smiles — a soft, sideways thing, like she knows a secret she won’t be telling just yet.

“You’ve got a stormy sort of magic,” she says to him. “Like lightning that hasn’t quite struck.”

Tris grins, pleased beyond reason. “I like lightning.”

“I thought you might.” Luna offers the chocolate to Tris, who takes it swiftly.

Abby watches Luna like she’s trying to solve a riddle with no edges. “Are you always like this?”

Luna blinks at her. “Only when I’m awake.”

Harry huffs a quiet laugh despite himself. She turns her gaze to him again — not the wide-eyed awe he’s used to, but something more unsettling. Calculated. Ancient, somehow.

“You don’t become goulash anymore,” she murmurs. “Which means that someone else does.”

Harry stills, expression shuttering. “That supposed to mean something?”

She tilts her head the other way, like a curious bird. “Not yet. But it will.”

There’s a pause. Abby narrows her eyes. “That sounded like prophecy.”

Luna hums. “Possibly. I don’t really tell the future — I just sometimes remember it early.”

Tris, awestruck: “Can you teach me?”

“Only if you’re very good at forgetting things you’re not meant to know until you already know them.” She hands him another chocolate frog. “Eat this. It helps.”

Abby leans back with a scoff, but she’s watching Luna more carefully now. Like she’s moved from “weird girl” to “potential threat” in record time.

Luna looks back to Harry, solemn again. “There’s a door you’ll have to walk through soon. It won’t be locked, but you’ll still bleed.”

Harry swallows tightly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I don’t think you will.” She says it without malice — just certainty. Then she points to his left. “You’ve got company, by the way.”

Sure enough, a hush has fallen across the Great Hall. Students at every table are whispering, eyes darting toward the three newcomers seated at Ravenclaw’s table like they belong.

A redheaded boy near the Gryffindor table is gawking outright. A bushy-haired girl beside him is whispering furiously into his ear. Several Slytherins are already sneering.

And from the staff table, Dumbledore watches with bright, unreadable eyes.

“Wonderful,” Harry mutters, straightening slightly as if it might help him weather the staring. “I was starting to miss being stared at.”

“You’re not the same boy they think you are,” Luna says, still watching him. “But that’s alright. No one ever is.”

Harry meets her gaze — searching, for what, he doesn’t know. But whatever it is, Luna just smiles again. Mysterious. Infuriating. Unshaken.

“You’re going to like it here,” she says, popping a Bertie Bott’s Bean into her mouth. “At least until you don’t.”

Then the most useless and ghastly rumours begin.

“I heard he was raised by a cult of vampires in Knockturn Alley. He drinks blood instead of pumpkin juice.”

“You can tell just by looking at him — he’s cursed. That’s why his hair won’t lie flat. It’s trying to escape.”

 “No, he doesn’t kill people — his toddler does. Cursed pacifier, I think.” Tris is ridiculously pleased with this one.

“He killed a basilisk with his bare hands. That’s why Dumbledore never talks about the Chamber anymore.”

 “He got kicked out of Durmstrang for building an army in the dungeons.”

“I bet that’s not even Harry Potter. Just some impostor using Polyjuice. The real one’s probably still in hiding — or dead.”

 “They only let him in because he owns Hogwarts now. Bought it with black market galleons.”

Tris and Abby only encourage the rumours whenever possible.

In corridors, Abby loudly asks random students if they have a dark mark too, “or is that just us?”

Tris shrieks disturbingly whenever they are in crowded areas, saying that he’s “being possessed by my dead Kneazle.”

 After hearing the tales of the last few years, Harry is even gladder that he decided against coming to Hogwarts.

A teacher had some sort of spirit stuck on him for the better part of the year and then died trying to steal some artifact for it.

Then, a ‘Chamber of Secrets’ was opened, and a Ginny Weasley disappeared, returning as a soulless husk of a human.

Last year, an escaped criminal broke into Hogwarts twice, despite it being the safest place in Britain except Gringotts.

This year, there is a tournament known for killing its participants.

Harry does not want to imagine what will happen next year.

(“Maybe they’ll get a downpour of toads who’ll curse them like Luna was saying,” Abby suggests)

Harry is brought to a fairly small classroom; most of the desks are pushed away to the back of the room, leaving a large space in the middle; three of them, however, are placed end-to-end in front of the blackboard and covered with a long length of velvet.

Five chairs are set behind the velvet-covered desks, and Ludo Bagman sits in one of them, talking to a witch dressed in rather garish clothes.

Krum stands moodily in a corner as usual and not talking to anybody. Diggory and Delacour are engaged in conversation.

Krum looks at Harry and starts to make his way over to talk.

Bagman suddenly spots Harry, gets up quickly, and bounds forward.

"Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Harry, in you come... nothing to worry about, it's just the wand weighing ceremony. The rest of the judges will be here in a moment —"

"Wand weighing?" Harry repeats skeptically.

"We have to check that your wands are fully functional, no problems, you know, as they're your most important tools in the tasks ahead," says Bagman. "The expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there's going to be a little photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter," he adds, gesturing toward the witch in magenta robes. "She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet."

"Maybe not that small, Ludo." Rita Skeeter eyes Harry with a glint he does not particularly like.

Harry stares at Skeeter like she’s a particularly offensive bit of mold someone’s mistaken for pudding. She’s already halfway to him, talons tapping eagerly on her notepad, lipsticked mouth stretching into something that might be called a smile if it didn’t look like it had been pried onto her face with a crowbar.

“Oh, Mr. Potter,” she croons, too brightly, already reaching for his arm. “Let’s have a little chat, shall we? The readers are dying to know about the mysterious fourth Champion. Maybe somewhere more… private?”

Her eyes flick toward a dingy storage closet beside the door, as if this is a perfectly normal interview venue and not the stuff of cheap horror flicks.

Harry steps back, expression blank. “I don’t do closets with strangers. Especially not ones who think ‘interview’ means ambush.”

Skeeter’s smile falters just slightly, but Bagman jumps in, waving a hand. “Oh, come on, Harry! It’s not a big deal. Just a few questions. She’s harmless.”

“Right,” Harry says coolly, eyes flicking from Bagman to Skeeter, “because dragging a fourteen-year-old into a closet for an off-the-record interrogation isn’t at all invasive, or suspicious, or completely unprofessional.”

Skeeter’s jaw tightens. “Now, listen, you—”

“No, you listen,” Harry cuts in, voice low and sharp enough to slice through the velvet on the table. “You’re not getting some exclusive story from me just because you bat your lashes and call it news. I’ve seen your type. You’ll twist every word I say into something marketable and repulsive. No thank you.”

Bagman steps forward, trying for his usual jovial tone. “Harry, really, it’s just—”

“Just what?” Harry interrupts again, louder now. “Just a little press manipulation? Just a little fun at my expense? Or are you always this eager to throw kids under the Prophet’s headline bus if it makes your tournament look good?”

There’s an awkward silence. Krum listens in with vague interest.

“I’m not here to play poster boy,” Harry continues, tone like chilled iron. “If you want a photo, I won’t stand still and smile. And if anyone here tries to shove a quill in my face and call it journalism again, they’ll find it shoved somewhere far less pleasant.”

Abby, if she were here, would be clapping by now. Possibly whistling.

Bagman coughs, flushing slightly. “Er, well then! Let’s, er— let’s wait for Mr. Ollivander, shall we? Wands! Yes! That’s what we’re here for!”

Skeeter stalks off with a huff, muttering under her breath and snapping her notepad shut so aggressively it echoes.

Krum lets out a quiet grunt of approval. Fleur arches a single brow. Diggory gives Harry a look that says respect without saying anything at all.

And Harry? Harry stands tall, unbothered, and utterly uninterested in playing nice.

Besides, if his – if Hewn’s – photo makes it to the front page, it’s not going to be pretty. Harry mentally pats himself on the back for two crises diverted.

One more left to go.

After all, his wand isn’t the best. And its core is definitely not mugged from a scared and probably pureblooded eleven year old who fell out of the wrong Floo grate. And the wood is not threatened out from a scraggly elf who tried to stab him with it. And obviously, he didn’t just hastily whip it together with the help of a stolen runes book after his old one snapped, that’s volatile magic.

The best part? He doesn’t even know the names of the materials of his wand.

The first one to have her wand ‘weighed’ is Fleur. Then, comes Cedric with his unicorn wand which he “polished just last night.”

By the time Krum’s wand weighing is over, Harry is in full panic mode. He thinks his wand just might combust if Ollivander tries something like the birds or flowers he did earlier.

"Good," says Mr. Ollivander, handing Krum back his wand. "Which leaves... Mr. Potter."

Harry’s soul almost leaves his body.

He wordlessly walks over and hands over his wand for inspection. His wand which has deep engravings of runes by his own hand, and which has worked better for him than any of the others’ have for them. He’d be sorry to see it end like this.

“Ah, a very... unusual wand.” Harry dies a little at that.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen any like it. Who did you say is the wandmaker, Mr. Potter?” And a little more.

Harry is not going to back down. “I never did say, Mr. Ollivander. The wandmaker would like remain anonymous, I fear.”

“That’s quite alright and expected, of course,” Ollivander turns it about like it is the most interesting thing he has seen. “Acacia and White River Monster Spine, the only of its kind I assume. The creator must have been remarkably skilled. Twelve and a quarter inches, quite flexible, I must say.”

Harry hardly feels the relief from actually knowing about his wand’s origin, what with the way Skeeter seems to glow with each word.

“I believe the wand would react negatively if I try to perform a spell, so here you go, Mr. Potter.” Ollivander hands over his wand back to him and Harry breathes easier.

Three crises successfully diverted.

Harry passes by Skeeter and murmurs, “If any of my pictures or even my name makes it to tomorrow’s newspaper, I’ll crush you like the bug you are.”

Skeeter breathes in sharply. Maybe the threat is a bit overkill, but he wants to drive the point home.

“What do you mean?” Skeeter feints nonchalance.

“Exactly what I said,” Harry says harshly, before turning and leaving without a backward glance.

All missions passed!

Now, he just needs to go back to the Maw and hope the place isn’t in shambles.

The factory’s main floor is lit unevenly — runes glowing in corners, firelight flickering from a brazier someone has fed an entire chair into (Leo, probably), and half the Maw’s population is crowded around the betting board Leo had charmed to keep track of stolen sweets and dares.

Harry walks in, plops onto the floor, and says, “Do you remember the first task? Yeah, I found out – it’s dragons.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

“EXCUSE ME—” Abby shrieks from the rafters, where she’d been eating roasted almonds like a queen surveying her domain. She drops them, misses the floor, and lands in a pile of blankets and curses. “What the hell do you mean, dragons?!”

“Like fire-breathing, lizardy ones?” Xan pipes up, squinting suspiciously, eyes already darting to Leo’s notebook. “Or ‘oh no, my girlfriend’s a Scorpio’ type?”

“Actual dragons,” Harry says sagely, unbothered. “Fire, scales, bad attitudes. Someone smuggled in four for the first task.”

“You’re fighting a dragon?” Olly chokes on whatever potion experiment he is drinking. “At fourteen? You can’t even fight a cold properly. Last week you almost died from seasonal allergies!”

“I got cursed,” Harry snaps.

“You got cursed because you stuck your face in a hexed flower, idiot!” Art adds helpfully.

Tris, who is somehow wielding a fork like a trident despite being a toddler, blinks solemnly and asks, “You gonna eat the dragon, boss?”

“No,” Harry sighs.

“Can I eat it?”

“Still no.”

“Can I name it?”

“…Maybe.”

Across the room, Kelly groans from the mattress she’s lying on. “This is exactly why we said not to go there. Hogwarts is cursed.”

“I didn’t go there. The goblet kidnapped me. I’ve been magically conscripted,” Harry mutters, rubbing his face.

“Magically dumb,” Leo mutters.

Olly raises a hand. “Can we not fight a dragon? Is that an option?”

“Not unless I want to die horribly and get buried under a statue that says ‘Here Lies Hewn, Eaten Like a Snack.’”

Tris gasps delightedly. “Like a meat snack?”

“I swear to all the gods,” Harry groans, “if Tris or Abby try to ride the dragon—”

“We weren’t going to ride it,” Abby huffs, already climbing back into the rafters.

“She was totally going to ride it.” Leo grins.

“Xan,” Maddie says slowly, like this is dangerous territory, “is there a spell that makes dragons sleepy? Or confused? Or makes their sense of smell go weird so they can’t find him?”

Xan looks far too intrigued. “Not legally.”

“Since when have we ever cared about that?” Art and Leo chorus.

Harry slumps down on a crate, head in his hands. “I just wanted to tell you in case I die horribly and want someone to feed Tris and not let Abby start a cult in my name.”

“I would never,” Abby gasps in outrage.

“You literally already drew a sigil for it.”

“That’s just planning ahead!”

Leo is already writing something. “Alright. Operation: Don’t Let Our Idiot Get Barbecued. I need someone to find out if dragons are colorblind; someone else to steal a chunk of raw meat from the butcher’s to test bait strategies, and someone else to charm a broom to fly sideways. We’ve got one week.”

Olly regrets it before he opens his mouth. “Why sideways?”

Leo shrugs. “I don’t know, but it feels important.”

Harry blinks at him. “You are terrifying.”

“And you’re apparently immortal by spite, so it evens out.”

Abby thuds down beside him and leans her head on his shoulder. “You’re not going to die. If you even try, I’ll beat up your ghost.”

Harry grins faintly. “Thanks.”

Tris wanders over, climbs into Harry’s lap like it is his throne, and asks, “Are dragons allergic to baby firecrackers?”

“…You have baby firecrackers?”

Tris nods proudly.

“Where did you—no. No. I don’t want to know.”

“Can’t we just... I don’t know, get our own dragon to wrestle theirs? Or maybe have a doppelganger of yours to fight the dragon?” Art throws up his hands.

“Art,” Harry says slowly, eyes wide. “You, stupid genius, I could kiss you right — yeah, okay, no, I take that back— but you’re smarter than I thought.”

“That’s exactly what I’ll do.” His voice drops, low and electric. “Xan. We need to make a trip to that dead cursebreaker’s house.”

Xan grins, wicked and knowing. “Bring a shovel or just a crowbar?”

Harry stands. “Both.”

And just like that, the Maw went from crisis to conspiracy.

Chapter Text

Harry takes one last fortifying breath and mentally recites the runes he is going to use in the task.

The crowd outside bursts into an applause and Krum steps out of the tent for his turn.

The innermost layer is going to be from the Elder Futhark – Laguz, Ansuz, Perþro, Lævateinn. Runes for flow, breath, chance, and illusion so sharp it cuts reality. Enough to fool a fucking dragon, hopefully.

The second layer – Uruz, Tiwaz, Ior and Yr. To make the illusion powerful and dominant, and to keep it unnatural and unsettling.

The most superficial and yet, equally important – Eiwaz, Gō and Eðel.

And of course, the binding rune – Sowilo.

Wait... which was the rune he was using for his scent?

Harry begins to panic.

Damn it! He should have brought the damn book.

Okay. Think. Ansuz and Beorc? No, no— too subtle. Not enough depth. Beorc alone might carry it if it’s bound with Laguz. That could sell the illusion of sweat, mud, breath. Yes. That will have to work.

Another round of applause. Louder this time. Krum must be done. A whistle pierces the air.

Harry's heart is hammering.

He steps out and sees the Horntail in its entire beastly glory. Wings half furled, yellow, beady eyes on him, a tail with spikes his size.

Harry never raises his wand, once. He finds the furthest spot from the nest. The rune has to be positioned such that the dragon cannot see her nest while she fights his illusion.

He carves the runes into the stone using cutting curses. The strokes are quick, controlled, each character sinking into the rock like blood into skin.

The only reason he is still alive is because he has rolled in mud and leaves, and is wearing the greyest clothes he could find today. The dragon probably thinks that he is a bug.

Harry carves the runes for the beast’s illusion first. It’s inspired by her— the Horntail herself. But exaggerated. Larger. Taller. Spikier. Fangs too long. Too many eyes. A predator she wouldn't recognize as kin, but would instinctively want to kill. The illusion pulses as the runes charge, magic writhing under his skin.

Then, a few feet away, a smaller creature. His size. Same rough silhouette. But stronger scent. More sweat. More fear. More life. He layers Laguz and Beorc together, anchoring them with Ansuz. He pours magic into the scent— charred meat, old blood, singed hair.

He rolls away as the last rune sparks.

His dragon lunges forward— massive, snarling, horrifying. The Horntail roars in response.
A few feet away, the 'bug' illusion— smaller, twitchier, but reeking of Harry— cowers convincingly.
It works. The Horntail sees a threat and a nuisance. Neither are the boy it’s supposed to kill.

Harry runs.

He sprints for the nest, slipping across scorched rocks, dodging bursts of flame. A tail crashes into the ground not ten feet behind him. Shards of rock scrape across his cheek.

He reaches the nest, breath ragged, hands bloody from carving. He takes exactly two seconds to breathe.

Then he grabs the golden egg and bolts.

The Horntail roars behind him, flames chasing after the beast illusion as it snaps at her wings. Harry pumps more magic into it—he feels it flicker and snarls under his breath, shoving power into the runes like a lifeline.

Embers rain down. Heat scorches his back.

He ducks and rolls again, dragging the egg tight to his chest.

Finally, he reaches the edge of the enclosure. The crowd is screaming in awe and panic, cheering like maniacs. The moment Harry crosses the line, the illusions fizzle out.

The Horntail, confused and furious, throws her head back and roars.

The crowd bursts into applause and Harry feels anger bubble under his skin. These stupid, stupid people think this is safe entertainment.

If someone gets flayed, maybe their views will change.

McGonagall greets him once he’s outside. “That was an ingenious method, Mr. Potter. I believe you should get checked over by Madame Pomfrey before you receive your scores.”

“Thank you professor,” Harry says, tired. “I’m quite alright to receive my scores. If I have the need to see a healer, I will do so later.

“Harry!” Abby slams into his side, pulling him into a hug. Tris runs over too, hugging his leg from the other side.

“I thought you would already be on the dragon’s back, by the time I come out. Turns out, you do have common sense!” Harry ruffles their hair delightedly.

“Don’t sound so disappointed! But – oh my gosh! You were brilliant! I think they should let you have those thousand galleons already,” Abby gushes excitedly.

Tris nods like a wise old saint – of which he is neither. “Then you can buy me lots of chocolate. And some smart chocolate for Abby – she needs it.”

Harry snorts. “Menace.”

“Oh! Oh! They’re awarding your marks!” Abby jumps, hanging onto his sleeve.

“I can see it too, Abigail.” Harry smiles, amused.

She flips him off and goes back to bouncing.

Madame Maxime gives him a nine.

Abby gasps in outrage. “You deserve a ten!”

Crouch shoots out a ten.

“I won’t eat this one, he’s nice.” Tris smiles widely.

Dumbledore puts up a nine.

“Ugh, freaking old people.” Abby crosses her arms, indignant. Tris agrees with a serious little ‘hmph’.

Bagman gives a ten. The two demons explode into cheers.

Karkaroff grimaces and gives him a six.

“Da! You got first place! Yes!” Tris grins triumphantly like he’s the one who got the score.

“You calculated that too quickly,” Abby eyes him. “Spending time with Leo, are we?”

She picks him up as he beams. The golden egg glints under Harry’s arm. The dragon behind them roars one last time.

The library is nearly deserted. Just a few stragglers at scattered tables, and the occasional rustle of parchment or quiet cough from Madam Pince’s corner. The fire in the hearth crackles low and warm. Between the flickering shadows and the weight of half a dozen books, it almost feels private.

Harry doesn’t look up from his notes. He is halfway through charting scent-carrying runes and wondering if binding Laguz to Beorc again would screw up the strength of the projection. That is one new breakthrough from the task’s madness.

Across from him, Krum sits unnervingly still. He has a book in front of him— ‘Voices: Present and Beyond’— but his eyes aren’t on the pages.

Harry speaks without glancing up. “You keep staring like you're waiting for me to burst into flames.”

Krum tilts his head, slow and deliberate. “Only a little. You look like the type who’d make it dramatic.”

That earns a twitch of Harry’s mouth. Not a smile— he isn’t in the mood for smiling— but close enough.

“And what? You’d take notes while I screamed?”

Krum leans back in his chair, arms crossed. His expression doesn’t change. “Screaming is inefficient. If you combust, I vill just gather your ashes and feed them to the dragon. Save time.”

Harry looks up, properly this time. “That’s a dark one.”

“Efficient one,” Krum corrects, then gives a twitch of his lips that is maybe a smile— or maybe a muscle spasm caused by prolonged exposure to sarcasm. “Also, poetic. You die by dragon, you become dragon food. Very circle-of-life.”

Harry snorts, half in disbelief, half in amusement. “You’re weird.”

“You are the one who made a Horntail hallucinate its own predator,” Krum says, blunt and amused. “You are not allowed to call others weird.”

Harry exhales, letting his fingers drum lightly on the wood. “You’re still watching me.”

“Yes. You are interesting. Dangerous things usually are.”

“Aww. You think I’m dangerous?”

“You think you’re not?” Krum raises an eyebrow, flipping a page in his book with one calloused hand. “You used layered rune illusions. Visible, scented, and sentient enough to make it look back at the Horntail. You controlled it like you had it on a leash. Not many adult wizards could pull that off. Certainly not… a schoolboy.”

Harry is silent for a beat. Then, coolly, he says, “I’m not a schoolboy.”

“Da. That is vhy I am here.”

The two sit in silence for a moment, the weight of unsaid things pressing between them. A page turns. A quill scratches.

Krum speaks again, more thoughtful this time. “I vould like to study your runework. To see how it breathes. How it survives the strain.”

“You want to dissect my magic.”

“Only a little.” A pause. Then, more dryly: “I promise not to sell your blood to Durmstrang. Unless it turns out flammable. Then I make no promises.”

Harry grins, sudden and real. “You're fucked up. I like it.”

“Thank you, I suppose,” he says mildly, as if ‘fucked up’ were the highest compliment. Then adds in a deadpan, “I am also villing to buy you dinner. For scientific purposes.”

Harry gives a soft laugh, leaning back. “You’re serious.”

“Only about the dinner.” Krum pauses. “The blood thing is just… traditional.”

Harry looks at him for a moment— measured, cautious— and then reaches for his book again. “You’re not as bad as I thought.”

“And you are worse than I hoped,” Krum mutters with a mock sigh. Then, quieter, more sincere he says, “But I think I like you better for it. It is amusing.”

Their eyes meet— wary, understanding, but light with humor.

Then they both go back to reading.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall calls as he’s leaving the Great Hall. “I’d like a word. If you’d accompany me to my office?”

“Of course, Professor.” Harry does not like how half of the students listening in giggle.

They reach the office and McGonagall gestures for him to sit down.

“Have a biscuit, Mr. Potter,” she shifts a tartan tin of cookies lying on top of one of the piles of papers on her desk towards him.

“I – excuse me?” The conversation takes a sharp left turn, and Harry blinks, thrown.

“Have a biscuit,” she repeats patiently.

“O...kay?” Harry picks up a Ginger Newt from the tin and nibbles on it. He half-expects it to be poisoned. Or cursed. Or turn him into a tap-dancing ferret.

“The Yule Ball is approaching - a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign guests. Dress robes will be worn and the ball will start at eight o'clock on Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great Hall,” McGonagall tells him.

“And? Enjoy, I suppose. What does this have to do with me?” Harry asks, dread sinking in as he realizes where this is going.

“Potter, the champions and their partners -"

"What partners?" Harry wants to pull his hair.

"Your partners for the Yule Ball, Potter," she explains slowly as if he were two. Harry wishes he were two. "Your dance partners."

Harry chokes on the biscuit.

"I don't dance," he tries. Harry mourns for the edginess of the Maw. This place is not for him.

"Oh yes, you do," says Professor McGonagall irritably. "That's what I'm telling you. Traditionally, the champions and their partners open the ball."

“Screw the Ball! I’m already risking death out there — what more do you people want? Blood? A floor show?! I’m not going to play along if you people try to make me do this nonsense,” Harry threatens, his anger winning out.

He can’t even blame his temper on the full moon. It’s a fortnight away.

“Potter, the Yule Ball is also a part of the Tournament,” McGonagall says, frustrated.

“You know what –”

There is a knock at the door and the door flies open.

Abby steps in and smiles. “Luna said you would be here.”

“I’ll be out in a second, Abby. Wait outside.” Harry nods towards the door.

“I heard something about a ball.” Abby raises an eyebrow.

“Yes. There is a Yule Ball being held, and you and Tristan may attend if Mr. Potter agrees.” McGonagall’s playing dirty now and Harry knows he’ll lose.

“Harry will come,” Abby agrees for him.

“No, I won’t! Abby, you can’t say yes in my stead!” Harry gives into the urge and tugs at his hair.

“Harry. Will. Come,” Abby glares at him.

He gives in.

“Harry will come.”

“With a dance partner,” McGonagall adds.

Harry opens his mouth to protest. Abby glares harder.

“With a partner,” Harry sighs.

He mutters a ‘bye’ to McGonagall and gets up.

Harry grabs her ear like a handle. Abby lets him, far too pleased with herself. McGonagall hides a smile behind her hand as the door swings shut.

Harry finds Maddie perched on an overturned crate, sharpening a blade for no reason other than habit. The shadows dance across her face in flickers from the low lanterns hanging above. She doesn’t look up when he approaches.

“Maddieee! Maddieee,” Harry smiles winningly at her.

“What is it?”

“Remember that denim jeans you wanted? I’ll get it for you.”

“For what price?” Maddie gives him an unimpressed look.

“What do you mean what price? The price they’re selling it on, silly,” Harry laughs nervously.

“You must be desperate, to get me those jeans.”

“I need a partner for the Yule Ball Abby made me agree to. Dance with me. Look good. Don’t kill anyone unless it’s funny.”

Maddie snorts and shakes her head. “Not a chance in hell. You’re not dragging me into Hogwarts society’s dating circus.”

“It’s not a date,” he grumbles. “It’s social camouflage. You’re scary enough to keep people away.”

“You’re charming,” she says dryly. “But no.”

“Please?”

“Ask Art.”

Harry frowns. “Why would I — wait. What did he do?”

“Convinced Abby that it would be funny to see you trip in dress robes. Said, and I quote, ‘come on Abby, don’t you wanna see that fucker faceplant?’ Funny how quickly she agreed,” Maddie smirked.

“I’m going to strangle that shithead.”

Art is sprawled on a half-deflated mattress when Harry finds him. Surrounded by a circle of salt, old potion bottles, and a singed pillow that might’ve once been white. He’s holding a small but thick book. The kind that probably whispers back.

He looks up and immediately goes, “Whatever Maddie said, she’s lying.”

“She told me you are the one I have to punch for having to go to a fucking Ball,” Harry deadpans.

Art visibly winces. “Okay. Mostly lying.”

Harry growls.

Art goes back to his book. “You’re breathing. You’ll live.”

Harry points a finger at him. “Ball. Partner. You.”

“Absolutely not,” Art says, making a face like Harry just declared them engaged.

“You don’t have a choice.”

Art closes the book with a sigh. “Xan’s prettier.”

“Xan would also try to seduce the entire crowd mid-waltz, set the curtains on fire for fun, and leave with the headmaster’s wallet.”

“…He would,” Art mutters begrudgingly.

“You,” Harry says, pointing, “would look vaguely murderous the entire time and probably punch someone for stepping on my robes. That's way more amusing.”

Art groans and buries his face in the book. “I hate you.”

“I know. Tux or robes?”

Xan materializes from the shadows like the drama incarnate he is, shirt unbuttoned too low, eyes glowing faintly from the candlelight.

“You asked Art and not me?” he says, scandalized. “After everything we’ve been through?”

“We’ve been through you setting a dueling tent on fire because someone said your fake wings looked fake,” Harry replies flatly.

“They said the wings didn’t shimmer right, Harry! It was an insult.”

Art sighs. “Childish.”

Xan pouts. “I would’ve made you look unforgettable.”

“I’m trying to survive the night, not trend in the Prophet for emotional terrorism.”

“Enjoy your forgettable night, you ungrateful little swamp rat.”

The bell tinkles as they step inside, and Harry swears the air immediately smells like old perfume, silk, and judgment. He doesn't know if it's the fabric or the clientele. Probably both.

Art looks like he wants to turn around and sprint back to Knockturn.

“This is hell,” Art announces, arms crossed and eyes narrowed at the racks of glittering dress robes. “This is what hell looks like. Shiny. Frilly. And expensive.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you sabotaged me,” Harry replies, already tugging him deeper into the store.

“I was joking! JOKING! It wasn’t meant to work!”

Harry stops in front of a display mannequin draped in deep green velvet. “Mm. This one. You’d look halfway tolerable in this.”

Art glares at it like it insulted his bloodline. “I have burgundy hair. It makes me look like a Christmas tree.”

“You are half fae. It’s festive.”

Art huffs. “If I have to wear this, I’d murder you. We’re at least going dark blue. Or black. Something respectable.”

Harry points at a navy robe with silver trim. “That one?”

Art shrugs. “Still looks like a tablecloth but less like it would bite someone.”

Madame Malkin appears like an apparition, taking measurements before they can escape. She’s humming cheerfully while wrapping a measuring tape around Harry’s shoulders, then poking Art’s wrist flat with a pin.

“You’re twitchy,” she scolds.

“I’m full of resentment,” Art deadpans.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m paying. You don't get to be picky and grumpy.”

“You have an awfully lot of time for someone in a deadly tournament.”

“You will wear the robes, smile once, and not stab anyone unless they insult my dancing. That’s the deal.”

Art glares. “If someone calls you cute, I’m setting their robes on fire.”

Harry grins. “See? Now you’re getting into the spirit of it.”

The Maw kitchen smells like stew and bad decisions. Leo is sorting bets on the counter. Abby’s in a cupboard. Kelly’s making something that’s definitely not what it’s supposed to be. And Xan is perched dramatically on top of the icebox, legs swinging, sipping tea like a Regency widow.

Art is stiff as a board in the middle of the room, scowling as Harry tries to wrangle his hands into proper position.

“This is stupid,” Art grumbles. “This is beyond stupid. This is criminal.”

“You agreed to come. You will dance,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “Stop holding my hand like it’s diseased. It’s a waltz, not a hostage situation.”

“You are holding me hostage,” Art snaps.

“I will step on your toes out of pure spite if you don’t cooperate.”

“You’re already stepping on them! What do you call this, medieval torture?”

Xan sips loudly from his mug. “It’s not torture, darling. It’s character development.”

“Shut up, incubus,” Art snarls, trying to pivot. He spins the wrong way and elbows Harry in the ribs.

“Ow—Art!”

“Maybe if you led better—”

“I am leading!”

“Can I stab him?” Art growls. “Just once?”

“You stab me, and I make you wear ruffles.”

Xan cackles. “Please put him in ruffles. Pale lilac. With sparkles.”

“I will end you,” Art says without even looking at him.

“Your threats mean nothing to me,” Xan drawls. “I once seduced a banshee while she was screaming.”

Harry slaps Art’s shoulder. “Focus! It’s just a box step. One-two-three, one-two—OW THAT WAS MY FUCKING FOOT AGAIN, YOU OBSOLETE—”

“I’m not built for this,” Art huffs. “I’m built for murder. And theft. Maybe casual arson.”

“You’re built like a brooding YA love interest and you’re going to dance like one,” Harry insists.

Xan raises a brow. “Brooding? So we’ve moved from enemies to lovers already?”

“I swear—” both Harry and Art snap at once.

Abby peeks out from a cupboard. “You two look like you’re in the middle of a very tense divorce.”

Harry sighs. “That’s the aesthetic, Abby.”

Art scowls. “If anyone dips me at the Ball, I bite.”

Chapter Text

“Potter, it’s almost time! Where’s your dance partner?” McGonagall asks him, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“He’s probably at the Hogwarts’ gates. Didn’t exactly know anyone from here well enough to ask them,” Harry shrugs, the heavy robes weighing down on his shoulders.

“Couldn’t you have told me sooner?!” McGonagall looks upwards, as if praying to deities for patience.

Harry smiles at her cheerfully as she glares at him. McGonagall leaves – probably to fetch Art – with a last glare aimed in his direction.

Harry waves at her enthusiastically.

Students are staring at him and whispering. He’s tempted to give them something real to gossip about.

No, Harry. Bad Harry. Think of what Olly would say.

Abby and Tris scream like the little hooligans they are.

Krum shows up with a pretty brunette on his arm. Harry thinks she’s a Gryffindor. Cedric’s with his girlfriend – at least Harry thinks she is. Fleur is with a boy who looks like he can’t believe that Fleur would want to go with him. Harry can’t either.

McGonagall finally arrives with Art strutting in behind her. She looks like she regrets making Harry attend this disaster.

Art doesn’t look half bad in the midnight blue three-piece suit, complete with a vest, high-waisted trousers, and a matching ascot tucked into the sharp-collared shirt. The fabric has a subtle sheen and detailed patterning, giving it the ‘rich’ texture.

Harry thinks the overcoat is a bit too much with its contrasting white to the blue and dramatic sweeping tail. There is intricate silver embroidery along the lapels and inner lining, with the inside hem being decorated with the dark floral patterns.

Art is definitely enjoying being dramatic and sharp. He doesn’t look like he guards an underground fighting club. Then again, Harry doesn’t look like the Maw’s in house fighter either.

When Art gives him the most dramatic bow possible and offers his hand, Harry takes it but raises an eyebrow. “You’re standing like a snake crawled up your arse and died.”

“The shirt’s a little short on the shoulders, you brat.” Art tries to crush his hand in retaliation.

Before Harry can reply, the doors to the Great Hall open and everyone is ushered in.

“This is such a castle,” Art mutters, something bitter in his tone.

“Art, this isn’t the time to spiral,” Harry warns. He can almost feel Art tumbling down the dark space that is his thoughts.

Abby and Tris throw them a thumbs up and Harry smiles at them. He knows it’s a little more than strained.

The Great Hall has been transfigured into a winter wonderland— and Harry hates it. The fake snow keeps falling from the ceiling like dandruff with a god complex, and the walls are glittering so much that he half expects someone to summon Mariah Carey. Everything sparkles. It’s deeply offensive.

“This is ugly,” Art mutters, squinting at an ice sculpture shaped like a swan that’s vomiting glitter.

“It’s tasteful,” Harry says, “if your taste is brain damage.”

They’re already the most stared-at pair in the hall. Harry can hear the whispers like mosquitoes in his ear. Who is that with Potter? I think he might be the Potter’s been with, when he skipped Hogwarts!

Art just stares straight ahead like he’s imagining ways to commit murder with a soup spoon.

Then the music starts. A waltz. Obviously.

Harry lets out a long-suffering sigh that might qualify as spiritual. “We don’t have to do this.”

“We do,” Art says grimly. “The woman who brought me in might strangle us both.”

“And yet you still wore an overcoat that says ‘dramatized historical trauma’.”

“You selected these, you hypocrite.”

“They’re comfortable. And pretty.”

“They say ‘murderer chic.’”

“Not inaccurate.”

Art rolls his eyes and holds out his hand with all the enthusiasm of a man reaching into a fire. “Let’s get this humiliation over with.”

Harry takes it. “Don’t step on my foot.”

“You invited me to this,” Art hisses as they start moving. “This is on you.”

“I panicked.”

“You threatened me.”

“Same thing.”

It takes approximately ten seconds for Harry to regret his entire existence. Art dances like he fights: aggressive, elegant, and mildly terrifying. Meanwhile, Harry’s just trying to count in his head and not walk into anyone. They spin. Harry almost eats it on a turn and gets yanked back into position by a gloved hand and a muttered “You idiot”. He grins up at the older boy cheekily.

Somewhere near the edge of the dance floor, he spots Abby and Tris miming exaggerated curtsies and bows at them. Tris trips mid-mime, takes out a plate of canapés, and cheerfully pops one in his mouth as if that was the plan all along. Abby beams and flips Harry off with both hands. He pretends not to see it.

“Why is everyone staring?” Art mutters.

“We’re gay and pretty,” Harry says.

“Speak for yourself.”

“Don’t be modest, darling.”

Art spins him in retaliation, just hard enough to make Harry stagger.

“I will murder you,” Harry hisses.

“Not in front of the children.”

As the music swells to a final crescendo, Harry missteps—only slightly—but Art adjusts with the kind of silent, resigned grace that says: this is my life now, and I made this bed by saying yes to a gremlin in human form.

The music ends. People clap. Harry bows. Art does not.

“I need alcohol,” Art mutters under his breath.

Harry grins. “You need therapy.”

Art glares. “You first.”

They leave the floor to the sound of polite applause and the burning gaze of every student within fifty feet. Somewhere behind him, Harry hears someone whisper, “Did you see that? I didn’t think he could dance.”

Yes. And tomorrow, pigs will fly. But tonight, Harry Potter survived the Yule Ball.

As if hearing his very thoughts, Abby tells him happily, “That was just one dance. There’s still a few hours to go.”

Someone bumps into Art and Art almost makes Harry fall over.

“Watch it.” Art mutters, not as irritated as he should be.

“Aw! Does Arden have a crush?” Abby coos at Art teasingly.

“Abby... he literally just saw that person. What do you even –” Harry huffs exasperatedly.

“I don’t even like blonds,” Art protests.

Krum comes and sits on empty seat next to them. His date follows.

“You almost don’t look as feral as usual in dress robes,” he comments.

Harry puts a hand on his forehead and swoons, “Oh! I feel so glad you think so!”

“You’re Harry Potter, right? I’m Hermione Granger,” Krum’s date extends a hand towards him.

Harry shakes her hand and casually asks, “Say Hermione, you wouldn’t happen to know that guy’s name, would you?”

He gestures to the guy who bumped into Art earlier.

Art groans and hides his face in his hands. Tris cheers and Abby grins victoriously.

Krum looks highly amused.

“Oh, him,” Hermione frowns. “That’s Draco Malfoy. He’s a Slytherin and as rude as they get.”

Harry’s about to make another jibe at Art about ‘how perfect’ they are for each other when Art beats him to it.

“Oh, Harry, are you trying to get rid of your Art so soon,” Art bats his eyelashes at him and leans forward.

“Oh no, my heart,” Harry says, holding his hand, “I could never.”

They look at each other a moment longer, and then burst out laughing at the sheer absurdity.

“Disgusting,” Abby declares, wrinkling her nose as she watches the two of them cackle.

“Are you two together?” Hermione asks, sounding like she’s trying very hard to make it a casual question and failing spectacularly.

Art raises an eyebrow. “Merlin, no.”

Harry says at the exact same time, “Worse. We’re friends.”

“Tragic, really,” Art adds.

“Painful,” Harry agrees solemnly.

Tris, currently seated with his legs swinging off the chair and half a pastry in his mouth, gives a thoughtful nod. “They’re like those old people who bicker all the time but still eat dinner together every night.”

“I will sell you,” Harry says to him.

“You say that, but I run the betting table,” Tris replies smugly.

Hermione stares between them, slightly lost, and probably hoping that the ‘betting table’ bit is a joke. Krum looks entertained beyond belief. “Do you always travel with this many children?”

Harry shrugs. “Just the loud ones.”

Art snorts. “The quiet ones unionized and left.”

That gets a bark of laughter out of Krum. Hermione, finally recovering, adds dryly, “You know, I expected the Yule Ball to be a little more… elegant.”

Harry looks around at the room full of overdressed teenagers pretending not to sweat through velvet and lace, and says seriously, “We’re doing our best.”

Suddenly, the music changes.

Abby gasps. “It’s the waltz again! You can’t sit now, you just started.”

Art groans. “I already did my legally mandated dance.”

“You will get back up and waltz, you traitor,” Abby says, grabbing his sleeve.

Harry, exhausted already, raises his hand. “I volunteer as tribute.”

“No,” Art says quickly, shoving Harry’s hand back down. “Absolutely not. You’ll step on my foot.”

“I only did that once. Besides, I was talking to the Baby Boss.”

“You spun the wrong way,” Art accuses.

(“What the hell did you just call me?” Abby shrieks.)

“Who starts with their left?!”

“It’s literally in the instructions.”

They bicker all the way back to the dance floor. Abby looks like she’s watching her favorite soap opera. Tris already has a handful of sickles in hand, whispering bets into someone’s ear.

Back on the floor, Harry sighs. “Let’s just try not to fall on national wizarding radio.”

Art grins, wicked. “No promises.”

And they dance. Worse than before. Somehow even more out of sync, more chaotic, more them. And people are staring, giving them a wide berth. But they’re laughing, and the world is ridiculous, and Harry thinks… he doesn’t actually mind being terrible at this.

He’ll still blame Art, though.

Harry prodded the package cautiously. He wasn’t likely to get Yule gifts from anyone. So where did this come from?

He sent out a slow lazy wave of magic. Slow enough to be called leisurely but alert enough to react on the first sign of danger.

There wasn’t much change, except for the fact that his magic grew excited (and wasn’t that new) near the package.

He opened the gift carefully, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

It was a cloak. A shiny, silvery Invisibility Cloak.

There was a note with it too –

“Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well.

A Very Merry Christmas to you.”

The handwriting was loopy and definitely posh enough to be of someone of high status.

The cloak turning up with an unsigned note was also a red flag. He wasn’t throwing the thing away – these were rare – but he wouldn’t be using it anytime soon either.

“Oh fucking hell, Tristan Moon! Get back right here or I swear you won’t have hands left to flip me off again,” Harry screams as he runs after Tris.

“Get him Hew – Harry!” Abby cheers, eating popcorn.

“Shut up, you Shriekzilla! I know where he learnt that from,” Harry hisses.

Tris picks up the Golden Egg and holds it over the bathtub as he catches his breath. “Don’t come near me or I’ll kill your Egg.”

Harry gives Tris his most unimpressed look and draws his wand. “It’s not my Egg.”

He levitates Tris upside down, and the kid drops the Egg accidentally in surprise.

“If it gets ruined and I have to head to the next task with no idea what to do, you drown,” Harry threatens half heartedly.

Tris simply giggles.

Harry looks into the bathtub to retrieve the Egg but pauses. The Egg is... open. And it’s not wailing. It’s singing instead.

He blinks once slowly.

Stupid people with stupid ideas. He wishes he could snap the neck of the person who came up with this.

Tris is still floating in the air, albeit his legs are not over his head now. He takes a deep breath and dunks his head underwater.

"Come seek us where our voices sound,

We cannot sing above the ground,

And while you’re searching, ponder this:

We’ve taken what you'll sorely miss,

An hour long you'll have to look,

And to recover what we took,

But past an hour- the prospect's black,

Too late, it's gone, it won’t come back."

Tris had stopped giggling when Harry reemerged from the water.

“Da?” Tris frowned at him.

“It’s nothing, Tris.”

The Black Lake. That’s where the task would be. And this was definitely a mermaid, so there was going to be a colony of merpeople involved.

Bugger. The task was going to be difficult. He was supposed to stay in water for an hour. In February. And these people were going to take something of his to put in the lake.

Abby, now fully invested, leans over the edge of the bathtub and peers inside. “It sings?”

Harry pulls himself upright, flicking water from his hair. “Yup. Apparently the Egg’s a musical theatre major.”

“That’s so dumb,” Tris mutters, now kicking around in mid air just enough to spin slowly like a lazy ceiling fan.

“You’re dumb,” Harry mutters back, too tired to be original.

“Do you know what they’re taking?” Abby asks softly. For once, she’s not teasing.

Harry doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know. But he has a bad feeling about it.

He forces a grin. “Probably my will to live.”

Tris snorts. Abby doesn't laugh. She's still watching him, frowning a little.

“You okay?” she asks, because she knows when he’s lying.

“Course,” he lies, so easily it could be breathing. “Hey Tris, if you ever touch that Egg again, I’m giving you to the mermaids. They probably need a bratty little goblin for entertainment.”

“I hope they like fart jokes,” Tris replies proudly.

Harry ruffles his hair. “They’ll eat you alive.”

Tris beams.

Abby smirks. “You know… if the next task is in the Black Lake, you’ll need Gillyweed or a Bubble-Head Charm or something, right?”

“Probably.”

“You do realize that means letting someone else know what the clue is?”

Harry sighs. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“And you’re going to tell Dumbledore?”

Harry gives her a look like she just insulted his intelligence. “No, I’m going to steal it from Snape’s storeroom and then charm it myself.”

“Ha – ha. It isn’t funny.” Abby throws a piece of popcorn at him.

Harry waves off her concern. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll look for runes which can help.”

“Professor McGonagall,” Harry says stiffly. “Where’s Abby?”

“Mr. Potter, how am I supposed to know that?” McGonagall retorts, but there’s tension in her shoulders.

“Last I saw her, she was going to see you,” Harry clenches his jaw in anger.

“Mr. Potter, it’s quite late and you have the task tomorrow. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“I’m not going to sleep ‘til I find her and neither are you. I’ll tear this place apart if I have to, unless you tell me where my Abby is.”

“Mr. Potter-“

Harry ignores McGonagall and continues looking.

Tris is asleep in Harry’s bed and knows better than to go wandering even if he does wake up.

He’s in panic mode now. Abby knows better than to disappear for so long in an unfamiliar place. And he has a bad feeling that this has something to do with the second task.

He spends the night looking through every nook and cranny of Hogwarts for Abby. Whoever is on patrol doesn’t really stop him. Maybe it’s the anger and desperation on his face or he has accidentally turned invisible. Who knows.

He goes back to his room in the morning. Tris needs to be looked after too.

Kelly would know exactly what to do, Harry thinks miserably.

He’s sitting with Tris as the kid quickly eats his meal. Tris wants to look for Abby too.

The rumour mill is doing what it does best.

“That little Abby kid disappeared yesterday.”

“I think someone may have abducted her to make Potter lose focus.”

“Maybe she ran away.”

Harry considers looking in the Forbidden Forest.

Then, the fucking judges show up.

“All of you know what the task is, right?” Harry hears Bagman say.

“Under the lake, we have placed some very important... ones of yours, and you have to-”

No one really knows what the Champions were to do next because Harry punches Bagman as soon as it sinks in.

The three headmasters and Crouch’s substitute step forward as if to intervene.

Abby’s been in the Black lake in freezing temperatures for a whole night.

Harry sees red.

“You absolutely abhorrent and disgusting excuses of humans put a nine year old girl who doesn’t know how to swim under water in the middle of fucking February in a lake filled with all kinds of creatures without permission from her guardian because Olly sure as hell would’ve murdered y’all for even thinking it.”

Harry almost punches the twinkle out of Dumbledore’s eyes.

Dumbledore steps forward, his expression tight and grave. “Harry—”

“Don’t,” Harry snarls, his magic cracking in the air around him. “Don’t give me some poetic line about sacrifice or bravery. She’s nine, you absolute fossil. She doesn’t even know how to float.”

There’s a ripple of stunned silence across the crowd gathered. A few students gasp. Someone — maybe Fleur — is whispering furiously in French.

Bagman, rubbing his jaw and bleeding lightly, stammers, “We had... safeguards in place—”

“You mean the same way you have safeguards in the Forbidden Forest?” Harry snaps. “Or had during the dragon task? Forgive me if I don’t trust the people who decided the best way to teach teenagers resilience was to make them almost die on camera.”

Crouch’s Substitute opens his mouth, probably to deliver something self-righteous and bureaucratic, but Harry’s already walking away — toward the lake.

“I’m going in now,” he says flatly. “Don’t care if the task hasn’t started. You want a show? Fine. Watch me drag her out of your little deathtrap, and then I’m going to sue every last one of you for endangering a minor.”

“But Mr. Potter—”

“Try and stop me,” he says, not even looking back. “Please. I dare you.”

He throws off his cloak and tosses his wand to Tris, who’s sprinting after him with wide eyes and trembling fists. “If I’m not back in twenty minutes, go find Luna and ask her to write to Olly. Tell him everything.”

Tris nods without a word, clutching the wand to his chest like a lifeline.

Harry marches into the lake. Doesn’t even hesitate. He dives with a clean, practiced motion, and the crowd collectively gasps.

It’s muscle memory at this point. Forcing magic through his limbs to pull off maneuvers that shouldn’t be possible.

His magic spreads across his body like fire spreads through a forest. His movements get smoother and he swims faster. He can breathe relatively better than before.

It’s darker than he thought it would be. Even with magic warming his skin and letting him breathe, the cold is vicious. It gnaws at him like guilt. Like fear.

The deeper he goes, the more distorted everything becomes. Shapes ripple. Shadows stretch too long. His magic pulses harder in his chest — guiding him.

Come seek us where our voices sound.

Yeah. He’s coming, all right. And he’s going to raise hell when he gets there.

A flicker of movement to his right. He turns, fast. Just a school of fish. He swears.

Then a song — faint, warbled, drifting through the water like smoke.

He follows it. Of course he does.

And then— he sees her.

Abby.

Tied to a rock, a few feet above the lakebed. Eyes closed. Hair spread around her like ink in water. There are other hostages nearby — Fleur’s sister, Hermione Granger, and Cedric’s girlfriend — but Harry barely registers them.

All he sees is her. Still and pale and not laughing.

He swims faster, fury bubbling hotter in his chest. Merpeople hover nearby with sharp tridents and wary expressions. One starts to gesture something — probably a warning — but Harry doesn’t care.

He slashes his arm through the water and his magic surges. The ties snap. Not with finesse — he’s not in the mood for subtlety — but with raw, unfiltered force. A shockwave pulses outwards. The merfolk reel back in alarm.

Harry grabs Abby and cradles her close to his chest, checking — yes, she’s breathing. Barely.
He kisses her forehead and whispers into her hair, “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

Before he can leave, he feels Fleur’s sister floating. She’s the same age as Abby.

He pulls her towards him by her arm.

Then he turns toward the surface and kicks off with everything he has.

The lake above looks impossibly far. He pushes harder.

His lungs ache even through the magic. His muscles scream. His fury is the only thing keeping him going.

And then — bursting out of the water — he surfaces, gasping, Abby and Fleur’s sister held tightly in his arms.

The crowd erupts.

But Harry ignores all of them. He hauls himself onto the dock, laying the little girl on the grass, still cradling Abby, dripping and furious.

“They’re freezing,” he barks at Madam Pomfrey, who rushes forward with her wand already glowing. “Warm them up. Now.”

Bagman starts to approach, looking sheepish and vaguely horrified. “Mr. Potter—”

Harry growls. “Don’t. I’m soaked, pissed off, and one breath away from setting all of you on fire.”

He looks around. “Where’s Luna?”

Luna, as always, is already two steps ahead. She walks up calmly and says, “I’ve sent word to Olly.”

“Good,” Harry mutters, eyes back on Abby. She’s shivering now, which is good. Better than limp.

“Why would they ever let this happen?” he says, not really to Luna.

Luna shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Because for them, it’s a game.”

“It won’t be much longer.” Harry snarls.

The judges are whispering in a tight huddle, but it’s clear they’re rattled. Even Dumbledore, for once, doesn’t look composed.

The Champions are already doing their task.

Bagman tries again. “Harry, we—”

Harry stands slowly. His soaked clothes stick to him like second skin. Steam rises off his shoulders, like his magic’s trying to burn its way out. Abby is wrapped in a warming charm, breathing a little more steadily in Madam Pomfrey’s arms now.

“I warned you,” he says, voice low and trembling with fury. “You brought Abby into this. A nine-year-old. You knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore it. You knew I’d go in.”

“We followed tradition,” the Substitute offers, weakly. “No lasting harm—”

Harry laughs. Cold. Mirthless. He flicks his fingers, and sparks crackle in the air. “Lasting harm? She could’ve drowned. She could’ve been eaten. Do you even know if she can swim?” He turns to the other judges, eyes glowing faintly now, voice rising. “And what if I hadn’t gotten to her in time? What if I’d been two minutes later?”

He snaps his fingers, and a line of fire arcs through the air — not wild, but controlled, like a lash — and hisses out as it hits the lake’s edge.

Karkaroff curses and flinches back. Maxime’s face tightens.

Dumbledore raises a hand, finally stepping forward. “Harry. That’s enough.”

“No,” Harry says flatly. “Not this time.”

And the silence that follows is thick. Because no one talks to Dumbledore like that. No one dares.

Then there’s a splash from the water.

Fleur stumbles onto the dock, wild-eyed and panting. She sees her sister lying beside Abby and sprints to her, falling to her knees.

“Gabrielle!”

The little girl stirs under Madam Pomfrey’s charm. Fleur breaks into sobs and gathers her close. She looks up at Harry, tears streaking her face, lips trembling. "Merci. Merci, mon dieu, thank you—"

Harry just nods once, jaw tight.

She stands, still shaking, and grips his hand. “You didn’t have to save her.”

“I did,” he says, like it’s obvious. “She’s a kid. You don’t leave kids behind.”

Fleur bows her head in shame. “I couldn’t have reached her. I—I got cornered.”

“It’s alright,” Harry says, glancing down at Abby. “I was going for mine. Yours was right next to her.”

Fleur wipes her tears and turns on the judges, venom in her tone now. “You used her. You used my sister.”

Maxime tries to placate her, but she’s already storming off, Gabrielle clutched tight in her arms.

Harry’s eyes settle back on the group of adults still trying to look dignified.

“I want Abby’s name off the Goblet,” he snarls. “Right now. No more tasks. No more tricks. And if any of you go near her again—”

He opens his mouth, and a flicker of fire dances on his tongue like a warning. Like a dragon testing the wind.

“—I’ll show you what I really can do. I assure you, it’s better than mere illusions.”

Bagman stumbles backward. Karkaroff curses again under his breath. Even Dumbledore looks grim.

“And don’t you dare try to spin this to the press,” Harry finishes. “Because I swear on everything I have, I won’t even leave bones behind.”

He walks past them without waiting for a reply, scooping Abby gently from Pomfrey’s arms.

“Come on, Tris,” he calls over his shoulder. “We’re done here.”

And Hogwarts — the lake, the crowd, the games — all fall away behind him like something dead and rotting.

Chapter Text

SECOND TRIWIZARD TASK OR SECOND-RATE FARCE?

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

In what was meant to be a display of international magical unity and youthful courage, the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament instead descended into chaos, violence, and— most scandalous of all— a bare-knuckled assault by none other than Harry Potter , the mysterious Boy Who Lived.

The details of the task were kept confidential, as is tradition, but what could not be hidden were the screams and the sickening crack as a Ministry official hit the ground.

According to eyewitnesses, Mr. Potter arrived late, unkempt, and alone. After a few tense words with officials, he allegedly punched Ludo Bagman, former Quidditch star and current Department Head, square in the jaw. Witnesses claim Potter looked “wild-eyed” and “like he hadn’t slept in weeks.”

Bagman was seen clutching his face while shouting, “He’s mad! Completely off his rocker!”

Despite publicly refusing to participate in the Second Task, Potter dove into the Black Lake moments later— without consent or proper briefing. He emerged over an hour later, dragging two shivering children from the depths. The children, one Abigail , and one Gabrielle Delacour, are reported to be “in good health but oddly silent.”

The Ministry insists all champions’ loved ones were under protective enchantments and not in any real danger. “The task was completely safe,” claims Percival Weasley , assistant to Bartemius Crouch Sr. “We had precautions in place.”

Other judges, including Igor Karkaroff and Ludo Bagman , agreed. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore and Headmistress Olympe Maxime declined to comment.

And what of Harry Potter himself? After retrieving the hostages, the Boy Who Lived stormed off without collecting his score, ignoring judges, press, and even his fellow champions. He has not been seen since.

With no photograph captured (sources claim magical interference), one must ask: Who is this boy, truly? The sweet-faced orphan of nursery tales, or a volatile young man harboring darker secrets?

I implore you, dear readers— when a boy punches a Ministry official and walks away like a storm across the grounds, can we still call him a hero? Or has time turned Harry Potter into something far more dangerous than a champion?

Harry blinked. Once. Twice. He wasn’t sure if he was more offended by the blatant lies or the sheer stupidity it took to print them. Was there nothing more interesting happening in the country that this garbage got the first page?

“The nargles seem really excited to see you. Are you in a bad mood?” Luna tilts her head to the side as if it would help her figure him out.

“They’re publishing trash about me. Obviously I’m worried.”

“I don’t think she’ll be publishing anything again. At least, not with her fingers.” Luna has a faraway look in her eyes.

He envies how easily she floats through the world, without caring about blithering idiots, that drags him down with every headline.

“Hey Potter!”

Harry turns, shoulders taut. The voice isn’t one he recognizes— and that makes his spine tighten.

“Hello,” is Harry’s dry response.

“You seem really familiar. And you’ve got them with you so—look, I just have to ask. If this is totally off or if I’m not making sense, you can go. No hard feelings. I totally get it.” The boy runs a hand through his hair, rocking on the balls of his feet.

He’s probably seventeen, and the yellow on his scarf gives away his house.

“What is it?” Harry has a feeling this conversation isn’t going to be pleasant.

“Hewn?” the boy whispers, like the name itself is cursed.

For a second, Harry forgets how to breathe.

How does he know? Harry took special care that the Maw’s Hewn and Harry Potter cannot be connected.

“I do not know what you mean,” he replies flatly.

The boy lets out a shaky laugh. “Right. My bad. Must be mistaken.”

He turns to walk—

Click. Harry’s wand presses between his shoulder blades.

“Why do you know that name?”

“I was there last summer,” the boy says quickly. “I needed money. Heard whispers. The little kid was sitting with Leo— I saw you in the ring.” The boy has his hands up in surrender.

Harry squints at the other, trying to rack his brain for the information. “You’re that Pat, aren’t you? The one who got lucky the first time and never came back?”

Leo had been very disappointed. Said, “That pretty boy had guts. And money. Shame he ran.”

“Err, yeah, that was probably me. My name’s actually Patrick.”

“You get one free pass,” Harry mutters. “Next time, I gut you like a salamander.” He shoves the wand harder into Pat’s spine.

“Roger that boss!” Pat does a quick two finger salute and runs away in a matter of seconds.

Maybe he should just stop playing nice. Maybe he should stop pretending.

Being Hewn was so much easier than being Harry. Hewn never had to smile. Hewn didn’t need to explain.

Kelly and Xan probably had a bet going—how long before someone figured it out?

Hogwarts was exhausting.

He missed his gremlins.

Harry’s had a shit day. The rumours gained momentum again today. The entire bloody spectacle happened in front of the students, and yet they’re content to indulge in useless gossip.

He rolls his neck till he hears a satisfying crack and turns the corner.

His bed was calling to him. His ridiculously large and comfortable bed. Harry could feel it.

There’s movement in his periphery and he turns.

Something is off. Not danger— just… wrong. The air doesn’t hum the way it usually does when things are going to hell. And he feels too light, too comfortable in his skin. Too... content?

That alone sets alarm bells ringing in his head.

“Imperio.” The voice is soft, barely loud enough to be heard.

Warmth floods Harry’s chest. The cool night air feels like a gentle kiss on his skin. The moon is gorgeous through the nearby window. He feels like skipping. Laughing. Maybe hugging whoever is behind him. What a kind man, dragging him out here for— what is it again?

Wait.

Harry’s expression twitches.

Wait a bloody second.

He stops walking.

Why is he smiling? Why does he feel safe? That isn’t normal. He hasn't felt safe since he was eight and even then it was only because the monster under the stairs respected his sleep schedule.

Harry turns back to look at the person who made him come out of the castle and onto the freezing grounds.

It’s a haggard man, face sunken and twitching, like he hasn’t slept since the Goblet was carved, standing with a wand raised and something too eager behind his eyes. He looks awfully like Crouch. Maybe a son? A brother?

Harry blinks up at the Other Crouch with the same look a cat gives you when it realizes the laser pointer is coming from your hand.

“Oh. Oh, you’re trying to Imperio me.”

Other Crouch’s wand doesn’t lower. “Keep walking, Potter.”

Harry tilts his head. “Nah, I think I’ll pass. This is weird. You’re weird. And honestly? I’m too tired for this.”

He stretches his arms over his head, back popping in a satisfying arc.

“You tried to Imperio me just to walk me out here? What’s next, ask me to roll up my sleeve and offer a vein like we’re on a date?”

Other Crouch tenses.

Harry narrows his eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Harry wants to think straight. He wants to decide what he’ll do to try and solve whatever this is. But he’s so tired.

And his awesome bed is waiting for him.

The Other Crouch snarls and lunges forward—hand outstretched, a glint of a blade hidden beneath his sleeve.

Harry flicks his wand lazily.

The knife clatters across the stones.

“Bad form,” Harry mutters. “Also? Kind of dramatic.”

He shakes his head in disappointment. “Don’t even know how to hold a knife. Who let you be a criminal?”

Harry knows he’ll regret this when he’s well rested. And that he was just making it more dangerous for himself. But that was future Harry’s problem.

Other Crouch is still frozen in place, as if trying to decide whether to attack again or melt into the cobblestones.

But Harry just yawns. “It’s late. I’ve had a long day. And if you wanted my blood, you could’ve just asked like a normal lunatic. I’m going to bed. Don’t follow me. I’ll tell... a responsible authority figure... in the morning. Or maybe I’ll just let future me deal with you.”

And with that, he pads back inside, muttering about idiots, curses, and how nothing good ever happened after midnight.

"Potter, the champions are congregating in the chamber off the Hall after breakfast," McGonagall says as he eats his breakfast.

Tris is trying to crawl onto the table. Harry is tempted to drown him in the pumpkin juice.

"But the task's not till tonight," he says instead, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I'm aware of that, Potter," she replies. "The champions' families are invited to watch the final task, you know. Since I could not invite yours, I owled Mr. Art instead.”

She moves away. Harry stares at her retreating back.

“Yay!” Abby cheers. “Arty is coming!”

Harry eyes her suspiciously. “You seem a little too calm about it, you menace. You told her to owl Art, didn’t you?”

Abby shrugs offhandedly but does not defend herself. It is damning enough.

Harry finishes his breakfast in the emptying Great Hall. He sees Fleur get up from the other end of the Ravenclaw table and join Cedric as he crosses to the side chamber and enters. Krum slouches off to join them shortly afterward.

Abby and Tris pull him towards the side chamber.

Harry doesn’t know what he’ll say to Art when they meet.

Harry doesn’t know a lot of things these days.

Cedric and his parents are just inside the door. Viktor Krum is over in a corner, conversing with his dark-haired mother and father in rapid Bulgarian. On the other side of the room, Fleur is jabbering away in French to her mother. Fleur's little sister, Gabrielle, is holding her mother's hand. She waves at Harry. Tris waves back enthusiastically in his stead.

Art is standing in a corner, aloof and haughty.

Harry wants to hug him.

It’s barely been a week since they saw each other but Harry has a head ache and he feels like things are going to escalate today.

He still can’t believe he was so sleep deprived that day that he let a fucking assassin walk away. Maybe he should try to sleep more often than once every couple days. (But it’s a habit at this point – working till he crashes)

Harry is still blinking at the families— whole ones, full ones, loud ones— when Abby lets go of his hand and bolts across the room.

He watches her throw herself at Art without hesitation, wrapping around his legs like ivy. Art doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look down right away, just rests a gloved hand gently on her head like she’s a stray cat he’s halfway to adopting.

Harry has the irrational urge to knock someone’s chair over. Maybe Cedric’s. Just for the symmetry of it.

“I see you’ve been causing chaos,” Art says mildly, voice smooth and precise like he’s never once had a crumb on his clothes or a gremlin throw up in his shoes.

Abby grins up at him. “Tris tried to jump in the pumpkin juice. Harry let him.”

Harry scowls. “I considered it. There’s a difference.”

Tris toddles forward and latches onto Art’s coat like a very damp, determined barnacle. Art glances down at him like he’s encountered a puzzling magical fungus that’s grown sentience and affection.

“You’re holding a child,” Harry says. Mostly just to say something. Partly to remind himself that he’s not hallucinating.

Art finally looks at him.

And Harry— who has been functioning on three hours of sleep and spite— freezes in place. There’s something in Art’s expression. Something small and sure and… gentle. Like Harry is not ridiculous for being alive. Like the sky didn’t just drop an assassin in his path two days ago. Like Harry makes sense.

Which is, frankly, infuriating.

Art’s expression doesn’t change. “You look like shit.”

Harry huffs. “Been working on that. Think I’ve perfected it. Next up: emotional unavailability and light property damage.”

It’s too hot in here. Or maybe Harry is just feeling too much all at once and his body doesn’t know which setting to stick with. There's too much warmth in his chest and too many strangers breathing in his air and Cedric’s mum just offered him a biscuit and why is everyone so normal about this?

He wants to scream. Or sit down. Or maybe just stand in a corner and hum until the maze swallows him whole.

“You’ve been sleeping?” Art asks, eyes sharp even in the quiet way he speaks.

Harry tilts his head, mocking. “Does three hours between skull splitting headaches count?”

Art hums like he’s marking that down in a file. His hand is still on Abby’s head.

Harry wants to say something mean and careless. Wants to deflect. But Art is here. And Abby is safe. And Tris is gnawing on Art’s jacket sleeve like a teething demon with no self-preservation instincts. The world is absurd.

“I missed you,” Harry says. Quietly. Because everything else feels like theatre, and this is the only honest line he’s got left. “All of you.”

Art’s mouth quirks—barely—but it’s real. “I know.”

Harry thinks he might explode.

Or worse: feel things.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! In first place, with eighty-five points – Mr. Cedric Diggory of Hogwarts School!" The cheers and applause send birds from the Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky.

"In second place, with eighty points – Mr. Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute!" More applause.

"In third place – Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy! And in fourth place – Mr. Harry Potter of Hogwarts School!" And even more applause.

The towering hedges cast black shadows across the path, and, whether because they are so tall and thick or because they have been enchanted, the sound of the surrounding crowd is silenced the moment he enters the maze. Harry feels almost as though he were underwater again. He pulls out his wand and mutters, "Lumos."

It’s one of the few spells he knows the incantation for.

Harry wonders if he can just blast his way forward.

He gathers his magic at the tip of his wand, pulling from inwards, with the intention of destruction. As he lets it out, Harry thinks he may have been hasty in this decision.

Harry dives out of the way as the magic goes ricocheting off the walls and blasts something with a bang!

The blast leaves scorch marks on the hedge behind him and sets something shrieking in the distance.

“Oops,” Harry mutters. “Maybe not the most subtle start.”

He pushes forward, wand held low but ready, his steps silent. The air is too still. He’s used to worse, but this calm has a weight to it.

The first thing that lunges at him is a Blast-ended Skrewt, massive and steaming, like some oversized piece of boiling armour. It rears back and spews sparks—

Harry lets it.

Then he points his wand at the ground beneath its feet and blows it up.

The skrewt flips backwards with an ungodly shriek. Harry doesn’t have the energy to look back.

“You didn’t even kill it,” something whispers from a hedge.

Harry ignores it like a pro.

The whispering stops.

Next is a boggart, which tries to slither out of the hedge like a mass of black smoke. It writhes into a shape— it tries to show him them, bloody and accusing.

Harry flattens it before it finishes transforming. A silent flick of his wand and a concentrated pulse of raw will—no incantation.

“Nice try,” he says coldly. “Try harder.”

The path twists. He marks his way by ripping branches as he walks. He burns sigils into the ground with his wand tip. He doesn’t trust the maze not to shift.

The mist hits next. Cold. Disorienting.

It seeps into his nose, his mouth, his ears. It turns him around, makes him think he’s walked this way before. He does the only thing he can think of.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Hard. Until the copper hits his tongue.

Pain clears the haze.

“Whoever made you hasn’t been chased by a werewolf at eight and it shows,” he mutters to the fog.

He walks through it.

He hears a scream. He doesn’t run toward it.

Instead, he runs toward the silence. He knows how real pain sounds.

He nearly gets impaled by a living hedge vine. It grabs his ankle and jerks him up like a fish.

He snarls and pulls a blade of raw magic into his palm— a trick he shouldn’t know, shouldn’t even be able to do— and slices it off. Hits the ground rolling.

Now he’s bleeding. Of course he’s bleeding.

“Wouldn’t be a normal day otherwise,” he mutters, wrapping his sleeve around his arm and moving on.

He finds Krum next. The boy’s eyes are glassy, and he’s cursing at something that isn’t there—probably imperiused. Harry curses him right back, low and fast, just enough to knock him into the hedge and get past.

“You’ll thank me later,” he says.

The sphinx is not crouching as if to spring, but pacing from side to side of the path, blocking his progress. Then she speaks, in a deep, hoarse voice. "You are very near your goal. The quickest way is past me."

"So ... so will you move?" he asks for the sake of it.

"No," she continues to pace. "Not unless you can answer my riddle. Answer on your first guess - I let you pass. Answer wrongly - I attack. Remain silent - I will let you walk away from me unscathed."

“Go on.”

"First think of the person who lives in disguise, who deals in secrets and tells naught but lies. Next, tell me what's always the last thing to mend, the middle of middle and end of the end? And finally give me the sound often heard during the search for a hard-to-find word. Now string them together, and answer me this, which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?"

“It doesn’t fit all the clues and I don’t know if it’s even a word but I don’t even mind at this point. My answer’s Politicker.” Harry rubs his eyes tiredly.

“Not what I wanted but right in quite a few aspects.” The sphinx moves away to let him through.

Cedric is already ahead, because of course he is.

Harry doesn’t catch up until the final junction.

The Cup glows gold-blue ahead, placed on a raised stone pedestal in the center of an open clearing.

Cedric bursts through the other side of the clearing just as Harry steps in.

They stare at each other.

Cedric begins to move but Harry’s mantra has always been to work smarter.

“Accio the golden cup I can see.”

He knows it must be protected against summoning of ‘the Triwizard cup’.

The cup sails right into his hands. The last thing Harry sees before vanishing is the disbelief in Cedric’s eyes.

Chapter Text

Harry lands in a dark and overgrown graveyard. The black outline of a small church is visible beyond a large yew tree to his right.

He feels the wrongness around him. The air buzzes with energy.

Harry shivers and goosebumps raise on his arms. He tries to Apparate away, but a ward snaps into place.

Harry swallows audibly, and raises his wand, ready to strike.

A thought occurs to him and he slits his finger, drawing on the ground.

He draws the inner ring in Elder Futhark – Algiz, Tiwaz, Ansuz and Naudhiz.

The middle ring, with Wulfila’s alphabet, forms a square – Ahsa, Naus, Jēr and Hagl – with Hagl as the central glyph.

And then he hears the sound of footsteps. His breath catches in his throat.

Harry quickens his pace – only the outer ring left.

Harry forms a compass with Os, Ac, Eoh and Daeg to ward against malicious intent.

The footsteps reach nearer. A jet of red shoots towards Harry which bounces back harmlessly against his ward.

He hasn’t had enough time to add thorns to the outer ring but the current ward isn’t bad either.

“Impressive work for someone who claims to have never been taught,” a voice drawls out, and a boy slides into view.

The boy cuts a sharp figure with soft black curls and dark brown eyes. Harry would feel charmed if the boy’s magic didn’t feel like a hurricane.

“Harry Potter... I have heard quite a lot about you. You exceed the rumours and yet, I feel disappointed,” the boy tsks. “I expected more from someone personally trained by Dumbledore. You’re awfully underwhelming.”

Harry can’t help but snort. “The first time I remember meeting that man is when the Goblet pulled me to Hogwarts during the Samhain feast.”

The boy stares at him with an indescribable look in his eyes.

“M- Master, the cauldron is ready,” a short man in a cloak whimpers near a grave.

“Come now, Harry Potter, step out of the ward’s protection and face your destiny. You were once saved by a fluke. It won't happen again,” the boy swears; a dark promise in his voice.

“First of all, I know what my name is – you don’t have to repeat it so often. Also, I am not an idiot; I’m pretty sure you're trying to off me right now,” Harry says dryly as he settles on the ground, cross legged.

He picks at the dirt beneath his nails with the tip of his wand like he has all the time in the world. "And second of all… 'face your destiny'? Really? Did you rehearse that line in front of a mirror? Was there a villainy seminar I missed?”

The boy’s eye twitches.

Harry grins and continues, “No, no, don’t look embarrassed, it was a solid six out of ten. Maybe an eight if you’d added thunder. Or a dramatic wind. You know,” he twirls his wand, “the whole evil-boyband aesthetic.”

The hurricane-magic boy doesn’t move, but the air around him tightens. “You’re deflecting.”

“Ding ding ding,” Harry says, clapping sarcastically. “And now we’re doing therapy in a graveyard. How poetic. Should I lie down and talk about my feelings next? Maybe cry into a rose bush?”

A second curse flies at him—faster this time. It cracks against the ward’s edge, hissing like oil in a pan. Harry feels the ward flickering.

He flinches slightly, but doesn’t lose the smirk. “Touchy,” he mutters, brushing imaginary dust off his knee. “Is that how you flirt? Because I’m flattered, really, but I usually prefer chocolates and flowers to attempted homicide.”

The short man near the grave lets out a shaky, nervous noise. The boy— clearly the leader— does not take his eyes off Harry. “You mock what you fear.”

“Oh, sure. I’m terrified. Practically pissing myself over here,” Harry says cheerfully. “But here’s the thing. I’m already in a graveyard, right? So what’s the worst that could happen? I die? Get buried five feet to the left of your mom’s favorite hydrangea?”

The boy snarls.

Harry finally stands, stretching lazily like a cat, then sighs, theatrically. “Look, if this is some kind of dramatic ritual murder party, I’ll need an actual invitation and possibly snacks. Kidnapping me through magical abduction is so passé.”

The boy steps forward, one foot slipping just across the outer edge of the ward’s reach.

His magic slams forward and throws Harry across the ground – right next to the grave of a Tom Riddle.

The cloaked guy is faster than he looks. The man holds Harry down and ties him to the grave with conjured ropes.

Harry blinks, trying to clear his vision.

The Triwizard cup is barely twenty feet away, if Harry can distract these two for a while, he can escape.

“Who even are you, huh? You don’t look much older than me,” he says casually to the boy who’s inspecting his runework.

“I would’ve thought Dumbledore told you everything... Clearly, I was wrong.” The boy steps into his peripheral region and smirks. “Well, Harry Potter, I can be magnanimous. Besides, you won't be leaving this place alive.”

He pulls his wand from his pocket and begins to trace it through the air, writing three shimmering words: TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE.

 Then he waves the wand once, and the letters of his name rearrange themselves: I AM LORD VOLDEMORT.

Harry gives him a blank look. “Is that stupid and cartoonishly evil anagram supposed to mean something?”

The boy – Riddle – gives him an incredulous look. “I am Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter, and I will do what I set out for thirteen years ago.”

“Stop repeating my name like a devout follower,” Harry snaps. “How am I supposed to know that you’re the megalomaniac who tried to kill a child with a curse instead of dropping him out of the window, when no one even bothers to say your name?”

Riddle stills.

For a second, Harry thinks he broke him. Xan would be unabashedly proud.

Then that furious and delicious magic thrums in the air again. The ropes around him tighten, biting into his skin. The little man by the cauldron scuttles back like a frightened crab, muttering apologies and readjusting the bundle of robes in his arms.

But Harry just grins through the sting.

Riddle takes a step closer, his lips thinning into something sharp. “You dare mock me?”

“Oh no,” Harry says, full of faux horror. “What will you do? Give me an edgy monologue? Pull out a snake and explain your childhood trauma?”

A jet of light slams into the dirt an inch from Harry’s head. It kicks up dust and rocks, but he doesn’t flinch— just coughs and gives Tom his most unimpressed look.

“Right,” Harry rasps, blinking through grit. “So that’s a yes to the monologue, then.”

Riddle’s wand twitches. “You are infuriating.”

“And you’re going through so much trouble to kill a teenager with anxiety and a punchable face. How does it feel to be the dark lord of overcompensation?”

“You—!” Riddle’s voice wavers with disbelief and rage. His magic lashes out again, this time cracking a headstone behind Harry with a bang.

Harry lets out a low whistle. “Wow. The poor rock. What’d it ever do to you?”

“Crucio.”

Pain blooms across every inch of his body, white-hot and screaming.

He doesn’t scream. Oh no, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did.

Harry laughs— short, high and more than a little hysterical. The ropes jerk as his muscles spasm, but he bites out through clenched teeth, “Now that’s foreplay. You could’ve started with dinner first, though.”

The curse stops. The silence afterward is worse.

Riddle steps back, looking genuinely unsettled now. Like he’s not sure whether Harry’s breaking or already broken.

Harry wheezes, blood in his mouth, and grins like a wolf. “You didn’t expect me to be fun, did you?”

“You’re insane.”

Harry chuckles lowly. “Nah, just well-practiced.”

The liquid in the cauldron seems to heat very fast. The surface begins not only to bubble, but to send out fiery sparks, as though it’s on fire. Steam thickens, blurring the outline of the man tending the fire.

The movements beneath the robes became agitated. And Harry hears a high, cold voice. "Hurry!"

Riddle turns back to the cauldron, muttering incantations in Parseltongue.

Harry breathes through the pain, lips twitching again.

“Hey, Voldy.”

Riddle pauses, annoyed.

Harry grins wider, eyes glassy.

“Your anagram sucks. ‘I am Lord Voldemort’ doesn’t even have the dramatic punch. If you rearranged it a little more, you could’ve been Immortal Drool Vader— which, frankly, is way more on brand.”

Riddle sends a wave of unrestrained magic towards Harry.

Harry covers his body with his own magic, chanting in his head – protect me, I need your protection.

The magic destroys the ropes on his body and the headstone of the grave he’s tied to. Harry falls to the side from the impact.

Riddle pulls Harry by his collar cuff and Harry lets him, too disorientated to do anything.

The robes in the man’s hands fall back to reveal a thing the size of a child but so nightmarish that it might belong in Jet’s shop.

“Man, not judging, but that is one ugly kid,” Harry mutters.

The hand on his collar tightens.

The man drops the horrendous thing in the cauldron. "Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"

The surface of the grave previously at Harry's feet cracks. Amused, Harry watches as a fine trickle of dust rises into the air at the man’s command and falls softly into the cauldron.

The diamond surface of the water breaks and hisses; it sends sparks in all directions and turns a vivid, poisonous-looking blue.

“That’s cool, but maybe do it again and say ‘ash of the father, unknowingly given, you will revive your son’? That would have a better impact since it’s truer,” Harry suggests.

His entire body is screaming at him to stop, but his mouth has always been a little too eager.

There’s a hesitant pause. Then, Riddle says, “The ritual has already begun. Besides, flesh of the servant will revive.”

Harry snorts. “The father has more relation by blood than servant. You're just going to make it blow up. Get another cauldron and engrave the runes again.”

“You really think I’ll listen to you?” Riddle snarls.

“No shit. If you don’t want your own self to drown in that potion, you will,” Harry retorts.

Riddle must have realized the truth in his words, for he gestures something to the cloaked man because there’s a new cauldron – already engraved and filled with the potion – ready.

The cloaked man lifts the ‘baby’ thing out of the cauldron and places it in the new one.

“Ash of the father, unknowingly given, you will revive your son,” Riddle chants this time.

A stream of fine dust rises from the cracked grave and descends into the cauldron.

“Flesh of the servant, w-willingly given, you will renew your master.” The cloaked man chops off his own arm with a silver dagger.

The potion turns a mesmerizing violet colour. Harry looks on in fascination; it isn’t everyday that one gets the privilege to watch a resurrection this close.

“B-blood of the enemy . . . forcibly taken –”

“Hold your horses, you idiots,” Harry interrupts, frustrated. “Do I look forced to either of you? Here, I’ll do it.”

Harry examines the gash on his palm – the one he drew runes with – and lowers it to the cauldron.

“Blood of the enemy, freshly given, you will anchor your foe.” Harry clenches his fist and a stream of blood flows down.

“Why would you willingly help your would-be murderer resurrect?” Riddle asks him exasperatedly.

Without waiting for an answer, Riddle steps into the cauldron and Harry staggers back in shock.

It was fun riling up Riddle, but it didn’t even last a day. Harry shakes his head in disappointment.

The potion bubbles and seethes.

And Voldemort— reborn, resurrected, reeking of old magic— emerges like something torn out of a fever dream. His skin is unnaturally pale, glistening with the potion, and his eyes red like the curse he cast at Harry a while ago.

Harry raises his eyebrows.

“Well. You definitely didn’t drown. I’ll give you that.”

Riddle ignores him.

He steps out of the cauldron with unnatural grace, naked but uncaring, magic clinging to him like smoke. His long fingers flex experimentally as he breathes in the air like it’s something new.

Riddle summons his wand from the cloaked man and conjures a robe for himself.

He doesn’t look as human as he did earlier, nor as young as a matter of fact. His face is all edges and sharp corners, but his magic feels more settled. The one thing that does not change is his hair. It is still set in annoyingly perfect curls.

The cloaked man stumbles back, one arm gone and blood soaking the grass.

Voldemort turns to him, lips twisting. “Nagini,” he hisses in the serpent-tongue lazily.

The giant snake slithers from the shadows, tongue flicking in the night.

Harry mutters in English, “Great. Family reunion.”

Voldemort lifts his wand— the very one taken from Harry’s arm minutes before— and the Cloaked Man crumples. Not dead. Simply unconscious. Flesh of the servant, after all.

Then he looks at Harry.

Harry shifts uncomfortably. “You’ve been staring for, like, ten seconds now. Should I pose?”

Voldemort tilts his head. “You altered the ritual.”

“I improved it,” Harry says with a shrug. “You’re welcome.”

“You should be afraid.”

“Oh, I am,” Harry admits. “But at this point, it’s like existential background noise, y’know?”

The man chuckles. “You are an interesting piece on the chessboard, Potter.”

“Nah, I don’t really do chess. Exploding Snap’s more my type.” Harry says cheerfully.

He’s really tired right now and simply wants to go back and fall asleep. Preferably for a month.

Harry’s smile becomes even more forced. He knows he’s going to fuck up in this sleep deprived state.

He’s let a fucking assassin get away – which is probably how he got here – so of course a dark lord murdering him wouldn’t be too off the mark.

Voldemort hums as he paces a slow circle around Harry.

Harry stays still. Not because he wants to, but because moving might make the dizziness worse. Harry’s still grinning. Or maybe baring his teeth. At this point, he can’t even tell.

“Trying to intimidate me?” he slurs. “Cute. I've had sleep paralysis demons with better pacing.”

Voldemort raises an eyebrow. “You find this funny?”

“No, no,” Harry says, voice cracked and eyes wide. “I find everything funny. My brain’s gone jelly and I haven’t eaten in like twenty hours. You could tell me you’re my mum and I’d probably believe you.”

Voldemort stops in front of him, expression unreadable. The air around them crackles with the ritual’s residual magic.

“You helped me return,” he says slowly. “You altered the rite. I can feel it in the marrow of my bones.”

Harry nods, absently staring at a blood trail his fingers are making in the grass. “Yup. Woke up this morning and chose violence. Or self-destruction. Jury’s still out.”

“You should be afraid.”

“Oh, I am,” Harry says cheerfully. “It’s like white noise now. Fear, dread, anxiety— like a radio I left on in the background. Haven’t had a moment of peace in years, Tommy. It’s great. You should try it sometime.”

Voldemort studies him like Harry’s some cursed artifact he’s not sure how to touch. “You’re not right in the head.”

Something cold curls in Harry’s stomach. He doesn’t like the way Riddle says it like it's a compliment.

Harry forces another smile, though his vision is fraying at the edges. “Look, as fun as this reunion has been, how about we skip to the part where you threaten my friends, monologue your way into a trap, and I blow something up?”

Voldemort smiles. Harry thinks he might have started hallucinating.

“I think not tonight, Harry Potter. You’ve given me a gift. A strange, bloody, clever gift. I think… you’ve earned a delay. I am a merciful lord, after all.”

The wind rustles. Nagini slithers closer, coils brushing against Harry’s boots. He tries not to flinch.

“I will return to my plans,” Voldemort continues. “And you will go back. Tell your side what you saw. Let them think. Let them fear. That, too, is a kind of war.”

Harry’s head spins.

“You’re letting me go?” he asks, disbelieving.

“For now.”

The Triwizard cup slams into his back and Harry is pulled through time and space yet again.

He closes his eyes as the Portkey transports him, and he keeps them closed after landing. He does not move. All the breath seems to have been knocked out of him; his head is swimming so badly he feels as though the ground beneath him is swaying like the deck of a ship.

Abby.

Tris.

Art.

Harry gets up and shouts over the torrent of noise – “Art, take them to the place. I’ll get back soon.”

Okay. Okay, sure. Yeah. Graveyard resurrection, Dark Lord reborn, snake in my face, and he gets a nap before I do.

The crowd is cheering. Or booing. Or screaming. It all sounds like static in his skull.

Harry falls back onto the ground and wishes he could kill airheaded students and megalomaniac dark lords.

He rolls onto his back and stares at the sky.

“Maybe I am insane.”

He blinks. The world seems to double.

“Would explain a lot.”

It takes a while for him to snap back into focus.

The students are sent to their dorms by the time Harry.exe comes online again.

He’s still twitching from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus.

“What happened, Potter?” growls Moody, dragging him forward, somewhere between support and interrogation.

Harry laughs hysterically. “Graveyard resurrection. Dark Lord reborn. Snake in my face,” he recites it like a punchline to a joke no one else heard.

“You make no sense, child!”

The world whips into sudden clarity. Harry stops walking. His lips curl into a sneer. His head snaps upward so fast it cracks his neck.

“Were there Death Eaters?” Moody presses, one eye spinning wildly. “How did the Dark Lord treat them?”

Harry’s eyes glint. “Oh, they got slaughtered, of course,” he says sweetly. “Every single one of them burst into confetti and started doing a can-can around the cauldron.”

“Potter—”

“You think I was taking notes?” Harry snaps. “You think I had a clipboard and a pen while my blood was boiling under my skin? You wanna know what I saw? Red. And white. And fucking static.”

And then he turns on his heel.

Starts walking in the opposite direction. No destination. Just movement. He needs out.

“Stop right now, Potter!” Moody shouts behind him.

Harry doesn’t.

Moody picks up the pace. “Stop!”

A barrier of instinctual magic pulses into existence between them with a crackling hiss. A bubble of don’t-fucking-touch-me that burns the stones beneath his feet. Moody slams into it and reels back, stunned.

Harry walks faster.

His legs are moving before he knows what he’s doing. His mind is noise. His nerves are screaming. He doesn’t remember pushing open the door to the dorms. Doesn’t remember pulling out his trunk. But suddenly he’s there, and he’s moving, and he’s grabbing.

Abby’s tiny crossbow from the nightstand. Tris’s toys from the drawer. His shirts, his coat, the little knife Leo gave him, a vial of healing balm, socks, old candies, someone’s crayon drawing—everything.

He’s a whirlwind. Spells flick out of his fingers faster than he can think: Pack, shrink, summon, seal. The room trembles with residual magic.

Somewhere, someone’s knocking at the door. He doesn’t hear them.

He hauls the trunk to the edge of the Hogwarts wards, shoes skidding over gravel. His heart is pounding so hard it feels like it's cracking his ribs from the inside.

The instant he feels the edge of the wards, the first breath of freedom—

Crack.

He Apparates.

And reappears— arms trembling, knees buckling— at the entrance to the Maw.

Here, the air smells of wet stone and fire. Of blood and steel and safety. Familiar runes shimmer faintly on the factory walls. The wards— his wards— reach for him like hands in the dark.

Harry stumbles forward two steps, then slumps hard to his knees.

The grass is cold. The gravel digs into his palms. His breath punches out of him like he’s been holding it since the Graveyard.

He stays like that for a minute. Or maybe an hour.

Then—

A door creaks open somewhere.

Footsteps skitter.

“…Hewn?”

Harry lets out a shuddering breath.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “I’m home.”

Chapter Text

“Xan! Xan, get here. It’s Harry,” a warbled voice shouts.

Harry thinks it might be Olly.

Then, he’s being lifted up in a pair of warm arms and he almost breaks down. Harry lets out a dry sob. He closes his eyes.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’ll be okay. We’re right here, Harry.” A hand runs through his hair. It’s Kelly. Probably.

Xan carries him in. Harry can feel Xan’s heart beating under his palm. It’s soothing.

Xan sets him down on a mattress and rubs him back. “Breathe, darling. It’s over now. You survived it.”

Harry tries to latch onto Xan and make him stay. Xan settles down beside him, cleaning his face with a cold and damp cloth.

There’s loud footsteps approaching.

“Leo, don’t come in here right now,” Harry rasps. “Olly, get him away.”

“No! Just let me see him once. I need to see he’s fine.”

There’s a pause, then.

Olly grunts and something thuds to the ground.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. He’s being hauled into a hug.

Harry opens his eyes, vision blurry with tiredness and tears.

The arms around him are thin, shaking. Leo’s taller now but he still feels small like this, like he’s trying to hold together a dam with nothing but his fingers.

Harry exhales, all cracked lungs and bone-deep weariness, and pats his back weakly. “Told you not to come in.”

“Don’t care,” Leo mutters. His voice breaks halfway through. “The others came back but you didn’t— and we didn’t know what happened and I thought—”

“I came back,” Harry says. It's barely a whisper. “I came back, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Leo whispers. “Yeah, you did.”

“Leo, let Hewn rest.” Maddie pulls the other boy away.

There’s a noise of protest but then Leo sighs and walks out. Harry closes his eyes again.

The mattress dips on his other side and someone sits down.

“Do you want me to ask what happened?” Maddie asks him softly. She sounds so careful and gentle. Harry... doesn’t not like it.

“I’m so fucking tired, Mads,” Harry confesses in a whisper. “The fucking tournament and Ministry politics and megalomaniac Dark Lords and... living. I’m so tired.”

“Then sleep for now, yeah? Olly can take care of us for another day.” Kelly pats his hand.

“Harry!” Someone falls down right in front of him. Harry opens his eyes again.

“Hey, Art. Tris and Abby okay?” Harry asks, leaning back against the wall.

“I forced them to sleep for a while. They were too stressed to eat anything.” Art looks at Harry like he’s breakable.

Harry wants to hate it, but he’s too tired to even do that.

Art doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, hands clenched in his lap like he’s afraid to reach out.

Harry shifts again, lets his head drop against the wall. “I’m okay,” he says, and it feels brittle to his own ears.

“You don’t have to be,” Art says. He reaches out to do something – maybe hold his hand – but Harry never gets to know, since he pulls it back.

“I’m not okay,” Harry admits. “But I don’t think I know how to stop.”

“It won't be like this forever.” Xan brushes back the hair sticking to Harry’s forehead. The words feel like a promise Harry isn’t sure he can fulfill.

But it’s enough for now.

“Sleep, Harry. Let’s deal with everything after the Maw closes in the morning.”

So, he does just that.

“I can’t fucking do this anymore!” Olly storms down the stairs, luggage in hand.

Kelly drops the bowl she’s scrubbing.

Art’s brow twitches. He glares at Olly.

Xan’s eyes narrow. He looks like he knows where this is heading.

Maddie looks between them, blinking like she’s missed a step on the stairs. Leo just stands there like a marionette with strings cut.

“What?” Kelly asks sharply.

“I can’t, okay?! I can’t stay here and pretend I’m fine. I’m not rotting in this godsdamned, cursed, oppressive hellhole for another night! I’ve gotten people killed! Oh yes I have. Did you know? My mother, my father, my sister. All dead, because of me. I’ve fucked up everything I’ve ever touched and maybe— maybe if I stay here any longer, I’ll just end up killing myself too. Maybe all of you too.” Olly lets out a short, harsh laugh.

“Watch your fucking mouth.” Xan steps closer to him.

“No, you watch yours, Xan. You and your cryptic, holier-than-everyone bullshit— you don’t get to lecture me.” Olly spits out.

“DON’T YOU DARE— DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE SAY THAT, OLLY!” Art shouts, throwing away the rag he was cleaning the table with.

“Olly, we’re all tired—” Maddie starts tentatively.

“I’m not tired, Maddie. I’m fucking suffocating. Every day I wake up and it’s screaming kids, blood on the floor, Hewn throwing himself into the ring like a maniac, and all of us pretending like it’s fine. Like this is normal.” Olly has a desperate and crazed undercurrent in his voice.

Leo scoffs. “No one’s pretending. You just finally grew a fucking spine and realized the world’s ugly. Boo-fucking-hoo.”

Kelly grabs Olly’s collar. “You selfish asshole. Do you think you’re the only one bleeding here?”

“I HAVE TO PRETEND LIKE EVERYTHING'S OKAY BECAUSE IF I DON’T, THEN SOMEONE ELSE BREAKS! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT’S LIKE?!” Olly screams again. Turning to Leo, he says, “And you. Piss off, you little parasite. You’ve been clinging to Harry’s boot since you could walk.”

Kelly growls. “Say that again.”

Olly sneers, “You heard me. You all orbit around him like he’s some god. Well, guess what? He’s not. He’s a half-broken kid playing king in a garbage hea—”

Kelly punches him square in the jaw.

Olly stumbles back and into the table. He scoffs and mouths ‘fuck you’ to Kelly.

Leo’s eyes are red and pleading. “You’re one of Harry’s pillars. You don’t get to fall when he can’t even talk without his voice breaking right now.”

“That’s not my fucking problem, Leo! That’s a you problem. You all tied yourselves to him like anchors. I didn’t ask for this.”

Leo lunges at Olly, slamming him into table behind him. He slaps Olly across the face. “YOU DON’T GET TO TALK ABOUT HIM LIKE THAT! NOT AFTER EVERYTHING.”

“Oh, fuck off with your savior complex. I’m not dying down here with the rest of you. I want out. I want air. I WANT A GODDAMN LIFE.” Olly grabs a fistful of Leo’s hair and pulls him away.

Olly manages to land a couple punches at Leo before Art pulls him away.

“You dickhead! You’ve always been like this. Tucking you tail between your legs at the first inconvenience and running like a fucking coward. And that is what got your sister killed,” Art spits viciously.

“Olly, please, no. Ca— can’t we just talk about this? This is about last night, isn’t it? When you were in the Patch up Corner and that man almost died? I— it wasn’t your fault, the hag was too out of control,” Maddie pleads, her lower lip trembling.

“SEE! THIS IS WHAT I MEAN,” Olly gestures wildly. “A man almost dies and all you can say is ‘the hag wasn’t in control’. It’s messed up. We’re all messed up.”

Olly is delirious with rage. “I can’t do it anymore. I’m not strong enough. I’m not built for this. You all act like staying makes you righteous— but maybe it just makes you all mad.”

Maddie grabs the hem of his t-shirt. “Olly, we’re scared too. But you leaving won’t fix it.”

“I know. But staying will kill me.”

He turns and walks out. No one stops him.

The door slams.

There’s silence.

Art picks up the bowl Kelly dropped.

Then Kelly slides down against the wall, clutches her knees and sobs.

Harry walks into the kitchen and finds everyone eating silently.

It’s not right.

“Hey, why are y’all eating without me? Not fair,” Harry huffs, taking a seat.

He looks around and notices it. “Leo, what happened to your eye? Got into a fight last night, or was someone not paying up?”

Leo smiles feebly at him but continues to eat quietly.

Harry takes a bite of his own food. “Oh, and where’s Olly?”

Art drops his fork on the plate and pushes back his chair aggressively.

Abby starts crying into her hands.

“Oliver left. Took his shit and left in the morning,” Kelly’s voice trembles.

Harry stares at her.

He shakes his head and laughs. “No... you’re having one over me. Nice try but it ain’t as funny as you think.”

Xan smiles bitterly. “She’s telling the truth. Go check upstairs – his stuff is gone.”

Harry stands up. His chair falls back.

He rushes upstairs and tears through Olly and Xan’s room there.

Xan’s books. Xan’s cloaks. Xan’s robes. Xan’s fake wings. Potions’ ingredients. Broken brooches. A set of combs. A pair of trousers. Another pair of trousers. Heaps of dark faded t-shirts.

All Xan’s.

The room’s full but feels hollow. Everything in its place. Everything... not his.

Harry lets out a disbelieving little laugh.

Tris, Art and Maddie find him sprawled there, among heaps of clothes. Laughing, and sobbing simultaneously.

Tris crawls into his arms and hugs him. Harry laughs harder. He knows he’ll cry if he stops.

The four of them just sit there like that for a while.

Harry stops his madness. He asks, “What happened?”

Art speaks quietly. “He said he was tired. That we’re all fucked. That this place— this whole thing—is going to kill him.”

Maddie whispers softly. “He screamed. Kelly punched him. Leo slapped him. Olly punched Leo too.”

“Oh... that’s why he has a black eye. I’ll get him a salve later.”

“Harry...” Art doesn’t have a clue what he should say. But Harry knows what he wants to convey.

“Did you ask him to stay?” Harry asks.

Maddie chuckles. “I begged him to stay.”

“What did he say?”

“Said staying would kill him.”

It makes Harry pause. He wonders if he can find Olly and kill him with his own two hands.

“Da, it’s okay. Tris will help you find him and take revenge.” Tris pats his back and grins toothily.

Maddie caresses Tris’s hair. “You’re not gonna look for him, are you Hewn?”

Harry stares blankly at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll wait. Let the guilt chew him up first.”

“You really think he’s coming back?” Art asks. Harry knows he already wishes he would be.

“No... But if he ever does, I’ll pretend he never left.”

Tris pipes up – “Can I bash his nose if he comes back?”

“I’ll help you,” Art offers.

The prize money from the tournament gets sent in.

All nine eight of them go on a shopping spree.

Harry falls back into the Maw’s ungodly sleep routine.

He laughs at the worst jokes and screams at the smallest faults. All of it feels hollow but he still does it.

Harry’s afraid he’ll start sobbing if he stops laughing.

Maddie buys him a soft, taffy pink jumper with a platypus swinging upside down on it.

Harry loves it.

The first time he wears it, Kelly and Art treat him like a small, sweet breakable child. Xan actually coos at him. Abby wants to braid his hair and tie it with little hair ties.

Harry could use everyone being nicer for a while.

The kitchen's quieter these days. The Patch up Corner stays cleaner. The fights, somehow, get less bloody.

Abby keeps showing up with hair ties in every color and shape— stars, glittery skulls, frogs with crowns— and demands that Harry sit still while she works her magic.

Xan drags a brush through Harry’s hair once and mutters, “Gods, you’re worse than the wyvern hatchlings.” But he still braids it.

Art starts carrying hot cocoa into Harry’s room at night without asking. He always pretends he just happened to make too much.

Kelly swears more than usual but talks less. She watches Harry with this quiet, tense worry, like he might shatter if she makes a wrong move.

Leo steals the jumper once. Just for ten minutes. He gives it back with a muttered, “It smells like you,” and nothing more.

And Maddie... Maddie smiles every time she sees Harry in it. She’s the only one who says it.

“You look like a boy again,” she tells him one morning, tucking the hem of his sweater into his trousers.

Harry looks down at the platypus, upside down and smiling back.

He doesn’t say anything.

Harry gets a new oversized, mellow sage jumper with little donuts dancing on it.

Chapter Text

Art is the first one to notice him walking in.

There is no shortage of wealthy or well dressed men coming for morbid entertainment to the Maw. The difference is that this man walks in with a dangerous fire to him.

“Welcome to the Maw. That’ll be three sickles,” Art greets dryly, without any customer service smile.

The man looks him up and down with an assessing gaze. “I am here to meet... Hewn.”

Art stiffens. “He’s busy. Numbering fights and checking the place takes time. And he’s fighting today.”

“I have a proposition I feel he would be interested in,” the man says, eyes flaring.

“Fine. Pay the fee and get in. I’ll see if he can make some time.” Art holds out his hand for the money.

The man gives him the amount and goes in, head held aloft.

“Bloody arseholes – the lot of these stuffy rich men,” Art mutters.

He peeks into the room and meets Kelly’s eyes. Art tilts his head towards the man and mouths to Kelly, “He seems up to no good.”

Kelly gives him a thumbs up and Art relaxes.

Kelly keeps an eye on the man Art flagged.

The man is weird, alright. He sits unnaturally still, has absolutely no magical signature and not one person knows him.

Leo’s as enthusiastic as he always is on Hewn’s nights, but he’s more alert tonight. Even he can sense the ‘quite not right’ vibe.

“And now, the fight of the night – the Midnight Brawl! Hewn against Marsh,” Leo announces, voice amplified with a Muggle mic.

Hewn fights messy this time, messier than he has since Olly left.

Kelly hates missing Olly. She hates putting so much pressure on Hewn even more. But there’s nothing she can do except support him.

Hewn wins. The crowd roars as Marsh finally hits the floor with a dull, wet thud. Hewn takes longer to do so than he usually does. The fight feels more like venting than Hewn screaming had.

She misses the innocent kid he had become. The kid who looked pure. Even if it wasn’t true, it made Kelly feel better.

Kelly hands him a towel as he comes out of the ring. Hewn wipes his bloody knuckles and nods gratefully.

“Art said someone asked for you. By name,” Kelly tells him carefully.

Hewn raises his eyebrow in a silent question.

“We don’t know his name. First timer to the Maw,” Kelly admits.

“Send him upstairs. Tell Xan to be ready just in case shit hits the fan.” Hewn wipes his face with his tee and shakes his head to get the sweat out.

“Sure, I’ll get him.”

She gets Xan on guard first. Then she approaches the man who asked for Hewn.

“Hewn’s waiting upstairs. Second door to the left,” Kelly says in lieu of a greeting.

The man nods and gets up. “Thank you.”

Kelly rushes to Maddie and asks, “So? Anything fishy you saw that man doing?”

Maddie snorts, “I’m pretty sure he wasn’t even paying attention to the ring. He was looking around and judging people.”

Harry wants to take a shower desperately. He’s still sticky from blood – both his own and Marsh’s. It’s icky.

“Hewn?” a voice calls from the door, as if unsure of the name.

It must be the ‘someone’ who asked for him.

Harry opens the door to let the person in. It’s Tom fucking Riddle.

Harry’s wand is in his hand and ready to fire at a moment’s notice. “What the fuck?”

Riddle stares at him. First it’s just disbelief, and then it slowly turns to annoyance.

“It’s you... You are Hewn. Of course, you’re Hewn.” Riddle mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You let me go earlier. Regretting it already?” Harry asks dryly.

“Why do you run an illegal fighting and betting house?” Riddle steps into the room and ignores Harry’s question. He conjures a fucking throne for himself and sits on it.

“Because I’d rather do illegal shit than starve on a street, thank you,” Harry scoffs and crosses his arms.

“I’m not going to ask.”

“I’d prefer it that way too. Why are you here?”

“I’m not going to tell you so that you can run to Dumbledore and snitch.”

“I’m not a fucking dog.”

“Do you have to swear in every sentence like an uncouth idiot?”

“Do you have to walk like you’ve got a stick up your ass?”

Riddle snarls.

Harry feels delighted and giddy with adrenaline. He’s been looking for a good fight.

“I came here for a reason. But you are not who I expected to meet.” Riddle twirls his wand in his hand. Harry’s pretty sure it’s not just the lights which make his eyes look red.

“You neither. I thought the Dark Lord would have more fashion sense. That cloak looks like it was stitched out of a bloody rag by a blind house-elf.”

Riddle looks on the verge of cursing Harry. “I’ll show you bloody if you don’t stop your bullshit right now.”

“Look who’s the uncouth idiot now,” Harry remarks snidely.

“This cloak is enchanted with protective wards and blood-stitched runes from the last living—”

“It looks like Tris – my toddler – made it half asleep!”

Riddle's face does something strange—like he's actually offended. “It’s antique.”

“So’s the piss stain in the corner downstairs. Doesn’t make it fashionable.”

“Do you want me to curse you?”

“What I want, is for you to tell me what you want,” Harry scowls.

“I want to propose a deal. This place is a treasure trove of blackmail material and an easy way to assassinate someone. I want information about the people who come here, and what they boast about. In return... I promise you and your little litter of strays protection. My followers will not harm your people, and if Dumbledore tries something, we will help you.”

“Seems a little too easy, buddy.” Harry shakes his head.

“We can do a vow,” Riddle suggests.

“How about we discuss this tomorrow? You can choose the time – just not during Maw hours,” Harry plops down onto a random mattress lying in the corner.

“I can agree to that. We can think of the vow’s wording till then.”

Riddle disapparates without farewell.

“Rude,” Harry mutters. He’ll have to see about putting up disapparation wards on the rooms too.

There’s a knock on the door.

A sharp, deliberate knock. Three taps. Like the door offended someone and needed punishing.

Harry opens it in yesterday’s (or should it be today’s?) tee, wearing boxers, wand in one hand and a half-eaten biscuit in the other.

“Why are you here so early?” he asks, blinking like a drunk owl. Can owls be drunk?

Riddle raises an eyebrow. “It’s ten.”

“Exactly. I go to sleep after the sun rises. I’ve had four hours of sleep, a screaming match over meat inventory, and I’m currently being stared at by a war criminal in snakeskin boots. This morning sucks.”

“I do not wear—” Riddle starts.

“Shut up. Sit down.” Harry waves him inside like he’s a stray cat.

The floor is still disgusting from last night. Riddle, to his credit, does not comment and sidesteps a piece of... rabbit paw.

They settle down in the cleanest room available – whose sole reason of existence is to host guests.

“Right,” Harry mumbles around his biscuit. “You want a vow. Let’s lay it out. You don’t hurt my people. None of your creepy cultists hurt my people. You don’t mess with the Maw, even if I flip you off publicly, and in return, I rat out idiots who show up here boasting about war crimes. And occasionally orchestrate deaths. That’s about it?”

Riddle considers. “And if someone comes here who poses a danger to both of us?”

Harry squints at him, half in thought, half because his eyes are getting heavier. “Define ‘danger.’ Because to me that’s anyone who doesn’t wash their hands after peeing.”

“Terrorist. Spy. Auror. Cursebreaker working with the Order.”

“Cool, yeah. You can have those. Except... not if they’re my friends.” Harry pauses. “I don’t have any friends like that, but it’s the principle.”

“What about traitors to my cause?” Riddle asks.

“Did they kick a child? No? Then I don’t care. You can have them too.”

“You’re astonishingly amoral for someone raised by Albus Dumbledore,” Riddle says.

“Yeah, well, Dumbledore didn’t raise me. Also he thinks lemon drops are personality,” Harry mutters. “Now let’s write this damn vow before I fall asleep on your boots.”

Riddle conjures parchment, and they begin drafting— Harry sprawled sideways on the floor with a blanket and toast crumbs, Riddle sitting ramrod straight like the carpet might rise up and judge him.

Harry throws out lines like “you pinkie promise not to murder my gremlins” and Riddle has to translate it into ancient Latin for the vow.

Harry knows enough Latin to have helped word it better. But watching Riddle realize just what he signed up for is a lot more satisfying.

“Are you quite done being insufferable?” Riddle asks a couple hours later.

“Not until you admit that you look like a Victorian funeral home had sex with a lizard,” Harry says, yawning.

“Charming,” Riddle mutters.

“You're still here, so I must be doing something right.”

“Are you flirting?” Riddle asks incredulously.

“Ew, no. Like sure, you’re hot but you’re also probably the age to be my grandfather if that gravestone was anything to go by,” Harry stretches leisurely.

“Does the fact that I tried to murder you not bother you?” Riddle asks, and he’s starting to sound a little bothered.

It’s so much fun gaslighting people.

“I don’t know, man, does it bother you?”

Riddle looks like he’s going to start screaming.

Harry suggests they make the vow before Riddle can take the offer back. (“For all your ridiculousness, you are… competent. Resourceful. This place is a goldmine,” Riddle mourns with a long suffering sigh, as if he wants to be anywhere but here.)

The Maw is now safe from the shit that’ll go down once the war truly picks up.

Harry’s just saying bye to Riddle when there’s a pop outside.

“Hey Hewn! Get down here,” a familiar voice growls.

Riddle raises an eyebrow instead of leaving. “I did not know you were acquainted with Fenrir.”

They walk downstairs together and Harry waves cheerfully when he spots the wolf.

“Alpha Greyback,” he greets politely.

Greyback sniffs the air near his shoulder, “Did you fight yesterday? You reek of blood.”

“Yes, I did,” Harry glances at the door again. “Dante isn’t here with you?”

Greyback grunts. “The bloodsucker will come by tonight.”

Harry brightens up and Riddle glares at him.

“Is the special bratty treatment reserved for me?” Riddle asks with a scowl.

Harry glances at him from the corner of his eye, makes a face and goes back to pretending he doesn’t exist.

“I still say you’d make a fine wolf. You should let me turn you fully,” Greyback says.

Harry’s smile turns a whole lot more forced and he laughs. “I’ll tell you if I change my mind.”

“The pack’s in a tough spot, we’ll be coming by in a few days for a few rounds in the ring.”

“Of course, as long as you or Ed don’t get in, I’m good with that.”

Greyback leaves after that and Harry flips his retreating back off.

“Glad to see you’re just an annoying teenager and do not have a mission to unnerve me,” Riddle retorts dryly.

“Ugh, you showed up and literally woke me up. Now that I have a little food in my system and have been awake for a while, I’m ready to handle shit.”

Riddle looks like he wants to hex the wall. “You’re infuriating.”

“Must be the charm.” Harry flashes him a mock smile. “Now go. Shoo. Shoo, Dark Lord. Off you trot.”

Riddle stares at him.

“What?” Harry snaps.

“You lit up when he mentioned the vampire.”

Harry stares blankly. “I lit up because Dante’s literally the coolest person I know. He wears velvet and rips throats. That’s a vibe.”

“And he’d probably suck you dry of blood the first chance he gets,” Riddle rolls his eyes.

“Less work for you,” Harry waves it off.

“I could just kill you.”

“And yet you haven’t,” Harry sing-songs. “Which means either you’re too impressed by me, or you're scared my scream would shatter your precious antique cloak.”

Riddle mutters something in Parseltongue. It sounds suspiciously like “insufferable maggot,” but Harry can't be sure.

Harry scratches his head. “Anyway, if you’re done brooding, I’ve got meat deliveries to sort. The werewolves are coming in a few days and I’m not about to have them complain about the pork again. They are so fucking picky about the meat I give after the fights.”

Riddle looks at him like he’s grown horns and disapparates with a soft pop.

Harry blows a raspberry to where Riddle was standing a second ago.

He only tells about the deal vaguely to everyone.

Art’s the first to raise an eyebrow. “Wait, you made a deal with Voldemort?”

“I made a deal with a man in a terrible cloak who may or may not be Voldemort,” Harry mutters, flipping through the meat order list. “And it’s not with him. It’s… near him. Adjacent... I suppose.”

“That’s not better.”

“Look, we get protection. He gets gossip. No one dies. Unless it’s on purpose. During a match. Paid entry.”

Xan frowns. “What’s the catch?”

“He might show up unannounced and insult my fashion sense,” Harry says solemnly. “Also he has very strong opinions about vampires.”

“You do light up whenever Dante shows up,” Maddie says from the back.

“I light up because Dante once snapped a wizard’s wand in half with two fingers and then complimented my coat,” Harry says, and he does sound a little dreamy.

“And you haven’t let it go since,” Leo scoffs. He sounds so done, it’s almost funny.

“I’m emotionally starved. Let me have this.”

Art snorts, but then his expression sobers. “You sure this deal won’t backfire?”

Harry sighs. “No. I’m not sure about anything these days. But I do know a war’s coming. And when it does, we’re gonna need every ounce of protection we can wrangle.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Leo breaks it with “So... do I charge him entry next time?”

Harry shrugs. “Three sickles. No exceptions.”

Chapter Text

“Hewn, it has been quite a while since our last meeting.” Dante smiles Harry.

Harry nearly swoons.

Riddle gives Dante an unimpressed look. “So you are the one Hewn has been so... enthusiastic about.”

“I do not believe we’ve met.” Dante returns his hostile stare readily. Turning to Harry, he says, “Your friend smells strongly of death. I thought you ought to know.”

See, this is why Harry likes Dante. The man tells you what he sees and can wipe the floor with most creatures in minutes.

“Aw, Dante, so sweet of you to tell me, but I already know.” Harry waves his concern off. He adds with a smile, “I was there.”

“Hewn,” Riddle growls, “We had an agreement.”

Riddle is like a cat trying to escape a bath when he’s angry. It’s cute.

But, they’re in the Maw and he is the one who made the ‘no-fighting-outside-the-ring’ rule. So, he cuts his entertainment short and intervenes.

“Stop it, you two, or you’ll wrinkle the air with all that glaring.” Harry shakes his head in mock disappointment.

“It’s not glaring if one of us lacks a complete soul,” Dante replies, tone flat.

Riddle sneers, tension creeping into his shoulders. “Says the beast who rips humans apart for his own fodder.”

Harry makes a disbelieving and offended sound. “So you’re both just going to ignore me? Fine. Fine!”

He shoots them a glare one last time before hitting them with a random jinx (which doesn’t land on either) and storming off.

“Hewn, I didn’t mean to offend you.” Dante follows after him.

Harry turns abruptly. Riddle is standing and sulking.

“And, what do you have to say for yourself?” Harry juts his chin in Riddle’s direction.

“That you’re a dramatic brat who should have been a Shakespearian character?”

“Is ‘Shakespearian’ even a word? Besides, I don’t care. You two have the emotional range of sea cucumbers.” Harry glares at him.

He folds his arms and looks pointedly at both of them. “Hug it out and say sorry to each other.”

The two make protesting noises and Harry just stares harder. He’s made Abby and Tris say sorry to each other. These are just two idiots with over inflated egos.

“I’ll make you sit with Xan again. For three hours,” Harry threatens Riddle.

A look of sheer dread passes in his eyes and Harry smiles sweetly.

“Dante, Tristan needs help learning to write. Do you want to help?” Harry asks nicely.

“I apologize,” the two say in unison, voices strained.

“Now, hug.” Harry cheers.

What follows is technically a hug. It’s also technically an attempt to smother the other. But Harry’s already pretending not to notice.

“Hewn, ring’s ready. Look over the runes once again,” Maddie screams from the main hall.

“Come on, Dante, I added a few more runes to the array. I’ll show you.” Harry loops his arm around Dante’s and skips away.

“Xan, babysit our resident Dark Lord for me?” Harry requests Xan as soon as he sees him.

“Gladly,” Xan smirks and goes to find Riddle.

There’s going to be curses thrown before fifteen minutes are up.

“Greyback, I let your wolves fight here. Why the fuck did you bring Ed?” Harry clenches his fists.

“Oh, I couldn’t leave him all alone, could I? Everyone else was coming, he would have felt left out.” Greyback waves it off.

“He fucking killed a hag, the last time he was here. I’m not letting that fucker in under any conditions again. Took two months for another hag to fight here.” Harry blocks the way when Ed tries to step in.

“It was an accident. I didn’t know it was that frail.” Ed shrugs.

“And everyone will know just how frail you are if you don’t get your shitty ass outta here within the next two minutes,” Harry growls, pushing Ed back.

Greyback steps forward, eyes flashing. “That’s my Beta you’re talking to, you shithead.”

“And this is my turf you’re standing on, Alpha Greyback,” Harry snarls, already in fight or flight mode. The only problem is that his brain never seems to think a situation worthy of flight.

Some of the wolves start shifting uncomfortably. Their eyes flick between their Alpha and the Maw’s Alpha. Harry’s not a complete werewolf, but the wolf in him is conscious enough to be picked up by the others.

Greyback growls low in his throat. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”

“And your dear Beta’s got his clawed off by sweet and lovely Kelly, I’ll give you that,” Harry glances at Ed in disgust.

“A problem here?” Xan places a hand on Harry’s shoulder, leaning against the doorframe.

Harry’s also aware of the silent and creepy presence of one Tom Riddle behind him. It’s offensive that these two think he can't handle a bunch of dogs.

Greyback notices. And he’s not stupid.

He holds Harry’s gaze for a few more seconds — long enough to be annoying but not enough to be suicidal — then jerks his chin at Ed.

“Wait outside.”

Ed sputters, “But—”

“I said out.”

Ed flips Harry off and walks away muttering curses at Harry. That mutt needs to be put down soon.

Harry smiles cheerfully at Greyback. “We could have avoided all that drama, now, right?”

Greyback grunts and gestures at the wolves to follow him.

“I even see a shadow of that asshole near the Maw or anywhere near Kelly when she’s out and you’ll have to come collect his carcass from the dumpster,” Harry continues in the same cheery tone.

If someone were to look from afar and not hear his words, they’d think he was giving them good news.

Greyback offers a noncommittal grunt, which is about as close as he gets to you win this round, and starts herding his wolves toward the side of the pit. A few of them glance back at Harry, still uneasy.

Harry waves back like the amazing host he is.

Art lets out a low whistle. “You’re getting soft, letting him off with just a warning.”

Harry scoffs. “I know Ed enough to know that he’s going to try and come in just to spite me.”

Xan eyes him suspiciously and examines the runes on the wall. He can't make out all of them but enough to get the gist of it.

“Tell me you didn’t add the soul-snare again,” Xan sighs.

Harry hums innocently. “I can tell you that.”

“Which means you did.”

“I’m not saying yes. I’m just saying it’s fun watching certain people scream.”

Riddle peers at one of the corner sigils. “You mirrored the anti-displacement rune.”

Harry grins. “I know. Clever, right? Now they can't portkey, disapparate, or even blink weirdly without it sparking.”

Behind him, Riddle’s lips quirk up. “You should trademark that.”

“Oh, oh, do you think they’ll let me trademark ‘Immortal Drool Vader’?” Harry asks excitedly.

“One second, I think you might be smart for one second. Then, you say nonsense like that,” Riddle pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks ridiculously endearing while doing it.

“Stars help us all,” Xan mutters, amused.

Sparks fly everywhere and Harry lets out a delighted squeal. “I told you Ed would try to get in!”

“Yeah, you did. It’s not Ed though. Just another wolf here to earn a little meal,” Art snorts.

“He’s not with Greyback’s pack?” Harry asks is surprise.

“Potter, can't you stop stalling? You and I have work to do.” Riddle is as exasperated as one can get.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Fine. Arty, tell Abby to add the new wolf in the ledger. I’ll check the week’s earnings tomorrow.”

Riddle stares at Harry as they go up the creaky staircase.

“I know I’m handsome but maybe don’t look at me like that?” Harry deadpans.

“I was simply trying to connect the threat I saw in front of the werewolves to the menace you usually are,” Riddle’s lips quirk up in the ghost of a smile.

They reach the top of the stairs, wood groaning under every step like it’s protesting the drama it has to bear witness to.

“You’re proud of this place, aren’t you?” Riddle observes.

“Damn right I am. I built a fucking empire from scratch. It’s the closest it can get to perfection,” Harry grins.

“If you think this ugly factory is perfection, you need therapy, mate,” Art shouts from downstairs.

Harry sighs, long-suffering, “We all need therapy, Art. A lot it.”

Xan chips in, not looking up from where he’s checking the wards. “Speak for yourselves. I’m completely stable.”

There’s a pause.

Riddle, Harry and Art all speak at once.

“No, you’re not.”

Xan raises a middle finger in their general direction without looking up.

“What’s the name of the wolf that came in yesterday?” Riddle asks.

“Something like Remus, I think. Why?” Harry looks up from the ledger.

“Did he give a last name?”

“Lupin, I think. Really stupid of him to give up his full name like that, though.”

Riddle gives him an unimpressed stare. “He doesn’t belong to the streets. Dumbledore’s dog, was probably here to investigate. It’s a good thing you didn’t go down.”

“There were no Remuses on campus at Hogwarts. How would he know me?”

“He was your parents’ friend,” Riddle admits reluctantly.

“Oh.” Harry quiets down.

Parents are a sore spot for everyone who steps foot in the Maw. He isn’t an exception.

There’s awkward silence for a while after that, since Riddle is their murderer and everything.

“Should we deny entry to Lupin if he comes again?” Harry asks.

“You don’t want to meet him?” Riddle blinks slowly.

Harry stares at him in confusion. “Why would I want to?”

“He knew your parents.”

“So did Dumbledore, but you don’t see me running to him all the time, do you?”

“He could have answers.” Riddle raises an eyebrow.

Harry wants to smack his stupid, perfect face with the ledger in his hands. He refrains – not because he doesn’t want to but because the ledger deserves better.

“He had one year to give me answers but all he did was give me more problems – one of them being you,” Harry snaps.

“Ouch, my dear. Your words sting,” Riddle retorts dryly. He leans forward, eyes gleaming. “But Lupin is different, isn’t he? Besides you don’t need to pretend you don’t care.”

“And you should stop pretending that you do,” Harry throws the first thing he can reach on Riddle.

Riddle catches it and turns it over in his hands. “It’s a beautiful model. Why is it here in the Maw?”

It’s a blob of air dry clay that Tris was playing with, yesterday.

“You wanna buy it?” Harry smirks.

“Do you even need more money with the amount you have in your Gringotts’ vaults?” Riddle rolls his eyes at Harry.

“What the fuck? I have vaults at that bank?”

Riddle blinks. “You didn’t know?”

“I didn’t even know my fucking last name until I stole school records from my Muggle school,” Harry snaps.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Gringotts has you down as the heir to the Potter estate,” Riddle says mildly, like he’s mentioning the weather. “And the Black one. Technically.”

Harry’s eye twitches. “Technically?”

“Legally,” Riddle corrects. “Your godfather – Sirius Black – is the Lord Black but doesn’t have children of his own so you get his Wizengamot seats and money.”

Harry opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

“In your words, Potter, you are ‘loaded’,” Riddle says amusedly.

Harry stares at him. “You’re so lucky I’m emotionally numb, or I would’ve cried.”

Riddle leans back in his ridiculous chair. “I would have left.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Da! Da! Leo’s being a little shit again,” Tris screams and runs into the room.

Riddle chokes on air. “Potter, this child can barely walk straight and he’s already as bad as you!”

“Tristan Moon! How many times do I tell you to not swear? You do it again and I’m getting rid of all the little rocks you’ve ‘made friends with’.” Harry picks Tris up and sets him on his knee.

Tris gasps. “You wouldn’t!”

“I would,” Harry says solemnly, brushing a lock of hair from the boy’s forehead. “I saw you whispering to one this morning. You called it ‘Pebbly.’”

“She tells me things,” Tris whispers, eyes wide and serious.

“Merlin help us,” Riddle mutters under his breath.

“She said Leo kicks her when I’m not looking,” Tris adds, and then, louder: “He’s a meanie!”

There’s a crash from downstairs, followed by Leo’s voice yelling, “I told him not to name rocks!”

Harry sighs again, the kind of exhausted sound usually reserved for middle-aged men in sitcoms. “I leave the room for five minutes and you all start infighting.”

Tris pats his cheek consolingly. “I think you’re doing great.”

“Thank you, Pebble Prophet.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever figure out how you manage to keep these critters together.” Riddle sounds impressed. Harry does a little victory dance in his head.

Harry laughs and leans back onto the palms of his hands. “You should’ve seen them with Ol-”

Harry stops abruptly. Tris goes still in his lap.

“You were about to say ‘Olly’, weren’t you? That’s one of the people from our vow but I haven’t seen that person here,” Riddle asks curiously.

“Doesn’t matter!” Tris jumps up. He toddles to Riddle and puts his arms up. “Put me on your lap.”

Riddle gives Tris an irritated look and goes back to his book.

Harry looks up and grins feebly, “Riddle, what’s the difference between you and a shoe?”

“There are several, actually.”

“Oy, play along!”

Riddle sighs, long and suffering. “Tell me.”

“A shoe has a complete sole,” Harry says and cackles.

Riddle stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“Oh please. Don’t try to bullshit me. Your magic is so fragmented, you wouldn’t be able to hide it if you tried.”

“I don’t have my magic on display. It’s not even on the surface. You shouldn’t be able to sense it.” Riddle furrows his brow.

Harry has noticed that he does that when he’s concentrating. It is... innocent in a way that Riddle definitely isn’t.

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, well, I’m not supposed to be running a criminal empire out of a defunct muggle factory, but here we are.”

“I kept it buried.”

“And yet I sniffed it out like Leo finds candy he wasn’t even told exists.”

There’s a long pause between them.

“You said my magic is fragmented,” Riddle finally says, cautious. “What did you see?”

Harry tilts his head. “Not see, really. Smell. It’s broken in too many pieces, like someone took a mirror to your core and stomped on it.”

“That is interesting. Let’s work on it later.”

Harry is heading toward the ring’s side hall when he catches it—a sharp flash of red on tan skin, just past the corner of his eye. He turns fast.

Leo.

The boy is hunched over a crate, fiddling with what looked like betting slips, acting like everything is fine.

Except for the gash on his arm.

It isn’t bleeding heavily anymore, but it has dried and split in places, the skin around it raw and swollen. Harry is on him in seconds.

“What the fuck is that?” he snaps, already crouching to get a closer look.

Leo flinches back. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s not nothing, that’s a future infection, minimum,” Harry says sharply. He reaches for Leo’s wrist.

Leo yanks it away as if burned. “Don’t.”

Ouch. “Leo—”

“I said don’t!” Leo shouts, backing up a step. “I’m not a child. I don’t need you coddling me every time I get scratched.”

Harry straightens slowly, staring him down. “That’s not a scratch, Leo. That’s a gash. It’s red and swelling, and if it gets infected you’ll lose your arm.”

Leo looks away, jaw tight.

Harry exhales, trying not to let the rising panic show. “What happened?”

“Jet was being a dick again. He looks a lot worse than me, though.”

“He’s two times your size!”

“I took off two fingers from his right hand.”

“Let me clean it.” Harry drags Leo to the Patch-up corner.

“You are so... weird,” Leo says strangely.

Harry can feel Leo staring as he dabs salve on his arm. “You’re just as weird as me.”

“At least I can realize when I fancy someone, unlike you,” Leo scoffs.

“What’s that supposed to mean!”

“That you had a crush on Art which everyone except you two could see for the longest time ever.” Leo smiles the fakest smile possible.

Harry presses the cotton swab in his hand on Leo’s arm.

Leo hisses, jerking his arm away. “Fuck you, Hewn!”

“You wish, midget.”

“I’m one inch taller than you.” Leo laughs.

Harry wraps his arm in a bandage and pats it. “All done.”

“Aw, won't you kiss it better?” Leo asks in baby voice.

Harry wrinkles his nose and does a full body cringe.

He throws the used cotton into the trash with dramatic flair. “Next time, get stabbed after lunch. Blood makes me lose my appetite.”

Leo snorts. “You once bit a vampire in the middle of a fight.”

“That’s different. He called me pretty and tried to drain me dry. I had to.”

“Sounds like every guy you’ve ever pulled.”

“Say that again and I’ll make Tris do your hair tomorrow.”

Leo’s face twists. “No.”

“Yep. All seventeen of his imaginary rock friends get a turn.”

“Pebbly has no taste,” Leo says grimly.

“At least Pebbly doesn’t leave his socks everywhere.”

“You’re a weirdo.”

“And you scream when you see maggots.”

Leo scowls. “One time.”

“Wanna go find Jet and remove the rest of his fingers?” Harry offers sweetly.

Leo’s expression brightens instantly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Chapter Text

“Oh my gosh, Art. Can you stop being embarrassing for a second in public places?” Maddie groans, hiding her face in her hands.

Harry rolls his eyes at them. They both should be kept away from the public eye, or everyone should pour bleach in their eyes so no one can look at Art and Maddie.

“I think Tris can behave better than you two idiots,” Harry says sweetly.

Art side eyes him and continues arguing with Maddie. Rude.

The golden doors of Gringotts loom over them like judgmental parents. The kind that disown you but still expect Yule greetings.

Harry stands in front of the monstrous doors, arms crossed, expression that of a man about to file a restraining order against destiny.

“I hate this place,” he mutters.

“You said the same thing about Hogwarts in the beginning. Ended up super attached to it, didn’t you?” Art snorts under his breath.

Harry... can't deny it. There is a pull from Hogwarts, like he can live there forever and the castle would never hate him for it. It is nice.

They go to the closest teller to them and wait for him to look up. It’s supposed to be ‘polite’.

“Name,” the goblin snaps.

Fuck you. Two can play a game.

Harry curls his lips up in a sneer. “Harry Potter. Here to claim my inheritance.”

The goblin stares at him for a moment. Then says, “Sharpclaw, the Potter accounts manager will be here in a moment.”

Maddie chokes on air. “You have a fucking account manager?”

“Shut the hell up Maddie. The adults are talking,” Harry glares at her, knowing full well that she’s the older one.

And with the way she flips him off, she (obviously) knows too.

A goblin – probably Sharpclaw – looks him up and down in disgust and beckons him to follow.

They follow the goblin reluctantly. Harry wants to use Sharpclaw’s  smug, superior looking face as a punching bag. The goblin walks fast, like he's trying to outrun their collective lack of dignity.

Art lags a step behind, inspecting every rune and plaque they pass. “What do you think happens if I poke one of these?”

“You’ll be torn apart into so many pieces that they’ll need a seamstress to stitch you back together,” the goblin snaps and Harry’s had enough.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Ever heard of common courtesy? I was tryna be nice but y’all are too cunty for me to keep my temper.” Harry doesn’t shout but it’s a close thing.

“My problem is that Harry Potter has not been seen for fourteen years. Only rumours – even those really began last year for that tournament. And a bunch of street kids walk in here with one claiming to be Harry Potter. I’m waiting to reach the vault and have your cover blown so I can take action.” The goblin doesn’t even look back.

“Once I claim my vaults, the first thing I’m doing is firing this shithead,” Harry whispers to Art.

They use a cart to go to the vault number 687. The ride is fun for Harry and Maddie but Art looks a little green.

The double doors of the vault have – what Harry assumes to be – the Potter crest and motto ‘Semper Inexorabile.’ Always unyielding.

Art squints at it. “That motto sounds like it belongs on a toilet paper brand.”

“You’re not wrong,” Maddie says. “Wipe with pride, Hewn.”

Sharpclaw hops down, utterly unaffected. “Vault 687,” he announces, voice like gravel. “Primary Potter vault. Blood recognition required.”

Harry steps forward, and ignoring the dagger offered, uses his pocket knife to draw a shallow cut on his thumb. He places his hand on the lock of the vault and it glows faintly.

Harry turns slowly. He looks straight in Sharpclaw’s eyes, spreads his arms wide and beams, “Welcome to the Potter vault.”

The doors creak open. Sharpclaw looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. Harry wants to squeal.

Inside are stacks of galleons, gem-studded cabinets, floating lockboxes, and enough cursed heirlooms to host a family reunion séance.

Maddie whistles low. “Your ancestors were hoarders.”

Sharpclaw clears his throat and says scathingly, “This is generations of wealth accumulated with great pains.”

“Is there like something formal I have to do to claim the Potter vaults as a whole or will I have to go to each one and bleed on them?” Harry asks, surveying the room.

“We can simply go to my office and you can be registered as the new Lord Potter and I will return the Lord ring to the new Head of the House.” Sharpclaw is suddenly a lot more pleasant to talk to.

Shame, he still needs to go.

“Get me the Black accounts manager. I have to talk to him too,” Harry summons a chair from the pile and sits on it. Sharpclaw turns to leave. “Oh, and Sharpclaw? No need to return. You are hereby dismissed from the service of the House of Potter.”

Sharpclaw glares at the floor and nods.

Maddie and Art are openly staring at Harry like they’ve never seen him before.

“The fuck was that, Hewn?” Maddie asks disbelievingly.

“What?”

“You have some sort of superpower where you can act like you’re actually one of them?” Art raises an eyebrow in amusement.

“I... don’t really know what I’m doing,” Harry admits. “Like sure, I know how to manage some things and what I should be doing but I have no idea where to start or how to go about it.”

“Ask your Riddle. He could help.”

Before Harry can retort with ‘I still have dignity’, a goblin in a sharp, tailored set of robes walks in. “I am Gripfang, the account manager for the House of Black.”

“Lead me to the Black vaults. Let us talk along the way.” Harry stands up from the chair and gestures the goblin to lead the way.

Art and Maddie give him a bewildered look.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, I’m putting a hell lot of trust in you here, so this better not be a prank, Harry thinks desperately.

“My godfather, Sirius Black, is the next in line for the Lord Black title. Since he does not have heirs of his own, I believe the role of the Heir falls to me.” Harry smiles nicely.

With the face Gripfang is making, Harry isn’t sure his smile looks as nice as he thinks.

“Of course, that is a valid theory, but we will have to see if the bloodline accepts you. There is also Heir Malfoy, whose mother – Narcissa – is a Black by birth,” Gripfang tells him politely.

This one is already better than Sharpclaw by leaps and bounds. Harry’s opinion may be influenced by the lack of condensation in Gripfang’s voice but, whatever.

Harry has no problem getting into the Black Primary Vault either. If there had been, he would have happily strangled Riddle.

“Any properties that I should be aware about?” Harry cocks his head to the side curiously.

“Well, there are the Grimmauld Place and the Black Estate in London but those are uninhabitable. The Villa in Scotland is quite comfortable. And the Blacks have vineyards in Sicily. Those are all I’m aware about but I’m sure there are quite a few only the main family knows of,” Gripfang reads off from a ledger.

Harry claps his hands twice. “I offer you the position of a joint manager for both the Potter and Black accounts till I am Lord and Heir. Do you accept?”

“I would be honoured to manage both the fortunes, Mr. Potter.” Gripfang gives a shallow bow.

Ah, that’s enough for now. Harry can have that proper bow of respect in a couple years. He is a patient person.

He is given two very gaudy rings which – apparently – signify his ranking in both the families. This means that under no circumstances can he be seen with them in the Maw.

“I want all the properties of both Potters and Blacks cleaned. I want to see the bills of everything before a single Knut is withdrawn from any of my vaults. Oh, and also cease any transactions that may be occurring right now. I want details of every asset currently under my or my Houses’ ownership. Owl them to the... Maw,” Harry says loftily.

It’s his fucking money and even if he doesn’t spend a single Knut from here, no one has the right to use it.

“Oh no,” Maddie groans, dragging a hand down her face. “He's turning into a rich asshole already.”

Gripfang finishes scribbling in his ledger and looks up. “Shall I send correspondence to any surviving Black relatives to inform them of your status, or would you prefer to... keep it quiet?”

Harry pauses.

“I want you to send a single owl to Malfoy Manor. Anonymous envelope. No return address. Just put in a copy of the current Black inheritance flowchart with my name under ‘Heir Apparent’ and a small note that says ‘Kisses – H.’”

Gripfang’s lips twitch but nods solemnly. “I’ll see to it personally.”

On the way out, Art and Maddie trail behind him like two ducklings trailing a very smug duck who just bought the pond, the lake, and the whole damn ecosystem.

“Do you think he’s going to start wearing gloves?” Maddie asks, horrified.

“I am right here,” Harry says.

“Yeah, and so is your delusion of modesty,” she shoots back.

“I’m still letting you both live in my mafia crypt, so I’d appreciate some respect.”

“Vault-boy has demands now,” Art says dramatically, bumping his shoulder against Harry’s as they walk.

Harry just smirks. “It’s called taste, peasant.”

They’re almost to the exit when it happens.

Luna floats into the bank like she was carried in by a breeze only she can hear. She’s wearing a lilac cloak covered in hand-stitched moons, feathers braided into her hair, and boots that look like they stepped out of a fairy tale and haven’t recovered since.

Harry spots her immediately and blinks. “Luna?”

She smiles like starlight and honey. “Harry. You’re not dead.”

“Er— no,” he says. “Not yet.”

“That’s wonderful. I had a dream last week that you drowned in a fountain of treacle, but you looked very peaceful so I didn’t worry.”

Art wheezes quietly.

Luna tilts her head and peers at him. “Hello. Your heart looks like ink and roses.”

Art beams. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Then Luna turns to Maddie.

And Maddie— mouth already half-open for some sarcastic quip— just... stops.

Luna smiles at her, head cocked like she’s studying a particularly fascinating constellation. “And you. You think too much and yet not nearly enough.”

Maddie feels something, then. Not visibly. But Harry can see it— the tightness around her mouth, the sudden restraint in her shoulders. The way her eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion, but in focus.

Luna, still dreamy as ever, takes a step closer. “But there’s fire under it all. It makes you beautiful. Like a house burning down in slow motion.”

Art is full-on gaping now.

Harry mutters under his breath, “Okay, that’s the most poetic way someone’s ever hit on Maddie considering some people literally go cross eyed in front of her.”

“I wasn’t hitting on her,” Luna says, still not looking away from Maddie.

Then adds, “Yet.”

Maddie blinks slowly. Twice. “Do people always just let you say things like that?”

“They do,” Luna replies. “Mostly because they don’t know what I’ll say next.”

Maddie laughs. It’s startled and sharp-edged but it’s also real. “You’re weird.”

“Thank you,” Luna says sincerely.

Harry watches this happen like someone witnessing a car crash and realizing he’s in the back seat.

Art leans toward him. “I’m shocked she’s not running away yet..”

“Merlin, she better not,” Harry mutters. “She’s insufferable when she’s regretting it all.”

“Mm,” Art hums. “Jealous?”

“I’m not jealous. She’s not you,” Harry scoffs. “I’m concerned. I don’t want to deal with two of them.”

Luna finally tears her gaze away from Maddie. “I came to fetch something for Father. He’s very upset about the goblins changing the font on the vault receipts.”

“Sounds like a crisis,” Harry deadpans.

“It is. They used Consolas.”

Luna says it like a war crime was committed.

“I should go,” she adds, turning back to Maddie. “But I hope I see you again. You look like the kind of person who deserves something soft.”

Maddie doesn’t speak until Luna’s already halfway to the teller line.

Then, quietly, like she didn’t mean to say it aloud, “...What the hell just happened to me?”

Art claps her on the shoulder. “Congratulations. You’ve been Luna’d.”

“If that’s what she’s always like, I pity the person who’ll marry her.” Maddie shakes her head. She still looks in a daze.

Tom Riddle sits in an armchair in the Maw. He has been spending a questionable amount of time here instead of planning to lure Dumbledore out. Tom has a book in one hand, a teacup in the other, and a frown that could curdle milk. Tristan, Potter’s little demon spawn, is curled up beside him on the adjacent armrest, swinging his legs and chewing on a biscuit like it personally insulted him.

They’re not talking. Not yet. But the air vibrates with judgement.

Dante, the stuck up snob, walks by.

Tom’s eye twitches.

Tristan narrows his eyes and hisses, low and deliberate, “Ugly.”

Tom pauses, lowers his teacup slowly. “I was going to say ‘insufferable,’ but yes. Ugly works.”

Tristan nods solemnly. “Talks too much.”

“Smiles too much and thinks he’s smart,” Tom adds grimly.

“Thinks he’s funny,” Tristan huffs, full of toddler indignation. “He not funny. He stupid.”

Tom looks at Tristan like he’s just discovered a horcrux he’s not ashamed of. “You know, you might be my favorite child here, even though your grammar is rubbish.”

“I not child. I menace,” Tristan corrects.

Tom allows a smirk. “So modest.”

Dante walks by again, this time whistling.

Tristan throws a pillow at him.

Tom sips his tea.

Voldemort is a stupid name. He can admit that in the confines of his mind after thinking about it for half a decade. He can also admit that going after a toddler was not his brightest moment either.

Tom is trying to work on it now. He is also trying to complete the runic array that will let him morph into a snake faced monster at will. Voldemort will live on and be a separate identity for him.

Dante glares. “Why do I feel like I’m being slandered from ten feet away?”

“You’re not,” Tom says coolly. “We’re very upfront about our distaste.”

Tristan nods vigorously. “You suck.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Eloquent.”

“I learning new words. ‘Dickhead’ is next.”

Dante throws his hands up. “Harry, your demon spawn is bullying me again!”

From the kitchen, Potter shouts back, “Tris, be nice to Dante!”

Tristan sticks his tongue out in the kitchen’s direction.

Tom sets down his tea. “We should make a list.”

“A hit list?” Tristan whispers, eyes wide and sparkling.

“A social hit list,” Tom corrects. “People we ban from our presence. For being insufferable.”

“Dante is number one,” Tristan declares.

“Of course.”

Tristan clambers off the chair and returns a minute later with a scrap of paper and a crayon.

He scribbles furiously, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in deep concentration. Tom peers over his shoulder.

“Your writing is atrocious and I think that says ‘DANRTAY’ but close enough.”

“Is good,” Tristan says, proud. “We do a curse next?”

Tom blinks. “I… wasn’t planning on that, but now I’m intrigued.”

Potter enters the room just in time to see Tristan trying to climb on Tom’s lap – and being pushed back, drawing what appears to be a diagram labeled “HOW TO ANNOY DANRTAY.”

He stares.

“I leave you alone for ten minutes,” he says.

“Be grateful,” Tom replies mildly. “He was considering poisoning your food before I redirected him.”

Harry sighs. “Why is this my life?”

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class; Grand Sorcerer; Chief Warlock, the British Wizengamot; Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation)

To: Mr. Harry James Potter
Location: Unlisted (though I do trust the owl will find you)
Date: Irrelevant in the grand scheme, but 17/07/1995.

My dear boy,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and in even better company — though, if rumours are to be trusted (and they often are, I find, in the absence of facts), you have rather taken to vanishing from polite society of late. A talent, I must admit, that runs in the family.

It is with both affection and concern that I write to urge you — most kindly, of course — to reconsider your prolonged absence from Hogwarts. As you are well aware, your Ordinary Wizarding Levels (O.W.L.s) are a cornerstone of magical education. While I understand that certain circumstances may have necessitated your early departure, I feel confident that whomever you are currently residing with will see the value — nay, the necessity — of a formal education. And if not, I would be most happy to speak with them myself.

I assure you, it is not merely academic matters that warrant your return.

This year, without the constant pressure of the Triwizard Tournament on you, I believe I will be able to help you flourish.

There are, as fate would have it, two individuals I am most eager for you to meet — men who were counted amongst your father’s closest and dearest companions. Their insights into the character of James Potter, and their willingness to extend the hand of familiarity, would surely be of benefit to a young man so long deprived of his familial heritage.

It is always difficult to grow up in the shadow of great legacies, Harry. But one needn’t remain in the shadows forever.

In preparation for your return, it would be helpful to know your preferred subjects — that is, if you plan to pursue a particular career path. Might I suggest the esteemed and noble profession of an Auror? It is, after all, the path your father once walked. I see no reason why his son could not do the same, given the right guidance.

Please write back at your earliest convenience and let me know which day would suit you best for a conversation, either here at the castle or elsewhere if you so prefer. Should you wish, I am happy to send a representative to escort you — for your convenience, of course.

With warm regards and the ever-watchful eyes of your well-wishers upon you,
I remain, as always,

Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore
Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Harry stares at the letter in his hands like it’s physically offended him. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just squints. Flips it over. Snorts. Then starts reading aloud in his best impression of someone ancient and self-impressed.

“My dear boy,” he begins, voice syrupy-sweet with mock affection.

Riddle’s head lifts like a predator catching the scent of prey.

Leo is already there, sitting too close on the armrest, legs curled underneath him like a cat pretending not to eavesdrop. He’s peeling an orange, but half the segments are just piling in his lap. Forgotten.

“Ooh. Is that the old man? The twinkle one?”

Harry nods. “Yes. Twinkle Supreme.”

Harry scans the first few lines and snorts.

“I left Hogwarts two months ago, not the goddamn galaxy,” Harry says flatly.

Leo makes a soft sound — halfway between a laugh and a hum — and starts arranging the orange slices in a neat line across the arm of the couch. When one falls, he flicks it off like it insulted someone. He looks way too focused on them.

Riddle, amused now, sips his tea. “Continue. I want to see if he offers to adopt you or threaten you next.”

Harry goes quiet again, reading the rest of rubbish on parchment.

Harry turns to Riddle. “You feel like sending me back to school?”

Riddle raises an eyebrow. “I feel like setting that letter on fire.”

Leo’s mouth quirks up a second late. “I'd help. Just say the word.”

He doesn’t say which part he’d help with.

Leo peers at the letter. “What's the ending like? Does he invite you for tea or just casually offer to send a bodyguard?”

Harry reads: “Should you wish, I am happy to send a representative to escort you — for your convenience, of course.”

Riddle chuckles darkly. “And there it is.”

“Tommy, should I burn it?” Harry smirks.

“Never call me ‘Tom’ or that again. ‘Riddle’ is infinitely better.”

“Alright. I won't call you ‘Tom’ or ‘Tommy’,” Harry agrees cheerfully.

Riddle narrows his eyes. “You’re being awfully agreeable, Potter.”

“It’s nothing like that... Sean.”

The Maw’s doors slam open so hard one nearly flies off the hinges.

Kelly stands in the threshold, drenched from the rain, hair stuck to her face, eyes wide and wild. She’s clutching something to her chest. Wrapped in a ragged coat. Tiny. Still. Silent.

“She’s mine,” Kelly says.

Her voice is thin. Cracked.

No one moves.

Maddie’s the first to speak, slowly, carefully. “Kel… what—who—”

“She’s mine,” Kelly repeats, louder this time. “I found her. She was screaming. She’s mine.”

Harry’s already moving. “What do you mean you found her—”

“I – I found her in front of a brothel,” Kelly says, voice rising. “Like she was nothing. Like they just left her there.”

There’s blood on her hands.

Maddie inhales sharply.

Leo’s mouth opens. Closes. “Is— is she hurt?”

“No,” Kelly snaps. “She’s perfect. She’s mine.”

Tris is silent. Standing by the wall, fingers tight around the hem of his shirt. Watching like a hawk. Not even breathing.

Xan’s the one who cuts through the air with a blade: “Put it down.”

Kelly flinches.

Xan steps forward. “Put it down, Kelly. Leave it where you found it. You have to.”

“No,” Kelly breathes. “NO, I DON’T. SHE’S NOT A THING! SHE’S MINE.”

“SHE’S NOT A PUPPY,” Xan hisses. “SHE’S NOT A STRAY! You can’t just bring her here and pretend that makes her safe—”

“WHY NOT?” Kelly shouts. “That’s what you and Olly did for me!”

Silence slams down like a hammer.

Harry exhales shakily. “Kelly…”

Kelly’s shaking now. The baby stirs in her arms, lets out a small whimper. She instantly folds over, cooing nonsense, rocking, humming brokenly.

“She’s mine,” Kelly whispers. “She was so cold. Her face was blue. I couldn’t— I couldn’t leave her.”

“You didn’t save her, Kelly,” Xan snaps. “You dragged her into this.”

“She would have died!”

“She still might!”

The scream that rips from Kelly’s throat is pure, helpless rage. “THEN LET HER DIE WITH SOMEONE WHO LOVES HER!”

Everyone freezes.

Harry steps forward, gently this time. “Kelly, love, look at me. You’re soaked. You’re bleeding. That baby’s freezing. We have to take care of her. You can’t do that alone.”

“I can!” Kelly sobs. “I have to! I promised her— I promised her mother—”

“What?” Maddie breathes. “Kel. What happened?”

“I don’t— I don’t know— she was there, and crying, and Mads she looked so much like Violet and there was blood everywhere and— and she just shoved her into my arms and said take her and then— then she—”

She can’t finish.

Tris walks up quietly. He stares at the bundle, big brown eyes serious in a way no three-year-old should ever be.

“Can I hold her?” he whispers.

Kelly looks down. Her whole body shakes. But she kneels and offers the bundle with trembling arms.

Tris takes her. Awkward. Careful. Like she’s glass.

“Kelly,” Art murmurs, “You remind me so much of Violet today. Fierce and stubborn and fighting just for a child.”

Everyone holds their breath.

Tris looks up. “We no send her away. We don’t do that.”

Maddie walks over and wraps her arms around Kelly, who’s barely holding herself up. Leo gets a glass of water from the kitchen and Art drags Kelly to the couch, drying her hair with a towel.

Harry crouches next to Tris, brushes a gentle hand over the baby’s head. “We’ll figure it out,” he says softly. “Together.”

Xan’s back is turned. He’s silent. But his fists are clenched, knuckles white. He doesn’t say no again though.

Chapter Text

The storm passes in a few hours. It leaves the faint scent of rain and wet soil in the air.

Kelly is huddled up in a blanket, rocking the baby in her arms tiredly. She hums softly, caressing the child’s head. The child stirs and Kelly hushes her, continuing to hum.

Harry and the others hover around her, unsure if they are allowed to stay.

Tris sits near Kelly, hands fisting the blanket, eyes tracing each movement of the baby. Kelly, occasionally looks up at Tris and smiles.

Leo’s lying upside down on an armchair, trying to feign indifference. He’s failing terribly; peeking at Kelly through his lashes every few minutes.

Xan sits near the fireplace, staring into the empty grate. Maddie has tried to make him do something or the other – anything else except whatever he is doing. It hasn’t worked.

“Whass going on?” Abby stands in the stairwell, rubbing her eyes and clutching onto her little stuffed fox.

“You didn’t wake up from the screaming?” Harry asks, amused, and beginning to smile.

“There was screaming?” Abby giggles, skipping over and settling in Harry’s lap.

“You’re too old for this, now, Abby,” Harry sighs, setting her down onto the couch.

There’s silence then. And it’s peaceful.

“I wasn’t really asleep,” Abby admits. “Was waiting for the fight to be over first.”

Art snorts, but his hands falter as he hands a mug of hot tea to Kelly. “Figured.”

“Can I name the baby then? I thought of really cute names.” Abby bounds over to Kelly, pushing back Kelly’s blanket to peek inside.

Kelly doesn’t answer at first. Just shifts so the baby’s better cradled, her hands gentler now. The baby stirs a little, making a soft, half-asleep whimper. Then, Kelly smiles and nods indulgently.

“I like Princess Glittertoes,” Abby says seriously. “Or Moonlight. Or maybe Violet Two.”

Everyone in the room freezes.

Kelly flinches.

Maddie clears her throat too loudly. “Not Violet Two, love. Just… maybe not that one.”

“Why not?” Abby frowns. “Violet was really pretty. She made the best soup.”

“She must’ve,” Tris pouts, then lays his head on Kelly’s knee. “But this baby’s not Mummy. She’s new.”

He perks up. “We could name her Sword.”

Maddie turns slowly. “Sword.”

Tris nods, utterly serious. “Because she cries sharp.”

Leo grins. “What about Dagger? Princess Dagger. That way no one tries to bully her and if they do, she stabs them.”

Art groans. “Please don’t name her after weapons. She’s a baby.”

Leo shrugs. “We could name her after a weather thing. Like Storm. Or Rain.”

“Rain’s what she came in,” Maddie says. “It’d fit.”

“No,” Xan says from the corner. “It wouldn’t.”

They all look over.

“She didn’t bring the rain,” Xan continues flatly. “She just got dragged through it.”

Abby snorts. “Alright, what would you name her? Knife?”

Xan’s mouth twists. “Mistake.”

Kelly exhales shakily. She hasn’t said anything, just rocked and listened. Her voice comes out low. Rough from the screaming.

“No.”

Kelly’s eyes don’t move from the bundle in her arms. She looks at the baby like she is the last flicker of something half-burned. She doesn’t look at anyone else.

“Her name is Hope.”

Maddie tilts her head. “Hope?”

“I didn’t have any,” Kelly said, her voice steady now, as if the act of saying it gave her spine again. “After Olly left, I mean. Not really. But she screamed like she wanted to live. Like she meant it. And I thought… maybe I could try again. Maybe that meant something.”

Tris nods once, slowly. “Okay.”

Maddie’s hand brushes against Kelly’s shoulder as she moves to sit beside her.

Leo mutters, “Hope’s a weird name,” but doesn't argue. He peeks at the baby anyway, just once again.

Harry reaches over and gently tucks the blanket tighter around both of them — Kelly and Hope.

“We’ll keep her safe,” he murmurs.

“And warm,” Abby adds, climbing back onto the couch beside them. “Warm is important.”

Xan doesn’t leave.

Hope shifts in Kelly’s arms, breathing out softly.

Harry dumps the bag full of trash in the bin nearby and starts to wipe his hands on his sweater. He stops short when he realizes it’s the pink one.

“Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore calls out, tone too damn pleased to be anything but irritating.

Harry turns, eyebrow arched, voice flat. “Dumbledore.”

Dumbledore ignores it and pats Harry’s arm. “Ah, I think you didn’t receive the letter I sent a week ago. Nevermind, I’m here to talk in person, my boy.”

“I received the letter and threw it in the fireplace afterwards. Also, I am not your boy, Dumbledore.” Harry moves away and out of Dumbledore’s reach.

Harry wipes his hands on the bottom hem of the pink sweater anyway. Screw it. Dignity’s already halfway to the bin.

Dumbledore chuckles — that tinkly old-man laugh like he thinks this is a game.

“I believe you misunderstand my intentions, my boy—”

“I’m not your boy,” Harry reiterates.

“I only hoped to bring you a little clarity, Harry,” Dumbledore says, stepping closer. “There are people who care deeply for you. People your father trusted with his life. Remus Lupin and Sirius Black—”

“I don’t want to meet them,” Harry cuts in, voice hard.

“They were your father’s closest friends.”

“Then they should’ve died with him,” Harry snaps. “Not show up now like I owe them something.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle. That means danger.

“I think it’s important that you see them, regardless of how you feel right now. You may not understand now, but in time—”

“I said I don’t want—”

Dumbledore moves awfully fast for a hundred something old man. He grabs Harry’s arm and disapparates with a loud crack.

They reappear in a dimly lit hallway with house numbers eleven and thirteen in front.

“Keep your fucking hands to yourself, Dumbledore or I’ll break them,” Harry growls, baring his teeth.

Oh right, the full moon is on 5^th August – six days away. That gives him a chance to blame his actions on his wolf. Joy.

“Now, now, Harry. That is no way to talk to me,” Dumbledore frowns disapprovingly.

Before Harry can flip him off, a battered door emerges from between numbers eleven and thirteen, followed swiftly by dirty walls and grimy windows. A man with shoulder length, shaggy, black hair comes out and house number twelve disappears.

“Harry,” the man says, eyes wide. “You’ve grown so much. Merlin, you – you look so much like James.”

“When was the last time we met, stranger?” Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I – I’m Sirius, your godfather. You were so little when we met, that’s why you don’t remember me. Your dad and I were best friends,” the man – Sirius Black – replies. There’s desperation in his eyes which bleeds into his voice. It’s fascinating.

Harry turns to Dumbledore. “I’ve met him. And now, I’m leaving.”

“Wait to meet Remus, Harry. Patience is a virtue,” Dumbledore chuckles.

“Well then, it’s a good thing I’m no saint,” Harry retorts.

“Harry, please wait. Remus has been dying to meet you,” Black pleads. It would have been sweet if he hadn’t been dragged here against his will.

“Aw, cute. I have somewhere to be, though.” Harry turns to leave.

He smells the wolf before the man approaches.

Remus Lupin. The wolf who made a little trip to the Maw two weeks ago.

“Ha...rry?” Lupin whispers. Of course, the other can smell him too.

Lupin takes a little too many steps, standing closer than Harry likes. “How...? When...?”

“Okay, step back a little. Also, none of your business. Bye.” Harry moves to leave but Lupin catches his wrist.

“No. I want answers first,” the wolf says firmly, eyes flashing amber. His grip is tight enough to not be broken and loose enough to not hurt.

Harry channels his magic through his arm, jerking it out of Lupin’s grip. He snarls, “Like hell you’ll get them!”

Lupin stumbles back a step, hand still raised as if Harry’s skin had burned him.

His eyes narrow, not in anger, but in that “adult” way — as if he can read Harry, understand something about him Harry hasn’t even admitted to himself.

Harry hates it.

“Moony? What is it?” Black asks Lupin. Harry really wants him to know just for the delicious reaction he knows will come.

Lupin steps close to Harry again and his eyes widen comically. “You... the Maw... it’s the same magical signature.”

Shit. Fuck. Lupin is magic sensitive.

Harry wishes Riddle were here. He would know what to do.

Harry does the only thing he does best when his buttons are pushed – he goes an exotic flavour of unhinged.

Harry tilts his head to the side, grin curling like smoke.

“The Maw?” he echoes, blinking like Lupin just accused him of running a tea shop and kicking puppies. “Never heard of her. Sounds dreadful. Terribly dental.”

Lupin stares. “Don’t play— your magic, Harry. It’s the same. You are the Maw.”

Harry gasps like he’s been mortally offended. “Oh, how dare you—how dare you slander me with accurate accusations.”

“Harry—”

“You think I chose to be a myth?” he snaps, spinning theatrically in place, arms wide. “That I just woke up one morning and said, ‘Mmm, today’s a good day to become a cautionary tale for criminals and creatures alike’?”

“Harry—”

Harry continues spewing rubbish, clutching his chest. “You wound me, sir. Next you’ll be saying I run with vampires and eat raw meat under the moonlight.”

Black blinks stupidly. “You do know something.”

Harry grins wide. “Oh, Sirius. I know many things. I know how to set bones in the dark. I know how to stop a werewolf with three words and no wand. I know the exact sound a goblin makes when it realizes you’ve out-bargained it. Oh, and I can get out of handcuffs without magic or keys! It’s fascinating what all you can make your body do if you stop caring if you break it.”

Dumbledore steps forward. “Harry. This isn’t a game.”

“Oh, but it is,” Harry replies, voice syrup-thick with menace. “It’s always been a game. Life dealt me a losing hand, and I’ve been eating everyone’s cards while they were looking away since I could think.”

Lupin says quietly, “The magic from the Maw… it was like yours. Like you were the heart of it.”

“And what is a heart but an organ that gets broken, stabbed, and stopped over and over?” Harry asks grandly. “I don’t need one. I’ve got loyalty instead.”

“To who?” Black snaps.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Harry sing-songs.

“I’ll tell you who I’m not,” Harry smiles at Black. “I am not your son, your student, or your second chance.”

Black flinches violently. It’s as delicious as his desperation.

Then he turns to Dumbledore, who’s been watching shit catch fire and pretend he didn’t light the match. He does the Maddie-voice and says, “Not your boy. Not your savior. And definitely not your pawn.”

With a loud crack, he vanishes.

The echo of his departure clings to the room like smoke.

Tom Riddle hates moving.

Not for sentimental reasons. Certainly not out of some quaint distaste for change — he is change, in the flesh, in the blood, in the nightmare-stained pages of every history book that doesn’t dare say his name.

No, he hates moving because it means dealing with people. Contractors. Architects. Muggle rodents with clipboards. And now, Death Eaters.

Riddle Manor is finally restored to its proper dignity — elegant high arches, silent velvet halls, wards thick as blood, and a ball room large enough to fit fifty cowards he doesn’t trust and doesn’t like.

He sits atop a throne on the raised dais, half-shrouded in shadow, restored to the form they all remember from before — before his fall, before their failure, before they forgot who he was.

The room is silent.

Terrified.

A long moment passes. He doesn’t speak. He lets them sweat. The fear is like cologne.

“My loyal followers,” he says at last, voice soft as grave dirt, “thank you for coming. Some of you have been... surprisingly elusive. Others — too visible. I will be addressing both failures in turn.”

A pause.

“And of course,” he continues, voice silkier now, “there are those who did not answer my summons in June.”

That lands. A few flinch. Others squirm, trying not to look guilty. Trying harder not to look noticed.

Tom resists the urge to rub his temples. He misses his tea.

“Before we proceed, let me... reintroduce you all to someone,” Tom drawls softly, voice carrying in the silence.

He extends his hand and Barty steps forward, bowing deeply. “My lord,” Barty murmurs.

Gasps echo all over the room, whispers rising.

“Yes,” he says at last. “The most loyal among you. The one who found me. Freed me. Returned me to power when the rest of you grovelled in fear or cowered behind your Ministry masks.”

He looks down the line of Death Eaters. “He stands above you now. Treat him as such.”

Barty bows again and joins the line, the madness in his eyes daring anyone to look at him sideways.

“You all will cease to try to capture Harry Potter, and not harm him in any capacity. He is now... not an enemy,” Tom declares to stunned silence.

It is satisfying to be back here and have his Death Eaters hanging off of his words.

He leans back on his throne as the cowards scatter. The real meeting, as always, begins after the formalities.

There are Crucios to throw.

And Merlin, does it feel good to be home.

Draco Malfoy had been told to wait.

“Ten minutes, no more,” his father had said before disappearing through the heavy doors at the end of the hallway after the Death Eater meeting. Ten minutes. That was half an hour ago.

He is bored.

So naturally, he wanders.

He tells himself it isn’t snooping if the door is already open.

Riddle Manor is quieter than expected. Clean. Large. Classy. Perfect for the Dark Lord but boring for a teenager. He turns a corner, expecting maybe a study, or a sitting room.

He finds the kitchen.

And Harry Potter standing inside it, sleeves rolled up, making tea.

What the fuck.

Draco freezes in the doorway.

There is another boy beside him. Tall, red haired, sharp-eyed, older. They are mid-conversation. Draco remembers him from the Yule Ball.

“No, Art, if you add cinnamon and cardamom, it becomes chai. I don’t want chai. I want tea. Regular, working-class, depressive-British tea.”

“You’re insufferable,” the older boy says mildly, tossing a cinnamon stick into the pan.

“And you’re pretentious.”

“Hello,” Draco says loudly, before he can help himself.

Both heads snap toward him. Potter blinks once. Slowly. Like a cat catching a mouse it isn’t planning on eating— yet.

Draco stares. “What— What are you doing here?”

Potter tilts his head. “I could ask the same, but I already know the answer. Daddy dearest's in a meeting, isn’t he?”

Draco’s spine goes stiff. “He’s not—”

“Oh no, don’t backtrack now. I promise not to tell.” Potter grins and hands Art a mug. “We’re all amoral here.”

Art takes a sip and smacks his lips. “This is terrible. You made it too strong.”

“That’s how tea is supposed to be.”

“I’m going to die from tannins.”

Potter turns back to Draco. “Do you want a cup?”

Draco blinks again. “Aren’t you— you’re Harry Potter.”

“Ding ding ding,” Art mutters.

Draco glares at him balefully.

“Winner gets nothing,” Potter adds cheerfully.

“Why are you—here? In the Dark Lord’s manor?”

“Why are you here?” Potter counters, still smiling. “Oh right. Daddy dearest is in the middle of a club meeting. Do they still chant or did Dan finally ban the hoods?”

Draco sputters. “Who?”

“Oh, you know, the tall guy with chalky skin, egoistic and talks like it’s still 1950s?” Potter says offhandedly.

“Are you talking about the Dark Lord?” Draco asks incredulously.

“Aha! I told Brian that he talked like it was 1950 but he didn’t listen. Now I have you as proof.”

“Stop calling the Dark Lord stupid names!” Draco hisses. “And don’t you dare say anything to him.”

Art scoffs, “His humour is broken. Ignore him.”

“Hey! Mean!” Potter protests.

Draco looks between them. “Wait. Why are you making tea?”

Art deadpans, “Because the house-elves are terrified of Harry.”

Potter winks. “I have that effect on people.”

There is a long, thick pause. The clink of spoon against ceramic is the only sound in the room.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Draco says, but quieter now. Like he is unsure.

Potter leans against the counter. “And yet, here I am. Isn’t life tragically inconsistent?”

Footsteps echo distantly— someone coming down the hall.

Potter drains the rest of his mug, nods politely to Draco, and walks out the back door like he owns the place.

Art follows with a shrug, muttering, “Nice meeting you, Blondie.”

Draco turns red in outrage. “It actually wasn’t nice meeting you, Strawberry!”

He stands in the kitchen long after they’re gone, staring at the kettle like it might start hissing out answers.

Upstairs, someone screams.

Draco flinches.

Chapter Text

DUMBLEDORE ADMITS NO KNOWLEDGE ABOUT HARRY POTTER’S WHEREABOUTS!

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

In a shocking twist that has left much of the wizarding world reeling, Albus Dumbledore, esteemed Headmaster of Hogwarts and long-time guardian of the so-called Boy Who Lived , admitted yesterday to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that he has absolutely no idea where Harry Potter is.

Yes, you read that correctly. The boy who defeated the Dark Lord as a baby — the same boy who was allegedly subjected to “unspeakable horrors” during the Triwizard Tournament — has now vanished. And the Ministry is just beginning its search.

According to reports from the DMLE, Dumbledore appeared "harried and distraught" as he confessed that Potter left shortly after the Tournament’s conclusion… and has not been seen or heard from since. No letters or owl post.

Is it possible that the pressure of fame, combined with the trauma of the Tournament — and, let’s not forget, the circumstances of the second task and the escape of Barty Crouch Jr. — finally became too much for the boy to bear? After all, whispers of exploitative treatment have surrounded Potter for years, from being neglected relatives like an unwanted heirloom to being thrown into life-or-death situations while being a teenager.

And what of Dumbledore, who now insists He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned? His claim rests entirely on Potter’s testimony — testimony conveniently no longer available for public scrutiny. A testimony that the boy was supposed to make, under duress or free will, we do not know.

Is it any wonder the boy ran?

Perhaps the real mystery isn’t where Harry Potter is. Perhaps it’s what finally pushed him to disappear. Was it fear? Guilt? Or was it a desperate cry for help from a child who has been used as a symbol, a weapon, a shield — but never once protected?

A senior healer at St. Mungo’s, speaking anonymously, remarked, “If even half of what we’ve heard about that tournament is true, then that boy should’ve been in recovery, not on the way back.”

And yet, no inquiries. No outreach. No Ministry support.

Dumbledore, when asked directly whether he believes Harry is safe, reportedly “refused to speculate.” As the Ministry continues its (now belated) search, one can't help but wonder: Has the wizarding world failed its hero?

“Hewn? Did you look at the newspaper?” Art shouts from the couch.

Kelly shoots him a glare. “Keep it down, Hope is sleeping. If she wakes up before two hours, all of you are dead.”

Harry emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on the apron. “What is it, Art?”

“Skeeter’s being kind to you in an article,” Art snorts.

Harry snatches the paper from Art, skimming through the page briefly.

They only subscribed to the Prophet when Abby and Tris were learning to read, unsurprisingly, they forgot to cancel the subscription.

“I have a feeling that this article only has Skeeter’s name, not her words. Gotta talk to someone, will be back soon.” Harry waves at everyone cheerfully and dashes to the fireplace.

“He’s going to talk to his Dark Lord, isn’t he?” Xan laughs.

Abby shakes her head disapprovingly, “Kids these days.”

Harry stumbles through the fireplace and onto the carpeted floor of the Riddle Manor. Brushing soot off of himself, he goes to the study where Riddle usually works.

Harry bursts in without knocking, “Ken, did you have a hand in today’s headline?”

Riddle glares hatefully at him. “Do you not know how to knock? And stop calling me dreadful names, I should have never told you to not say my name.”

Harry crosses his arms and waits out the rant.

“...Yes, I was behind the article. Dumbledore needs to be discredited as an old fool. Painting you as a wild, uncontrollable threat would only support his paranoia, and I have no interest in justifying his delusions.”

Harry leans against the edge of the desk, unimpressed. “So you decided to... praise me in Rita Skeeter’s column?”

Riddle makes a noise of exasperation. “It was barely praise. I was making you out to be a child caught in a scheme. A child would understand it too.”

“Well then, the public are literally infants. They’ll take it at face value,” Harry snaps.

Riddle pointedly ignores him and goes on. “In any case, this leads me to a proposition. I want you to approach the Order of the Phoenix – the band of Dumbledore’s followers I told you about.”

Harry straightens, mouth already opening, but Riddle beats him to it.

“As an informant,” he clarifies. “Nothing dramatic. A few meetings. Pretend to entertain the idea of switching sides, so they pull you in. You’ll relay what they’re planning, especially if Dumbledore’s losing the plot—”

“No,” Harry says flatly.

Riddle stills. “No?”

“No.”

Riddle narrows his eyes. “You took an Oath. This falls well within the realm of the demands I can –”

“No, it doesn’t,” Harry says, annoyingly calm.

There’s a beat of silence.

Riddle, in his most withering, ancient-crypt-guardian tone asks, “Would you like to elucidate how helping eliminate a common enemy is not a part of our Oath?”

Eyes sharp and words crisp, Harry replies, “The elimination is only when they are inside the Maw and pose immediate risk. I also do not think anyone of them has one of your minions that need rescuing or I might have considered it. None of mine have done anything that would need such recompense either. So, Tom Marvolo Riddle, why don’t you explain how infiltrating the Order is a part of our Oath.”

Riddle raises an eyebrow accusingly. “You know the exact wording of the Oath which was in Latin. You pretended to not know the language to make me do all the work.”

“I never said it. You assumed and I let you.” Harry grins mockingly.

“—and yet you had the audacity to pretend you didn’t understand half the words I used in the Oath, and the ones I regularly use—”

“Well, that’s because I get bored, Derek, I’m not stupid.”

Riddle makes a noise so ungodly that the ghost of Salazar Slytherin probably flinches wherever he's haunting. “You manipulative little—”

“You are the Slytherin here –  house wise and family wise.” Harry grins and pulls a licorice wand from his pocket. “Want one?”

“I want to curse you into oblivion.”

“That’s a no, then.” Harry stuffs it in his mouth.

“Hewn, there’s that wolf asking for you. Do I let him in?” Art murmurs as Harry leans back in his chair.

“Keep him waiting for a while and assess his intentions. I’ll be there after this fight. These two will probably have to be separated with how enthusiastic they’re being,” Harry says.

The vampire clamps down on the hag’s hand, tearing flesh and muscle. The hag tries to gouge the other’s eyes out.

Harry gets into the ring from the opening in the mesh. He lets his magic flow into his arm and grabs the hag by the back of her neck.

“Alright, that’s enough outta you two.” He uses his other hand forcibly pull the vampire off.

“Abby’s in the Corner today and she’s pissed. Don’t be huffy and snap at each other or she’ll end up doing more damage than repair,” Harry warns and lets them go.

He grimaces at the blood on his hands. Ugh, magical blood. It is the worst in coming off, and it stings.

Harry wipes his hands on the hand towel – which has seen more blood than dirt – and heads over to the old supply room.

It functions as a room for high class idiots to make private deals now, but the name never really changed.

“Lupin,” Harry greets curtly.

“Har-“

“Are you insane,” Harry hisses. “Call me Hewn.”

Lupin flinches, and nods. “Hewn.”

Lupin opens his mouth to speak, but Harry holds up a hand.

“You get five minutes. Make them count.”

There’s a weight in the air, heavy with blood and old magic. Lupin swallows, his eyes flicking to the dried gore on Harry’s sleeves.

“I just want to know when it happened. You’re not a fully turned werewolf. What happened?” There’s a desperate edge in Lupin’s voice. It clings to him like guilt-soaked smoke.

“I’m not here for pity. And if you talk about this place, it won’t just be me coming after you. There are hoards of half-breeds and creatures who earn meals here. They’ll want blood. And the ones who just wanted to throw money away? They’ll want your head too.” Harry says flatly.

“Ha – Hewn, you are James and Lily’s son. If I let you stay here, I’ll feel so guilty for–“

“Oh, shut up! You had fourteen years to feel guilty, and you suddenly remember now – when you need something? Save it. Go tell Dumbledore to shove that guilt up his ass. Or better – open that provisionary fund to the Knockturn’s kids too, not just the Muggle offsprings he wants paraded through his castle,” Harry snarls.

Harry never gets to hear Lupin’s response.

His breath catches. Nothing should’ve triggered those.

He’d set up these wards as an extra precaution, thinking he’d never really need them.

Lupin follows him out and Harry turns to him.

“You,” Harry hisses, pointing a shaking hand. “You brought them here. For six fucking years, this place was invisible. Now, you show up and so do the fucking Aurors. Get out.”

“Harry, I–” Lupin pleads.

“Just get the fuck out of my sight, damnit!” Harry shoves him away.

Everyone is running around, trying to Apparate away. The problem’s that there’s an Anti-Apparition ward in place. It is chaos at its worst.

“Art! Xan! Clear out the patrons through the back. Blast it if you have to,” Harry shouts.

Art and Xan nod and rush to the betting pool.

“Leo, gather up everything you can and Floo over to Dante’s place – now.” Harry slices his palm, running it against the arena’s floor and letting the blood seep into the runes.

The runes glow, sigils spreading rapidly on every surface.

“Abby, take Tris and Hope over to his Manor. Tell him I’ll go with his plan if he helps.” Harry blinks back his double vision and pours more energy into the runes.

He’s not enough to power all the runes and keep order in this place. “Maddie, Kelly, get all the fighters and others out. Hide out in Knockturn for now.”

Yes, he’s split everyone up. Not everyone can be caught.

“Olly, fuel the wards w–” Fuck, Harry. Concentrate.

He feels the pressure building, the temperature mounting.

The fire burns hot around him.

The wards on the doors give in. It doesn’t matter anymore.

By the time the Aurors realize it, everything would have burnt down.

Hewn smiles thinly.

It’s painful but temporary. They’ll find a new home.

He apparates away.

“Are you sure about this? They will make you attend Hogwarts. And you will, perhaps, have to place your people with them,” Riddle asks.

“I won't let them send me anywhere. Neither will they take anyone of mine. I’ll do it my way, but yes, you will get the information you so desire,” Harry drawls, leaning back in the chair.

“You look awfully confident for a child about to be thrown among wolves,” Riddle raises an eyebrow.

Harry finally looks at him. “One,” he says, holding up a finger, “I am the wolf. They’re the children.”

He puts up another finger. “Two, you look awfully like a twenty year old instead of seventy.”

Harry puts up yet another finger, and wiggles it in front of Riddle’s face. “And three, do you practice the eyebrow raise in front of a mirror every morning?”

Riddle sneers at him, and picks up his fork and knife to eat.

A man – who looks very familiar walks in, and bows to Riddle. “My lord.”

Realization dawns onto Harry and he blurts out, “You’re the Other Crouch! The one who tried to kidnap me in the middle of the night.”

Other Crouch glares at Harry, disgruntled. “My name’s Barty. I remember you – Harry Potter, the person who let me walk away after an attempt on his life because he was too sleepy.”

“You’re very careless for a person who claims to run a fighting and betting house,” Riddle comments, smirking.

“And you’re very unguarded for a recently dead man, Jonathan,” Harry sneers back.

A stinging hex is sent his way and he ducks.

There’s a yelp behind him, and Harry turns to look at Abby who is glaring at Riddle, about to go off.

“Abby, come here, let me look at the effects,” Harry beckons her forward and she settles on the chair next to him.

The sting has already started to swell, skin red and angry. He lays a hand over it, letting his magic flow from palm to flesh, cooling the burn. Abby flinches—but doesn’t make a sound.

Atta girl.

“Tris and Hope haven’t woken up yet?” Harry asks her when she stands up.

“Tris is taking a bath and Hope is probably about to wake up. I don’t know her sleeping pattern, she’s always with Kelly, Xan or you,” Abby shrugs. “I’ll check up on Tris again.”

“You do that.”

When Harry turns, Barty is watching him with a strange expression. Harry shoots him a questioning look.

Barty frowns, “I thought you were just pretending, during the tournament, but you treat that girl like she’s your kid or something.”

“That is a secondary matter,” Riddle interjects. “You do know what you just did was non verbal magic? It needs a stable core so it is taught in sixth year. How do you already know it?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I’m self taught and didn’t conform to your Hogwarts’ rule,” Harry says sarcastically. “Besides, I hardly know any word specific spells. The trick I use is just intent based flow of magic concentrated in my palm.”

Tris chooses this moment to rush down the stairs, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Da! Da! Hope’s crying and Abby is freaking out. Help!”

Harry sighs, “She must be hungry. Her bottle should be with Leo at Dante’s. I’ll go fetch Leo and all the other stuff. Then we can slowly call over the others as well.”

“This is my house. Shouldn’t you ask me first?” Riddle scowls.

“We had a deal. Also, I could just leave and go stay with Dante if it’s inconven–”

“No!” Riddle narrows his eyes. “You will not live with that bloodsucker.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll just pick Leo up and thank Dante for letting Leo stay,” Harry waves him off.

Barty just looks between them, bewildered. Am I air? He thinks.

“Gripfang just sent back a reply. He’ll buy and register the place with Muggles and register with the Ministry as a wizard’s home. Let’s live in one of my properties till then,” Harry suggests, folding the letter in his hands.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Dumbledore doesn’t know of them, does he?” Maddie asks, chewing on her bottom lip.

“He shouldn’t know about it,” Harry frowns. “I’ll talk to Luna.”

Maddie makes a face. “Why talk to her about this? How would she know?”

“Luna’s Luna. If nothing else, she’ll give me an even better idea. I’ll just have to interpret what she means,” Harry shrugs. “Wanna come with me?”

“...Fine.”

Art smirks, “Excited to see your little admirer, are you?”

Maddie flips Art off and teases, “What about your perfect little blondie? Malfoy, right?”

Art runs to her and holds her in a headlock, pressing down on her neck. “Come again?”

Maddie turns red from suffocation, tapping Art’s forearm.

Leo plops down next to Harry, sighing, “Am I the only one sensible among you idiots?”

“You’re the stupidest, idiot,” Harry, Maddie and Art crow in unison.

Harry pulls up his knees to his chest. “I miss my sweaters, they got left behind.”

“You can just say you miss Maw. We all miss it.” Art ruffles Harry’s hair, pulling Leo up by his tee to sit on the chair, instead.

“We lived there for the better part of our lives. It saw us go hungry for days and saw us feasting like royalty. You’re allowed to miss it,” Maddie smiles her soft, reserved smile. “You fortified every nook and cranny, left a piece of yourself there, Hewn. And, then, you had to actively burn it down. It couldn’t have not hurt.”

Harry feels a strange squeeze in his chest. It is... unsettling.

He doesn't say anything for a while.

Harry stares at his knees, arms locked around them, like if he squeezes tight enough, maybe he can fold back into himself. Maybe he can be smaller. Be ten again, fighting monsters in the ring and waking to Leo's snoring and Maddie’s cold toes pressed against his leg under the covers. Maybe he can pretend the Maw is still there. That it wasn’t his wand, his hand, his spell that burned it down.

The silence is raw.

Art sits down beside him. The weight of him is warm, grounding. No teasing now. No smartass comments. Just… there.

Leo rests his head on Harry’s thigh, like a child, and for all his sharp tongue and sharper eyes, he still is. Just a kid, really, only twelve. Still learning what it means to lose things that aren’t supposed to be taken.

“I still hear the mesh sometimes,” Harry says, voice thin. “In my sleep. The clanking. The jangling. Like it’s still standing.”

Maddie leans forward. “I dream of the fights. Not the ones in the ring—our fights. Us. Screaming at each other. Laughing like idiots five minutes later.”

“I smell the soup,” Leo mumbles. “Violet’s weird mushroom one. Smelled like feet.”

Harry huffs a laugh, but it cracks halfway through. “She made it every time someone got sick. Even if the ingredients made no sense.”

“She said it worked better if it was gross,” Art says softly. “She thought if it tasted awful, it had to be healing something.”

A breath catches. Maddie’s eyes shimmer. No one says her name. No one dares to. Violet. Gone. Even her memories. Gone. Tristan’s mother. Their girl.

And Harry— Harry digs his nails into his forearm, so hard he nearly draws blood. He can’t cry. He won’t. He can’t afford to.

“I left Mr. Foxy,” he says, quietly. “The one Abby used to carry with her. I didn’t mean to, I just—there wasn’t time. I couldn’t save it.”

“You were saving us,” Maddie whispers. “Xan and Kelly are of age, they would have gotten some sort of sentence. All of us would have been dumped in an orphanage or in the Muggle foster system.”

Harry doesn’t answer. He doesn’t believe it.

Because the Maw was more than bricks and pipes. It was him. Hewn. Hewn was born there. Raised there. Forged there. In blood and grime and frostbitten dawns. The Maw saw the worst of him and loved him anyway. It let him be angry. It let him be cruel. It let him be afraid.

He isn’t sure who he is without it.

He isn't sure he wants to know.

“I don’t know how to be outside it,” he says brokenly. “I knew how to rule that. I knew how to build, to fight, to fix it all. I don’t know how to live like this.”

“This?” Art asks.

“Like I’m not a fucked up kid with violent tendencies. Like I know what to make of myself out of the Maw’s walls.”

Maddie wipes her cheeks and sits on Harry’s other side. She threads her fingers through his.

“You’ll build it again,” she says. “We all will.”

Harry shakes his head. “It won’t be the same.”

“No,” Art agrees. “It’ll never be. But maybe that’s not the worst thing.”

And still, Harry can’t shake the weight in his chest. Because Maw was theirs. No rules but the ones they carved into stone. No gods but hunger and loyalty. No love but earned, bloody, bruised love.

Now, there’s nothing left but ash and echoes.

He thinks of the memories in that place. Of Olly. Of Violet. Of the ring and the fights and the muffled lullabies Xan would hum when the wind howled through the cracked windows.

He thinks of Hewn— Hewn, who never feared anything. Who burned before breaking. Who seems to have disappeared with its kingdom.

And Harry wonders, with a sinking in his chest so deep it might be forever:

Did that part of him burn in the fire, too?

Chapter Text

“We are not living in your evil Dark Lord lair,” Harry says exasperatedly, hands flailing for emphasis.

“You aren’t living here either way, so why not leave the decision to the people who are? And, for the record, this is Riddle Manor, not whatever abhorrent name you just spouted,” Riddle snaps.

“Mr. Riddle, let me talk to Harry for a minute. He will see reason soon enough.” Kelly smiles tightly at Riddle.

At Riddle’s nod, she grasps Harry’s bicep and drags him to the side.

“What is wrong with you?” Kelly hisses at him.

Harry gives her an affronted look and snaps, “Whatever is right with you, apparently.”

“Harry, this is the actual Dark Lord offering us shelter. Do you know how insane that is? And it’s still the safest option we have, especially with your vow. Stop being so picky – we’ll live here. Besides, I don’t want to live in the middle of nowhere – as your Manor will be,” Kelly says firmly, holding his shoulders with both hands.

Harry levels her with a flat look. She purses her lips frowning at him.

Harry rolls his eyes and goes back to Riddle. “They’ll stay.”

Riddle looks at him disbelievingly and scoffs under his breath. “Fine. You have to leave by today evening.”

“The Order... I know where the Headquarters are. Can I not just try to find a piece of parchment with the address and give it to you?” Harry asks.

He really doesn’t want to stay near those people more than he has to.  Riddle felt more of a ‘friend’ than any of them did.

“Absolutely not, Potter. That may be the stupidest suggestion I’ve heard all week — and my Death Eaters exist.” Riddle rolls his eyes.

Harry almost wishes he had drowned him in a cauldron when he had the chance.

“I’ll take my stuff with me – including my books,” he declares, raising an eyebrow and daring Riddle to argue.

“The books will paint you in a suspicious light. You have to seem at least a little pitiful if we want your attitude to be overlooked. I don’t trust you to not strangle Dumbledore as soon as you see him.”

Riddle walks to the desk on the opposite side and opens a drawer. He takes out a small box and places it on the desk.

Riddle looks up at him and asks, “You have your lower lobe pierced, right?”

At Harry’s confirming nod, he beckons Harry forward and opens the box.

Inside the box lay a pair of small, round studs. Harry could feel the protective magic rolling off it in waves.

“Are these real diamonds?” Harry picks one up to inspect closely.

“They are. They are also protected against harm and will shield against minor curses. The right one is a portkey to this Manor’s Floo room. If you are discovered, it will be easier to escape. The activation word is ‘Tom’,” Riddle smiles saccharinely sweet at him.

“I didn’t hear you right, did you say ‘Tim’?” Harry bats his eyelashes sweetly.

“One of these days, Potter, your mouth will be the death of you,” Riddle sneers, sweeping out of the room before Harry can shoot back.

Harry looks down at the studs in his hands. They glint in the light from the windows and, Harry closes his palm around them, the posts digging into his palm.

Harry flings the barrel bag on his back, sighing dejectedly one last time before knocking on the door.

The door opens a minute later, Black blinking owlishly at him. “H- Harry?”

Harry almost snaps at him to not call him that – or anything, really. But he swallows it back, iron and ash on his tongue.

“Sirius?” he says instead, softening his voice.

The other man’s eyes light up and he looks like he can't quite believe his eyes. “I – you’re here? Come in, come in, please.”

There it is. The desperation. That terrible, clingy, needful hope in his voice. The desperation to keep the last relic of his best friend with him. Harry cannot help but pity this man for his condition but, he can also not help but hate him for it.

Harry enters the house quietly, moving with nimble feet as he always does. Sirius looks back at him, confusion clear as day on his face.

He wears his emotions on his sleeve far too much than any other pureblood Harry has met. It is unsettling.

“My mother’s portrait is in the hallway. It shrieks anytime we try to go through there. That’s why I moved so silently. How did you figure it out?” the man asks him curiously.

“That’s how I usually move.” Harry gives a tight smile.

“Padfoot, who is it?” Lupin calls from a room somewhere.

Harry clenches his fists and has to make an active effort to not grind his teeth when he speaks. “Can I stay here? My place is demolished.”

There’s loud footsteps and Lupin comes rushing in, an empty glass in hand. “Harry! Oh Merlin, I – I swear I never told anyone where the Maw was! I only told Dumbledore I was going to see you. I really don’t know how the Aurors got there.”

It seems almost sweet, and Harry would have found the stumbling and wild gestures funny, if this wasn’t the man who brought his entire world crashing down.

“I won't say it’s alright, but I’ll try to be cordial with you,” Harry smiles awkwardly at Lupin.

“You can stay as long as you like, Harry! Stay forever if you want to.” Sirius steps forward and holds out his arms but then pulls them back down, smiling tentatively.

He’s shown to a room, then. A dusty room where he’s supposed to live with another person.

“We don’t have many clean rooms right now,” Sirius had said. “I’ll give you your own room soon.”

Harry drops the barrel bag onto the creaky floorboards with a dull thud. The mattress is weird, the window sticks, and Harry has to suffer someone’s horrendous choice of pairing peeling yellow wallpaper with green curtains.

And then there’s Ron Weasley — sitting on the second bed with wide eyes, looking awestruck, and an expression of someone who wants to ask something deeply idiotic.

“Hey mate, Dumbledore says that you saw You-Know-Who come back. What was it like?”

Harry purses his lips and shakes his head to stop himself from retorting.

When he turns around, Ron is still grinning, waiting expectantly.

Screw it. He wants his answers. And Harry smiles toothily. “Oh, it was really fun. I was tied to his father’s gravestone, while they sacrificed a baby and danced naked around a bonfire. A little bit of blood, and a feast of human kneecaps, the usual.”

The boy’s face falls and he stammers. “I – er... I didn’t mean–”

Harry holds up a hand. “No, no, it’s cool. Let’s play twenty questions. Want to ask how Voldemort smells next? I’ll give you a hint— like he was dead for a decade.”

Ron goes pink. “I just meant—”

“Weasley, I do not care what you meant. Let me be, yeah?” Harry huffs, sitting down on the bed.

There’s a knock on the door and a familiar face peeks in. “I thought I heard two people here.”

“Hermione?” Harry asks, cocking his head to the side.

“Harry?” she says, stepping fully into the room. “What are you doing here? And are Abby and Tristan not here?”

Harry’s heart gives a pang at hearing his kids’ names and he smiles at her. “I’ll be living here for now. Abby and Tris are... with Art.”

“How do you two know each other?” Ron almost shouts.

“Well, some of us actually tried to enjoy the Yule Ball, Ronald, not make it miserable for others,” Hermione snaps harshly.

Ron goes pink again and Harry’s dislike of him grows stronger.

“Ron! Come down here!” a voice shouts from somewhere outside. Ron mutters something incoherent and shuffles out, closing the door behind him.

Harry glances at Hermione, “Was he why you left early?”

Hermione nods with a sheepish little shrug, “Yeah, we had a bit of a spat.”

“Krum said you were down for a long time,” Harry raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, well... his words really hurt me that night,” Hermione tells him, her ears tinged pink. “But it’s okay. Usually, he’s very sweet.”

With a feeling of uneasiness, Harry realizes that she like likes Weasley. “If you like him, why did you go with Krum?”

“You – I – what are you even talking about?” Hermione squeaks, turning completely red.

“How do you like someone you argue with, more than you talk?” Harry asks, genuinely baffled. It all feels very absurd to him.

Hermione fidgets. “It’s not really arguing. It’s more like... teasing. Opposite natures, I guess. But then there are moments — the beautiful ones — when he lets me be ridiculous, and he’s ridiculous with me. He notices things. Gets me new ink before I realize I’m out. Stays up with me when I have too much homework. He makes me feel special,” she confesses, a small smile playing on her lips.

Harry’s thumb drifts to his earlobe, rubbing over the smooth stud nestled there. He turns it around a bit, fidgeting. Riddle’s voice rings in his ears ‘You have your lower lobe pierced, right?’

Harry never really wears any earrings. And the mark is barely visible. Riddle must have spectacular vision to have seen it from afar.

He exhales, tired and fond and a little judgmental. “You’re mad.”

Hermione smiles. “Maybe. But I think you might be too, if you’re letting me talk your ear off.”

The grandfather clock ticks obnoxiously in the silence.

Harry sits at the table, absently turning a spoon over in his hand. The tea Sirius made him has long gone cold.

The other dozen people on the table chatter, flitting about the room. It’s loud as fuck.

Dumbledore steps into the kitchen with the airs of a benevolent ruler.

“Harry,” he says, voice calmer than his thoughts ought to be. “Sirius told me about what happened. I was hoping we’d have a moment to talk.”

Harry doesn't look up. “Oh, now you want to talk?”

The table turns quiet. The Weasley matriarch herds her children out of the room, shutting it.

“I understand you’re angry—”

“No,” Harry interrupts, finally lifting his eyes. They’re dull and sharp at the same time. “You don’t understand anything. But go on. Enlighten me.”

Dumbledore hesitates. That flicker of discomfort is undeniably funny.

“I made mistakes. I will not repeat them. Come to Hogwarts, just the way you’ve come to Grimmauld.”

“You thought?” Harry echoes, voice mocking. “That’s generous. But not fucking enough, apparently. Because you’re going to end up cut up in a ditch if you keep this up, old man.”

Someone further down the table stands up, but Dumbledore puts up a hand. He sighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. It does nothing to move Harry.

“You must see—”

“I see everything now,” Harry cuts in, tone sharper than glass. “I see how you keep secrets like they’re yours to hoard, like they’re not about people’s lives. I see how you let Sirius rot in prison despite knowing the truth. I see how you gave just that one werewolf a place in Hogwarts. I see that providential funds are always scarce for the children of Knockturn. I see a lot of things the world refuses to, Albus Dumbledore.”

He stands. The spoon clinks against the table, forgotten.

Dumbledore flinches as Harry takes a step forward. He shouldn't — Harry isn’t shouting. But there’s something wrong in the air now. Something old and furious.

“You sent Aurors to the Maw.”

“The Maw!” Molly Weasley interjects, gasping in shock. “That’s no place for a child to be. Surely, Albus was jus –”

“This child set it up, madam,” Harry says scathingly.

“I thought it was a danger to you,” Dumbledore says quietly. “I didn’t know what the Maw was. I feared—”

“You feared losing control. That’s what this is about.” Harry hisses, a sneer on his lips.

“You’ve grown so much. I only wanted to keep you safe,” Dumbledore extends a hand towards him. Harry shakes it off.

He takes one final step forward, until there’s barely space between him and Dumbledore.

“I am not your soldier. I’m not your boy. And if you ever try to take anything from me again... you will learn what it means to be my enemy.”

Dumbledore studies him. Something cold and familiar in those old eyes. They are the eyes of a chess master. For the first time, perhaps, he sees Harry not as a naïve child — but as something entirely other.

Dumbledore doesn’t stay for dinner.

Molly Weasley sets the stew pot down a little too hard.

The plates clink loudly as she begins dishing out servings. No one speaks. The clatter of cutlery becomes the only sound, interrupted occasionally by a cough or the squeak of a chair.

Ron is glaring at his peas like they insulted his family. Hermione keeps glancing at Harry with barely disguised concern.

The real Moody is very uninterested in the drama, whereas a pink haired woman called Tonks looks way too amused.

Sirius, to Harry’s right, snorts suddenly.

“Bloody hell, that was a show,” he says, stabbing a sausage. “Almost makes me want to clap.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Molly huffs.

Harry doesn’t answer. He just eats, movements calm, precise. He doesn’t want to argue anymore.

“Y’know,” Sirius continues, waving his fork around, “the last time someone talked to Dumbledore like that, they ended up cursed into a teacup.”

“Well,” Harry says mildly, “I’m not that easy to fit into china.”

Hermione chokes on her bread.

Moody grunts in approval.

Sirius grins at him like he’s just found a long-lost brother. Maybe he is thinking of another boy who had lanky features and a bird’s nest for hair. There's something feral in it. The crazy in Sirius Black is honest. Harry likes it.

Arthur Weasley tries to change the subject. “So, Harry… planning to return to school?”

Harry chews. Swallows. “Maybe.”

Ron slams his spoon down. “You think you’re better than us now, don’t you?”

“No,” Harry says. “I know I am.”

Hermione groans and drops her head into her hands. Sirius laughs until he wheezes. Molly says a sharp “Ronald!” but Harry’s already tuning them out.

The food is good. Very homely.

Harry misses their overcooked, greasy meals. They used to assign it to everyone in turns. Harry and Olly were the most terrific team in the kitchen. It was their thing.

Harry stabs at the potatoes. Moody’s watching him with that spinning eye like he’s trying to see through his skull.

“So,” Moody grunts, stabbing a piece of meat like it personally offended him. “You’ve been busy.”

“Sure,” Harry says, tone deadpan. “Child labour, organized crime, breaking and entering.”

“I don’t like what I’m hearing outta your mouth, Potter.”

“Good,” Harry says flatly, “it’s not for your enjoyment.”

Moody grits his teeth. “You watch that fucking attitude.”

“You watch your fucking tone.” Harry finally looks at him, something vicious flickering in his expression. “You're not owed shit just 'cause you got a fucked-up face and a Ministry badge.”

“Shut up, you little shit. I’ve got more scars than you’ve got hair on your chest,” Moody growls.

Harry shrugs. “Congrats. Still didn’t stop someone from tossing you in a trunk and replacing you with a psychopath.”

Moody slams his hand on the table. Plates rattle.

“You think that’s funny?”

“No. I think it’s fucking hilarious that the Death Eater who pretended to be you was more useful than you’ve ever been.” Harry leans forward.

Moody’s jaw tightens. “He was a murderer.”

“And you’re a has-been. At least he was good at the role.”

There’s a twitch in Moody’s hand like he might throw his fork. Harry wishes he would. He’s in the mood for violence.

Moody’s face is pure fury now. “You got no idea what the fuck you’re saying.”

“No, I know exactly what I’m saying,” Harry snaps. “I’ve been hunted, starved, stabbed, and dragged through hell while you lot lived in your little rainbow fantasies. You wanna lecture me on danger? Bitch, I built it.”

Everyone has stopped eating on account of watching the argument that sprung out of the blue.

Harry stands, chair scraping loudly.

Moody picks up a bread roll, mutters, “Little shit’s got a death wish.”

Somewhere down the hall, Harry shouts, “Heard that, you crusty fuck!”

Chapter Text

Harry gathers all the meanness – which is a lot, to be honest – inside him and swaggers into Riddle’s study, throwing its doors open.

He spreads his arms wide, grinning and shouts, “Honey, I’m home!”

Silence.

Riddle isn’t even present to watch the absolute spectacle that Harry is. Harry feels bad for the poor man for missing it.

He scowls, yanks his hood back up and goes Dark Lord hunting.

Harry finds him in the snooty-as-fuck ball room of the Manor. A whole flock of robed minions lined up, mumbling apologies and pleas.

Harry rolls his eyes at the dramatics. Snorting, he shakes his head.

It’s visible – the moment Riddle catches sight of him. He stares for a second and Harry tilts his head to the side in response.

“Dismissed.” The words ring in the room and the mumbling stops.

All the Death Eaters bow collectively and start leaving in a single file.

Harry climbs onto the dais and makes himself comfortable on it. He whistles appreciatively and remarks, “Nice sheep you’ve got there. Do you use their skin for clothes too?”

“You dare call the upper crust of wizarding society sheep?” Riddle shoots back but there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Harry sniggers and waves it off.

“Well?” Riddle raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you took the risk to come here for a stroll.”

“Yeah, no. I had a talk with Dumbledore. He was the one who sent the Aurors. He also wants me back at Hogwarts, which I’m assuming is the reason he decided to have my Maw raided,” Harry says flatly.

He’s afraid he’ll combust if he puts more though into this.

There’s also that something broken thing or whatever inside him that reared its head when Riddle dismissed an entire meeting to talk to him. It does not seem to care that the dismissal was for new information, and not for him.

“That cannot be the only reason. Dumbledore is too smart to do this just to force you back in line. Maybe he thought that you’ll be deserted and broken and, he could swoop in and save you. Or he could have simply wanted to set Lupin up against you – as that would naturally alienate you from Black.” Riddle is twirling his wand around in his hand.

Harry has noticed he tends to do it while cooking up conspiracy theories. It is too often for Harry’s brain to keep up.

Harry nods seriously when Riddle looks at him for his opinion. Then, Riddle goes back to narrating opera plotlines and Harry sits back, watching him babble on, with an amused grin.

“You’re not even listening, are you, Potter?” Riddle glares at him spitefully.

“Yes, I am. You just said that Dumbledore will try to portray me as a bumbling fool to the Ministry and increase his own foothold. What is he – a one dimensional cartoonish villain?” Harry laughs, voice echoing in the empty room.

“Only those who have power are visible, and Dumbledore is a man who craves to remain visible. He’d do anything for it. Besides, who would understand power better than you and I, Hewn?” Riddle smirks.

Harry just laughs louder at the theatrics.

Sirius paces in front of Harry, occasionally pausing to say something but then simply shaking his head and continuing.

“What is it?” Harry finally asks after another ten minutes.

He could have gone all day, watching the man tire himself out, but Sirius already looks like he could be blown over by a gust of wind. Harry would rather not be accused of his murder.

Sirius smiles sheepishly and mutters, “Sorry, I was trying to figure out how to say it exactly.”

“Sirius,” Harry says slowly. “You do know you have the subtlety of a chimera – that is to say none?”

The older man grimaces, “You didn’t need to be so blunt. I just want to warn you to not make an enemy out of every person you see here. I know, I know you’re sharp and quick but one against the world aren’t exactly favourable odds, eh?”

He isn’t alone per se. There’s Riddle, Art, Xan, Kelly, Leo, Maddie, Abby, Tris, Dante and all the other creatures whose lives he’s saved with the existence of Maw. These people would definitely even help him overthrow the government if he asks.

There’s a knock on the door and a redhead peeks in. “Um... Mum is calling you downstairs, Sirius. Something about some stuff she wants to throw away.”

Sirius’s face darkens and Harry feels the familiar rush of excitement.

This man is going to break one of these days. Harry cannot wait for it to happen. Maybe he’ll evict every single person inside the house. Maybe Harry will fan the fire if he’s in the mood.

Sirius leaves after a pat on Harry’s shoulder. He wants to flinch away but he’s trying to build trust.

Sirius looks at him with sad eyes as he goes. Ah, right, the infamous Black Parenting™.

The redhead is probably the youngest Weasley. The one Luna said she used to play with.

“Hi, I’m Ginny! I was at Luna’s yesterday, so we didn’t meet,” the girl introduces herself with a small wave. Her ears are turning red and Harry is quite sure he doesn’t like this.

“Hi. I’m Harry,” he says and goes back to reading.

After an awkward pause, Ginny asks, “You are returning to Hogwarts this year as a student, right?”

“A person’s trying to read here. Also, no, I will not.”

It’s late night when he hears bustling from the kitchen downstairs.

Tom soundlessly gets up to go and check.

The noise, as it turns out, is made by Harry’s little army. They flit about the place, cooking. The scene looks surprisingly functional and smooth.

“Why are you all awake, in the kitchen, at midnight?” he asks, annoyed.

“We can't magically start sleeping at night. It’s been years since we switched to this time. Give us at least a week. Honestly, does the brain degrade while growing older,” one of the brats huffs.

A muscle in Tom’s jaw ticks. All that is saving them is the vow.

“I will not tolerate disrespect in my own place,” he warns.

An older man steps forward and grabs the brat by her arm. “Maddie, control your tongue for a while. He’s right, this is his house. We have to be considerate.”

Tom is surprised at how agreeable the man is. The only one he can tolerate so far out of these kids has been Tristan.

The man turns to Tom. “I’m sorry. We’ll try to be quieter. What Maddie said is true – we will definitely need some time before we can sleep at night – but for your sake, we’ll be quieter.”

Tom has to say, had he not been a Slytherin, he would have fallen for the manipulation. He might actually believe a favour was being done to him if not for the fact he used the trick regularly, himself.

Tom looks at the man more closely. “You’re part incubus, are you not?”

The man smirks. “Half, yes.”

Tristan’s voice reaches them before the child himself. “Kelly! Xannie! Hope’s crying again.”

The child screams continuously, running into the kitchen.

“Well, if I wasn’t already awake, he would have woken me up.” Tom presses a palm against his right ear.

‘Xannie’ apparently refers to the man Tom was talking to, a while ago. Ah, he must be Xan, then.

“I’ll check on her. Kels, warm up some milk for her?” the man gives Tom one last smile before rushing up.

“I still wonder where that little child appeared from,” Tom mutters, shaking his head.

The woman warming the milk gives him a disrespectful look. “She’s mine.”

The insolence grates on his nerves.

If only he didn’t hate that stupid vampire so much, he would have let all these menaces go to his place.

The woman doesn’t bother looking away as she tests the milk with her finger. “Besides, you don’t exactly strike me as a man who likes babies.”

Tom arches a brow. “And yet here you are, in my kitchen, feeding one under my roof.”

She smiles without warmth. “Funny how that’s working out.”

Before he can respond, the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs announces the return of Xan. He’s cradling an infant who looks halfway between sleep and tantrum, eyes red and wet. She blinks at Tom, then immediately buries her face in Xan’s shoulder.

“Hope,” Xan murmurs into her hair, “that’s the man who owns the big house. You don’t have to talk to him.”

Tom tilts his head. “Although, I refuse to believe this infant can speak at all,  I’m beginning to see why you all insist on keeping nocturnal hours. It keeps you from speaking to me in daylight.”

That earns him a round of muffled snickers from somewhere near the stove.

He lets it pass. “Clean up when you’re done,” he says, already turning away. “If I find so much as a crumb on the counter tomorrow, you’ll wish you’d never seen this kitchen.”

By the time he’s halfway up the stairs, the bustle has resumed behind him — quieter, yes, but with that same irritating efficiency.

A man bumps into her side and Maddie snarls, “Watch where you’re going, nutcase!”

She shoulders her bag of groceries and moves to leave.

“Maddie?” a soft, familiar voice carries over the noise of the alley effortlessly. It’s Luna.

Maddie thinks that Luna could be halfway across the street and whisper her name but she’d still hear it.

Luna skips over to her and waves cheerfully. Maddie waves back and chuckles despite herself.

“Your glasses are upside down, little Miss,” she says in lieu of a greeting, smiling wide.

“I know. Do they look nice?” Luna beams and tilts her head to the side.

“They look stupid,” Maddie wrinkles her nose. She stops smiling when she feels her dimples showing.

They made her look like a little child. Olly always said she looked ‘so cute’ when she smiled her wide, dimpled smile.

“How do we end up running into each other all the time? This is the fifth time this is happening,” Maddie groans exaggeratedly.

“Should I leave?” Luna turns, taking mini steps.

“Wait, what? No. I never said that,” Maddie extends a hand to stop Luna but retreats halfway through, running the hand through her own hair instead.

Luna giggles in her usual dreamy way. “Ice cream?”

Maddie shrugs. She has a very inappropriate sense of humour which is currently acting up. If she says anything now, it could range from ‘I like it wet and sticky’ to ‘Depends… are you feeding me or am I doing the licking?’

They stroll over to Fortescue’s and Luna gets a chocolate ice cream. Maddie gets a random piece of gum to chew and to avoid speaking.

Luna hums some tune which feels illegal.

“What are you even humming?” Maddie asks, unable to contain herself.

“Oh, it’s nice, right. It’s a Muggle song – ‘Loser’ by Beck. Very catchy,” Luna smiles in the sunshine way only she does.

“I’m sure you sing it better.”

“I could never write such pretty lyrics as the original. It goes ‘In the time of chimpanzees I was a monkey, Butane in my veins and I'm out to cut the junkie, With the plastic eyeballs, spray-paint the vegetables, Dog food stalls with the beefcake pantyhose’.” Luna sings it like it’s profound.

Maddie gives up on trying to understand. “Why the hell do I even enjoy talking to you?”

“Maybe I scare your Wrackspurts.”

Maddie snorts. “You wish.”

“You don’t sound too upset about it,” Luna sing-songs.

Dinners with Dumbledore coming over are always tense. Sirius keeps trying to be nice. Dumbledore is... Dumbledore.

Today, the old coot has chosen war – with Harry no less.

“Harry, this is for your benefit. You will come to Hogwarts and it is final,” Dumbledore says firmly.

“No I won’t.”

“It is your OWL year, my boy. The most crucial in determining your future career paths.” Dumbledore has fire burning in his eyes. But he’s not Hewn if he backs down so easily, either.

“Again, irrelevant. I do not give a fuck what you think is crucial. I know what I’m doing. I won't go there,” Harry snaps.

“Albus, if he doesn’t want to go –” Sirius begins.

“Not now, Sirius. Let’s talk later.” Dumbledore gives his usual disappointed look.

Sirius stops short like a teenager caught doing something wrong.

“Harry, if you’re so sure, duel with Fred then,” Dumbledore points to the redhead.

“That’s George. You’ve been their headmaster for five years. How about you pay more attention to your students than to me?” Harry replies, disgusted by the clear bias.

“Even if it is Gorge, you still have to duel him. When he wins, you will agree to go to Hogwarts.”

“Your school hasn’t seen a good Defense teacher in forever. If I lose right now, I think I’m dig a small hole and bury myself in it. No offense, George,” Harry snorts.

“None taken, mate. Let’s do this!” George bounds forward with a spring in step.

The duel starts. George is a good fighter. Could be even better with the right training. But all the practice he’s had has been in a controlled environment.

So, for Harry, it is relatively easy to end up with George sticking down from the rafters with a rope.

George looks pleasantly surprised and Fred even gives Harry a discreet thumbs-up.

“George Weasley! The headmaster trusted such an important responsibility to you. And what did you do? Destroy the opportunity? He’s a year younger, how could you lose!” Molly Weasley shouts at George.

George is busy trying not to laugh with Fred standing behind Molly, mimicking her best dialogues.

The relation looks forced as fuck to Harry. He wonders why they live together despite being insulted and undermined so often.

Yes, they’re related. But how could someone stay with people who constantly put you down and make you feel inferior to appease themselves.

Harry wonders if this is how all biological families are. If so, he’s glad to not have one.

Chapter Text

“I heard something about you controlling dementors, at the Order headquarters. Is it real? Tell me it’s real!” Harry demands as soon as he finds Riddle.

Riddle doesn’t even look up from his book. It is infuriating.

After another minute of Harry staring, unimpressed, at Riddle, the man finally looks up. He nods once and goes back to his book.

“Ugh, what are you acting all nonchalant for? I can feel your smugness from here.” Harry glares, irritated.

“Because I know you too well to think this is an innocent question. You cannot learn to control them,” Riddle smiles wryly.

How Harry wishes to punch that expression off Riddle’s face...

“Why though? Is it because my soul is still whole or wha –  AH, watch it.” Harry ducks as a curse goes whizzing past him.

Something – a vase, maybe – breaks. Harry is too busy nursing his bruised pride to check.

Harry flicks his hand and gets his wand from its holster. “You do know that if that curse landed, you’d have been stripped of your magic? You owe me for dodging.”

Riddle sneers, “If you hadn’t dodged, it would have blown your side off.”

Riddle stands up and moves towards Harry. “Never. Ever. Even. Think of. My horcruxes. Again.”

He lifts his hands slowly, mock surrender, but his mouth is faster than his survival instincts. “Wow. Touchy subject. You’d think you’d at least buy me dinner before trying to get so close.”

Riddle is next to Harry in a flash, wand digging against Harry’s throat. Harry presses his own acacia wand against Riddle’s chest.

“Do it, Riddle. I fucking dare you,” Harry spits, lips curling into an ugly grin.

“You’d be ash already if not for the vow,” Riddle hisses through clenched teeth.

Harry’s grip tightens, knuckles white. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing. Guess we’re both screwed.”

Riddle pulls away with a scoff, eyes blazing with anger.

Harry turns to leave – and for the heck of it, flips Riddle off before slamming the doors behind him.

There’s a muffled scream and an explosion in Riddle’s study. The walls shake with it.

“Fucking wanker,” Harry shouts at Riddle through the door before apparating away.

“Now listen, all of you. Hewn’s not here but that doesn’t mean we’ll let those Death Eaters or whatever walk all over us,” Xan announces in the afternoon.

“It’s not even a question, Xan. They’re just dysfunction kids in adult skin – nothing we haven’t seen before,” Kelly grins.

“I still don’t get why I can't come with you guys,” Leo grumbles with a scowl.

Kelly sighs and repeats for the fourth time, “Hewn said no. You and the kids can't come. It’s not even that big. They’re just training and Hewn asked us to join them. Stop sulking.”

Leo gets a faraway look in his eyes halfway through– the kind that means he’s not even in the room anymore.

“Abby, make sure he doesn’t wander off,” Maddie tells the little girl.

Leo looks one step away from shouting at someone. Kelly’s sure he’d put up more of a fight if Hewn was here.

Hewn was the glue that kept them all together for so long.

Knockturn isn’t a place you survive as a group – Kelly and the others would have crashed and burned without the Maw.

Maybe Kelly would have begged on the streets. Or she would have gone over to the Muggle world. Or she would have sought a brothel to live in. It would have been a waste.

“Kels? You good?” Art waves a hand in front of her face.

“Sod off, you jackass,” Kelly laughs and swats his hand away.

There’s a loud knock on the door. “Are you guys ready?”

Barty bangs his fist on the door repeatedly. “It doesn’t really matter. Just come with me.”

“It’s happening in the Dark Lord’s ballroom? Are his little ducklings afraid of dust?” Maddie scoffs.

Xan levels her with a look before opening the door. “Hello Barty.”

“Hello Xander. Your little entourage ready to go?” Barty asks with a sickeningly sweet voice.

Xan grits his teeth. “Yes. We’ll be there in a moment. Fuck off.”

Barty clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “And here I thought I’d get to escort y’all. Truly a shame.”

“Bartemius,” Art begins with a smile. “Xan said we’ll be down in a second. Leave.”

The other man glares. “Fine.”

Barty leaves after a sour look towards both Xan and Art.

As they step out of the room, Leo warns them, “He’s more than a little mad but he’s also the Dark Lord’s favourite right now. Don’t step on his toes.”

Xan chuckles and nods.

On the way, Xan, Art, Maddie, and Kelly walk in silence.

When they open the doors, most of the Death Eaters are already paired and duelling. Some are more impressive than the others but they’re far too few.

“I know you brats would eat the new recruits alive so I arranged for you to duel with the Middle Circle. They aren’t as shoddy,” Barty smiles humorlessly.

“Let’s do this then. I’ll go first,” Kelly says, stepping forward.

“Sure. Everything’s game except killing and maiming.” Barty shrugs.

She always fights rather clinically and prefers short fights rather than drawing things out. It won’t raise the bar too high for others.

Art always goes for a show. He’d go last for maximum effect.

Kelly’s opponent is rather arrogant. He holds his wand loosely and doesn’t even look at her properly.

The match begins. The man lazily fires off a curse. Kelly dives under it and slams a boot into his shin. The man cries out, wincing and groaning. Kelly plucks his wand from his hand and rolls her eyes.

“Pathetic,” she announces.

There’s stunned silence among the Death Eaters. Barty looks infinitely amused. Maddie claps loudly.

Xan steps forward, grinning. “Who’s next?”

His opponent has seen a glimpse of their potential. The man is more guarded and defensive.

Xan moves like water – fluid and agile. He fires off beams of neon light after light – most of them literally harmless – forcing the man to move constantly.

Xan makes sure none of his lights actually hit the man or that would blow his cover. He moves closer to man with every slash of his wand, finally being close enough to topple him over with a kick.

Maddie rolls her shoulders as if she’s bored already. Her opponent sneers, “Try not to embarrass yourself, girl.”

The duel begins and Maddie grins like the menace she is. She pockets her wand and opens her arms in a sign of ‘go on’.

Her opponent smirks, red lipstick highlighting her manic smile. “Given up already?”

Maddie shrugs. The next second, she’s barreling forward and lunging at the other woman, bringing her down as well.

The woman shrieks and pulls Maddie by her hair, slamming her down.

Maddie struggles to get away. The woman takes the chance to squeeze her throat and put a wand to her temple. “Say, should I just blow your head apart?”

Maddie kicks the woman in the back and gets up, pulling out her own wand and disarming the woman.

She massages her throat and says, “Who’s the one embarrassing herself, again?”

Art whistles and goes, “Good one, Mads.”

He high-fives Maddie before walking forward for his own duel.

“Finally,” Art sighs, stepping forward like he’s walking onto a runway. “Let’s give them a proper show.”

Art’s opponent is only a couple spells in before Art completes making a basic illusion array. Runes are more than enough for him to win this.

The man fires another spell and sets off the array. A hall of mirrors surrounds him from all sides. He tries to blow it apart, and he tries to disable it. The man disables it after a few seconds but it’s enough for Art to make a small barrier that flings away curses.

The man fires a blood boiling curse. It ricochets off Art and slams into the ceiling. The man fires another one from the side. It barely misses the man when it’s flung away.

“Don’t be an ass, Art,” Kelly says, exasperated.

Art rolls his eyes but calls off the barrier.

His spell repertoire is shit. He tackles the man to the ground, punching him square in the jaw.

The man spits blood, coughing. “Stop. I forfeit.”

Barty cackles loudly, the voice ringing in the now silent room. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a while. I should bring you all here for every practice – maybe even teach you the rules of proper duels.”

Sirius finds Harry as soon as he enters the house. “Woah there! What’s got you frowning like that? Better yet, where were you?”

“I met an asshole. I was at Diagon. This place is very boring,” Harry replies, scowling.

“You could learn something new? The threat of dementors is very real, right now. Moony can teach you how to conjure a Patronus.” Sirius puts an arm around his shoulder, patting it.

Harry mentally cringes away.

Sirius awkwardly takes his arm off.

Okay... maybe the cringe isn’t as mental as he would have liked.

Lupin arrives in the drawing room with his usual quiet patience, carrying two steaming cups of hot chocolate. He sets one down in front of Harry, who eyes it like it might be poisoned.

Lupin passes the cup to Harry with saintly patience. “We’ll start simple. Think of a happy memory, hold it in your mind, and—”

“Expecto Potato,” Harry interrupts immediately, wand flicking. Sparks fizzle.

Lupin pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not—”

“Expecto Ravioli,” Harry says louder, very pleased with himself.

Sirius is already laughing. “He’s got your number, Moony.”

Lupin shoots Sirius a warning glare before turning back. “Harry, I know you don’t think this is-”

“Exactly, and that’s the problem.” Harry throws his legs over the armrest, slouching like a king on a throne. “I don’t want to think. I’m not in the mood.”

Lupin inhales, counts to five, and tries again. “Please. Just do it properly a few times and I’ll call it a day.”

Harry sighs theatrically and raises his wand. “Fine. Expecto Patronum.”

All that appears is a silver spark.

Harry shakes his wand like a malfunctioning pen. “Expecto Patronum.”

A few silver wisps come out which disappear within seconds.

“Choose a better memory, Harry. Something like eating a favourite chocolate won't work,” Lupin lectures.

“I know,” Harry snaps. “Expecto Patronum.” And he pushes all of his Maw fights into the spell.

This time, silver erupts out of his wand, but it doesn’t coalesce into anything stable. It writhes, flickering, and for one horrifying moment looks like a malformed eagle skull with feet sticking out from its head before exploding into glitter like wisps.

Sirius actually jolts upright. “What in Merlin’s—”

Harry just grins, eyes wide, looking delighted. “Ohhh, I like that one. Very metal. Dementors’ll piss themselves.”

“That’s not how it’s supposed to work,” Lupin insists, voice cracking between horror and lecture mode.

“It worked,” Harry says with a shrug, entirely too pleased. “Mine just happens to look like what it is — something that eats monsters.”

Sirius snorts, covering his mouth to hide the grin.

“Harry,” Lupin begins carefully, like he’s negotiating with a ticking bomb. “The reason a Patronus is shaped the way it is… it’s a reflection of your inner self. A shadowy… monstrosity isn’t stable. It could backfire. It could hurt you.”

Harry tilts his head, mock-thoughtful. “So you’re saying my soul is a shadowy monstrosity? Sounds about right. Thanks, professor.”

“That is not what I said—” Lupin looks ready pull out his hair in frustration.

“Expecto Pasta-dium!” Harry flicks his wand with dramatic flair. Out of the tip sputters something that might generously be called a lasagna. It hangs in the air like an eldritch Garfield joke, quivers, then splatters all over the floor. It is still blue and wispy like a real Patronus.

Lupin stares at the steaming pile. His jaw works silently for a moment. “…That shouldn’t be possible.”

Harry grins impishly. “Expecto Potato-nium!” This time, several spectral potatoes roll across the carpet, glowing faintly before dissolving.

“Harry.” Lupin’s voice is desperate, bordering on begging. “If you trivialize the charm, you’ll never be able to summon a true Patronus when you need it.”

“Oh, I can summon one,” Harry says cheerfully. “You just don’t like it because it looks like something that crawled out of a nightmare and ate your homework.”

“That’s precisely the problem—”

Harry thinks of his burnt jumper. The taffy pink one.

“Expecto Platypus-ium!” A silver, misshapen creature with a duck-bill and beaver tail waddles out of the wand, makes a confused honking sound, and then explodes in mist.

Sirius falls down his chair, gasping for air. “Stop, stop, I can’t—Moony, your face—oh, this is priceless!”

Lupin just rubs his eyes like he regrets every life choice that brought him here. “Why do I even try?”

“Because everyone adores me,” Harry says sweetly.

Sirius chokes out, “I do. Moony’s reconsidering.”

“Alright, Harry,” Lupin says through a tight smile. “One more time. Focus on a happy memory. A good one.”

Harry squints, tapping his chin. “Happy, huh? Does watching Malfoy fall on his face count?”

“When did you even last meet – fine. Use that.”

Harry raises his wand dramatically. “EXPECTO—MALFOY-FALLUS!”

A silver specter bursts forth—Malfoy, tripping endlessly over his own shoelaces, face-planting in a loop like some cursed gif. The room goes silent. Sirius absolutely loses it, half-screaming, half-laughing into the rug.

Lupin pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not… it’s not even Latin. Last time, you summoned lasagna, Harry, this time – this!”

“Exactly. Versatility. My Patronus is whatever I want it to be. Watch— EXPECTO POTATOUS MAXIMUS!”

The wand spits out a spectral baked potato the size of a Quaffle. It hovers majestically for three seconds before smashing into the ground with a thud.

“FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN—” Lupin’s voice cracks. “This is supposed to protect you!”

Sirius stops laughing for a second to add between giggles. “Potatoes are terrifying. Whole Irish famine thing—”

“NOT. HELPING.”

Lupin’s eye twitches. “Harry, this is— this is catastrophic. You cannot weaponize mispronunciation!”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t already.” Harry’s grin goes sharp. “Expecto Hugus Kissus!”

A massive, spectral Dementor appears— only this one has little arms and immediately tries to hug Lupin.

Sirius is wheezing on the floor, tears streaming down his face. “Moony’s getting cuddled by a fake Dementor! Oh, this is the best day of my life—”

Lupin is shrieking. “HARRY, STOP SUMMONING HORRORS!”

Harry lowers his wand casually. “Fine, fine. It was fun while it lasted.”

Molly Weasley and her children are still doing what they call cleaning. Harry doesn’t think they realize that what they’re doing is simply emptying generations of treasures accumulated.

Harry has seen Sirius look pained when they throw stuff out. He doesn’t say anything though.

And Harry’s bored. And he’s still angry about Riddle being all bossy.

Harry swings his legs from where he’s sitting on the banister at the top of the stairs.

Molly levitates a stack of portraits toward the rubbish pile and Harry hums – just loud enough to cut through the noise.

“Funny thing about history,” he says idly. “Once you throw it away, you don’t get it back.”

Molly frowns. “Harry, really. No one needs grim old relics of Dark families cluttering up the place.”

“Dark family? Are you saying Sirius is Dark?” Harry tilts his head.

Sirius has stopped pretending he isn’t listening. “Harry, leave it. I don’t care what they think.”

Molly makes an affronted sound. “Not caring is what made people so eager to lock you up.”

Sirius goes back to cleaning the kitchen counter. He wipes it harder than necessary.

Ron jumps into the argument. “We’re just trying to clean up, mate. This place is gross.”

Harry smirks. “Sure, sure. Except it’s not your house, is it?” He flicks his eyes toward Sirius, just a glance, like a knife sliding under skin. “Weird to decide what goes and what stays when you don’t live here.”

Ron frowns. “We’re doing Sirius a favor!”

“Are you?” Harry says, voice sharpening. “Or are you making it the Burrow’s attic with better wallpaper?”

Ginny bristles. “At least it’ll be livable!”

Harry pounces. “Oh? So Sirius lived in filth, did he? His family’s things are garbage, his house worthless, and you’re just here to fix him?”

Fred and George are watching silently from a corner, eyes moving from person to person as they speak. They wisely stay out of it, not picking a side.

The room goes quiet for half a beat. Sirius’s hands curl into fists.

Molly straightens, wand clutched tighter. “Harry, enough. We’re making this house safe. For you. For everyone.”

Gotcha.

Harry grins. “Safe? Or stripped? You didn’t even ask Sirius if he wanted half this gone. Do you think he doesn’t notice? That he doesn’t care? Or do you think—” He lets his eyes cut to Sirius, voice low, dangerous. “—he doesn’t count?”

Sirius jerks and drops the cleaning rag, like Harry slapped him.

Arthur tries to soothe. “Now, there’s no need for dramatics—”

But Harry’s still talking, relentless. “Because that’s what it looks like, doesn’t it? You all playing house while Sirius is—what? The pet? The mascot? The broken man you let tag along so long as he doesn’t bark too loud?”

That’s it.

“I asked you to stop talking, Harry,” Sirius snaps, gesturing for him to come down the stairs.

Harry jumps down and dusts off his trousers.

“Thank you, Sirius,” Molly huffs. “This child never thinks before opening his mouth.”

Before Harry can retort, Sirius does it for him, “Oh, he definitely thinks more than you do before throwing my things out.”

“Sirius,” Ginny starts, scandalized. “You asked for our help in cleaning.”

“Is that what Molly said? She proposed the clean up. And I agreed, but I didn’t realize it meant throwing away heirlooms, and not just cursed items and nesting doxies.”

Sirius’s voice has gone sharp enough to cut, but Molly ignores it, chin lifting. “If you don’t want our help, say so plainly. But don’t let that boy pit us against each other.”

“That boy,” Sirius says, his teeth bared in something that’s not a smile, “sees more clearly than you do.”

Molly flushes, sputtering. “Sirius Black! After everything we’ve done—”

Harry leans lazily against the wall. “Funny, isn’t it? Everything you’ve done for him… in his house.”

That lands. The twins choke back laughter. Ginny glares daggers at Harry. Ron mutters, “You’re twisting it—”

“I asked you to stop talking, Harry,” Sirius snaps. Then he turns back towards Molly and says, “Have you ever asked me what you can or cannot throw away?”

“Well, I’m more experienced in cleaning and cooking –”

“Oh, but isn’t your house, is it? So, did you ask?” Sirius presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, irritation sharp.

Molly falters, eyes flashing.

Harry leans forward just enough to stage-whisper, “That sounded like a no.”

 “Sirius—” Arthur starts, calm and reasonable.

“No.” Sirius’s voice breaks like glass. “This is my house. My family’s blood is in these walls. My parents were assholes but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about my name. You don’t get to strip it bare because you’ve decided I can’t tell the difference between a curse and a clock.”

Harry hums thoughtfully, tilting his head again. “Mm. Clocks do kill people, though. If you throw one hard enough.”

“Harry.” Sirius shoots him a glare, but his mouth twitches like he can’t decide whether to be furious or amused.

Molly scoffs with fury. “We’re only trying to help! If you don’t want our hands, then perhaps we should leave—”

“Yes, actually,” Sirius snarls. “Leave. And if you absolutely have to come to my house, you will only walk from the door to the meeting room.”

The silence after is sharp and ugly. Molly looks betrayed. Arthur shifts uncomfortably but says nothing.

Harry has the urge to clap. He settles for a slow, mocking golf-clap in his head.

After it calms down a little, Sirius comes and sits next to Harry. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“I do. But why exactly, this time?” Harry asks innocently.

“I may have been a Gryffindor but even I know what instigation looks like. You weren’t trying to be very subtle either.” Sirius chuckles, rubbing a hand over his face.

“You wouldn’t have risen to the bait if you didn’t want to, then.” Harry shrugs off-handedly.

He really doesn’t care if Sirius knows. He got his entertainment, Sirius got his house. It’s a win-win. And now, he can continue stomping all over Dumbledore’s pinky toes.

Sirius sighs, shaking his head, “Why are you like this? Do you know I can see things cooking inside your brain? Your face has subtitles.”

Harry grins. “You know, I almost said she was trying to be Mrs. Black without the title when she was talking about cooking and cleaning. But I got distracted – missed my chance.”

Sirius looks half horrified and half amused. “Thank Merlin for small mercies.”

“Kreacher,” Harry begins conversationally, “do house-elves sleep? Or do you just… fold yourselves up into a drawer at night like socks?”

Kreacher freezes, lips twitching. He muttered, “Kreacher does not answer insolent half-blood spawn,” and begins scrubbing the goblets harder.

Harry crunches into the apple. “So you do sleep, then. Do you snore? Dream? I bet you dream about polishing silverware, don’t you? You wake up in cold sweats screaming ‘dirty, dirty spoons.’”

Kreacher’s ears flare scarlet, but he ignores Harry.

Harry leans over and pokes him in the arm. “Oi, I’m asking serious questions here. Do you celebrate birthdays? Do you get cake? Or does your idea of a party involve new dish soap?”

Kreacher wheels on him with a hiss, dishcloth flapping. “House-elves do not need cake! House-elves are loyal, house-elves are pure. Mistress would never have let such filth live under her roof, Mistress would have drowned the brat in pumpkin juice herself—”

Harry’s grin widens. “So no birthdays. Got it. What about names? Do you ever… change them? Like, one day you wake up and go ‘hm, I don’t feel like being Kreacher anymore, call me Cody.’”

Kreacher makes a noise like a kettle about to explode. He stomps to the pantry, muttering viciously, “Filthy brat… no respect… Cody the elf, disgusting, revolting, Kreacher will put poison in his porridge—”

Harry stretches lazily on the counter, satisfied. “Okay, but just imagine: Cody the House-Elf. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”

Kreacher slams the pantry door hard enough to rattle jars.

Harry continues eating his apple.

Kreacher peeks out of the pantry. He notices Harry and shuts the door again.

Unbothered, Harry tilts his head. “Do elves fall in love? Like, properly? Write soppy letters, pine under the moon? Or is it just—you know—bonding with whatever wizard yells at you the loudest?”

“Can the useless half-blood stop asking Kreacher these things,” Kreacher shrieks.

“Do you kiss? Oh my god, do elves kiss? Or is it just awkward nose-bumping because your heads are so big?”

Kreacher throws open the pantry door and claps his hands to his ears. “Kreacher will not—Kreacher does not—filthy boy should have been drowned at birth—”

Of course, that’s when Sirius strolls in. He stops dead in the doorway, one eyebrow climbing as he takes in Kreacher mid-breakdown and Harry lounging like a smug little king.

“What did you do to him?” Sirius asks, though his lips twitch.

Harry tilts his head innocently, taking a dramatic bite of apple. “Me? Nothing. We were just… having a heart-to-heart.” He gestures vaguely. “Bonding. You should be proud, I’m bridging the generational gap.”

Kreacher’s voice cracks into a furious pitch. “The brat pokes Kreacher! The brat asks filthy questions about kissing and Codys and sleeping! KREACHER WILL NOT DISCUSS KISSING—”

Sirius chokes, trying not to laugh. “Merlin’s beard, Harry—”

Harry grins wide, the picture of unrepentant satisfaction. “What? It’s important cultural research. Don’t you want to know if your loyal family servant’s ever been snogged?”

Kreacher wails and bolts from the kitchen, howling about dishonor and bleach for his ears.

Sirius leaned against the doorframe, shaking with laughter. “Ask him if elves get pimples, next.”

“He said he’d poison my porridge... I’ll ask him.”

Chapter Text

The silence in the meeting room reaches the height of uncomfortable.

Harry sits in his chair, whistling ‘London Bridge is falling down’ off-key. Sirius is right beside him, drumming his fingers to the tune on the table. Molly is glaring at Harry like he ate her cat. She doesn’t even have a cat.

More people trickle into the room and sense the awkward tension. They eye Harry curiously but mostly leave him alone.

And then, Dumbledore strolls in. With that disappointed grandfather stare and glittery lime robes.

“Geez, who designs his clothes? Is he colour blind?” Harry shudders in revulsion.

Sirius snorts beside him.

“How is everyone today?” Dumbledore smiles cheerfully. Harry wants to barf.

“I must confess myself… disappointed,” Dumbledore continues, in that soft, grave way of his. “Sirius, Harry, was it really necessary to do that?”

“Do what?” Sirius asks flatly.

“Must you, Sirius? Expelling the Weasleys from here. They were here for Order business.”

“They were not guests, Albus,” Sirius snaps. “Besides, what exactly were they doing that counted as Order business?”

“It isn’t for you to know. And such cruelty—”

“Such honesty,” Harry corrects, leaning forward, elbows on the table. His green eyes gleam, half feral, half amused. “You can preach unity all you like, but if they don’t respect where they stand, they’ll be out again. And I’ll make sure the door locks behind them this time.”

Sirius’s laughter cracks through the tension, sharp and humorless. “He’s got more spine than half this room, Albus. Don’t scold us for cleaning our own house.”

Harry makes a pleased little hum and gives Sirius a mental pat on the back.

The rest of the table sits rigid, caught between Dumbledore’s disapproval and the Black boy’s reckless grin mirrored in the Potter boy beside him.

“Are they here yet?” Kelly walks out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

“You’d hear them from the door if they were, dear,” Narcissa smiles at her.

Kelly is seventy percent sure Narcissa’s not being aloof intentionally. She’s probably just that way, seeing as she was basically Wizarding royalty as a maiden Black.

Art comes out of the kitchen as well and stretches, standing beside her. “I covered the broth already. It’s done.”

Narcissa smiles at him as well and says, “Thank you, Kelly and Art for helping with the food. The elves are inexperienced in making light foods and I couldn’t have possibly done everything alone.”

Leo and Abby stroll down the stairs and greet Narcissa with a tilt of their heads. “We finished stocking the medical room. Will they be here by another hour?”

There’s commotion outside and Narcissa exhales loudly. “They’re here.”

Lucius Malfoy is the first person in. With not a hair out of place, he’s all but dragging in a scraggly, half dead man with him.

Other Death Eaters are right behind, each carrying or supporting at least one person.

A manic giggle announces her before she comes into view. She comes in, skipping around and laughing – Bellatrix Lestrange.

Bellatrix skips over to the ceramic vase in the hallway, and without a care, smashes it into the ground. It shatters, and Bellatrix claps like a child, giggling.

Narcissa’s jaw tightens, and she clenches her fist to keep from moving.

And it strikes Kelly that this woman had to see her sister go mad and to prison. Then when she finally created a new normal, said sister came back even more insane.

“What the fuck is wrong with her,” Abby mutters, wrinkling her nose. Art grunts in agreement, and makes a face of disgust.

And then the Dark Lord strolls in, all loose robes and dramatic winds.

The Death Eaters all bow to him — even the injured ones. It’s cinematic.

“Xan and Maddie didn’t come in, right?” Art murmurs, brow furrowing. “You don’t think he left them there or something, did he?”

Leo scoffs from behind. “He might not be scared of us, but he respects Hewn to not betray him like that.”

They wait for another few minutes, breaths not leaving their lungs. Even Leo, despite his brave talk, has his lips pressed into a tight line as he waits.

Xan and Maddie come striding in unison, carrying one haggard person each. They drop the Death Eaters to the floor and high five each other.

Kelly huffs, but it’s more a sigh of relief, “Still trying to be the cool duo when they’re literally fruity losers in hot bodies.”

Before any of them can call her out on her bullshit, she’s whizzing past them and pulling Xan and Maddie into a hug.

“Is she menstruating or some shit? What’s with the weird moods?” Leo looks at Art, gesturing wildly.

“Don’t ever assume shit like that, you buffoon. She’d strangle you,” Art snickers. “And for the record— she is.”

Kelly asks them, “Why did you come so late?”

Xan’s lips curl in distaste. “We weren’t keyed into the wards. Riddle didn’t think of asking Malfoy to do it either.”

“He’s such a petty bastard,” Leo snorts.

“It’s going to hurt, mate. Brace yourself,” Art warns the man as he grabs his broken leg.

The man stares at him with wide eyes. “Can’t you just use a potion?”

“This is faster. The potion doesn’t have to do much work. Your leg will be fine in half the time.” Art pats his arm.

He twists the leg back into place, and the man whimpers.

Tch. These men must be pretty weak now, if this could make them cry.

“The potion, Malfoy.” Art extends an arm without looking.

“I’m not an elf. At least look at me when you talk, Strawberry,” Malfoy sneers but hands him the potion.

Art eyes him like he’s an idiot and moves on to wipe his hands, sticky with ointment. “Why do your hackles raise every time you’re scared? That’s one shitty coping mechanism to have, mate.”

“Do you ever—” Malfoy glares as Art smacks a hand over his mouth.

“Speak softly. There’s a hell lot of people here,” Art removes his hand and grimaces. “Thank you for not licking my hand. Every time I try to — emphasis on try— shut Hewn up, he licks my entire palm.”

Malfoy makes a disgusted noise, and they move on to the next person. “I could have lived without knowing what your boyfriend and you get up to.”

Art looks up from the list of injuries, and snorts. “Oh please, he’s not my boyfriend. I only went to the Ball because it was my mess to fix.”

“Believe it or not, you two have insane sexual tension,” Malfoy shoots, rolling his eyes.

Art gives the witch in the bed a sleeping potion and glances back at Malfoy. “I know. We used to hear it from— from Olly every day.”

There’s a crash from the room next door, followed by a muffled shout.

Art and Malfoy look at each other with wide eyes and run.

They reach the room and see Bellatrix hurling a vial towards Leo.

“YOU CRAZY BASTARD! HOW DARE YOU—” she’s screaming when Kelly grabs her by her nape.

“Calm the fuck down and sit. You’re too weak for me to slap or you wouldn’t have been hearing anything except ringing in your ears by now for trying to hurt Leo.” Kelly pushes her down by her nape, holding her wrists in her other arm.

Leo stupefies her and Kelly lets go.

“All okay here?” Art finally asks.

Kelly shoots him an irritated look and says, “I’m telling Hewn. He’ll ask his Dark Lord to deal with that bitch. She drains too much of my energy. I still have my child to get back to.”

Harry sits in his seat, legs spread wide, occupying the maximum space possible. He is boredly drumming his hands on the table to the beat of ‘Humpty Dumpty’ when Kreacher comes in, muttering profanities.

“Oi Kreacher, what’s got your knickers in a twist now?”

Kreacher glares balefully and mutters, “The moronic half-blood is talking to Kreacher like his master. Kreacher will not talk to him.”

Sirius snorts loudly from the doorway. “The Order is coming in an hour for a meeting. There’s been an Azkaban breakout from what Dumbledore told me. Seven escapes.”

Harry abruptly stops drumming and sits up straight, eyes wide. “Seven?”

Riddle had talked about a mass breakout, but Harry hadn’t realized it would be that many.

“Yeah, I wonder how Voldemort managed to get the dementors on his side,” Sirius says seriously for once, but Harry is too stunned to respond.

Over the hour, people slowly trickle in, filling up all the chairs in the room.

Moody and Molly Weasley almost end up fighting over who gets to sit the furthest away from him. It feels like a small win, and Harry mentally pats his own back for a job well done.

Dumbledore, as always, comes fashionably late.

Everyone starts talking at once — until Dumbledore raises his hand, and the chatter falls away like someone has cast Silencio on the entire room.

“Albus, is it— is it true? The breakout?” Molly Weasley frets.

“The escape from Azkaban,” Dumbledore begins, his tone maddeningly calm, “was confirmed early this morning. Seven Death Eaters. The Lestranges among them.”

A tension starts brewing in the air, all the Order members stiffening.

Harry watches on, fascinated at how just a name can do this to an entire room of skilled adults. It’s morbidly amusing. Hilarious actually.

A low murmur runs through the room. Molly clutches her pearls (figuratively, because she doesn’t wear any). Tonks swears under her breath, and Harry is reminded of the fact that Bellatrix Lestrange is her aunt. Sirius leans back in his chair, one leg up, looking almost bored.

“Seven,” he repeats, just to be contrary. “You’d think they’d make it ten, for symmetry. Maybe they’re short-staffed.”

“Sirius,” Remus says wearily.

“What?” Sirius shoots back. “My darling cousin’s back, apparently. Family reunion’s overdue.”

Harry grins. Sirius has grown on him a shit ton in the short time he’s been here.

Dumbledore’s eyes slide toward him. “Harry,” he begins softly, “has your scar been hurting?”

All heads turn towards him, and Harry hates Dumbledore a bit more.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Do headaches count? Because if they do, sure. Yeah, I guess.”

“No. Just your scar,” Dumbledore insists firmly.

Harry shakes his head.

When Dumbledore frowns, an alarm bell goes off in Harry’s head.

Harry tilts his head quizzically to the side. “It’s related to Voldemort, isn’t it?”

Half the table gasps and shudders at the name. The rest look at him with new eyes.

“You can say his name,” Snape whispers. Harry isn’t sure whether it’s a statement or question, so he ignores it.

Dumbledore looks at him proudly and it makes Harry’s skin crawl.

“It’s a fucking title,” Harry snaps. “Why make it if no one will say it anyway?”

Harry is so going to be ranting to Tom Riddle about this when he goes back to the Manor.

He collapses into the plush armchair, sighing

“So, I’m not sorry about screaming at you and trying to get you angry, but well I should have been a bit better with the way I asked you about the dementors,” Harry says petulantly.

He knows he had demanded rather than asked but he’d rather die than admit it out loud.

Riddle stares at him impassively for a minute, and then replies flatly, “Fine. I should not have indulged you.”

Harry’s eye twitches. But, he graciously decides to be the bigger person and lets it slide.

“The breakout was a success. The entire Order was in disarray.” Harry stretches in the armchair like a cat, spine popping.

“Mhm,” Riddle hums, pleased. “Your little team was very useful.”

“That reminds me,” Harry begins darkly, “what’s this about the Lestrange bitch I’m hearing? She tried to hurt Leo and Kelly. Put her on a leash or I’ll put her down.”

Riddle’s lips part, just once, like someone tasting an idea. “You ask for a leash, and you speak of killing. Bold.” He turns, walks to the window, and for a moment his profile is all pale cheek and tightening mouth. “She is... overzealous. I’ll take care of it.”

“My hero,” Harry says sarcastically, swooning exaggeratedly.

“Why the hell are you such an ass, Potter?” Riddle frowns irritatedly, a twang of an accent in his voice.

Harry blinks a little, trying to figure out his accent. “Are you from... East London? Cockney?”

Riddle frowns again, and Harry almost coos at him just to be annoying.

“How does it even matter?” Riddle asks, and his accent is gone.

“You did it to blend in at Hogwarts. You were a Slytherin; they would have eaten you alive if you were even more different. Muggle surname and a Cockney accent,” Harry says slowly, figuring it out.

“One conversation,” Riddle grits his teeth. “One conversation without you getting on my nerves is all I ask for.”

“You ask for a lot of things actually,” Harry tells him cheerfully.

Riddle gives him an unimpressed look and changes the topic. “Why don’t you or the others go to Hogwarts? Even the fully human ones.”

“Waste of time and money,” Harry waves it off. “We learn what we need to by ourselves. Leaving would take away most of the money making time, and it’s too expensive to attend.”

“How can it be expensive when the school pays for it?” Riddle makes an ‘I-am-so-done’ face.

“The school absolutely does not pay a fucking penny. They tell us to cover our costs. Are we supposed to feed ourselves or send the kids there?” Harry snaps.

Riddle makes a confused noise in the back of his throat and sits down again. “There used to be a fund. It was literally the ‘Knockturn fund’, back in the fifties. Isn’t it still there?”

Harry and Riddle stare at each other dumbly for a second.

Then, their eyes widen in unison with an epiphany.

“Dumbledore,” they say together.

“Do you know what the worst part is?” Harry’s voice is low, almost conversational, but it quivers around the edges, like it’s barely holding back from cracking. “It’s not that he meddles. It’s that he thinks he’s entitled to meddle. Like every damn thing in the world is his little chessboard, and everyone else— every kid, every half-grown dream— are just pieces he gets to move around when he’s bored.”

He’s pacing now, hands running through his hair, jaw clenched.

Riddle growls. “He doesn’t care. He just can’t stand the idea of something happening without him—without his permission, without his goddamn fingerprints on it. If they start to shine too much, he snuffs them out, says it’s for their own good. If they start to rise, he takes their sky away and says it was raining anyway.”

Riddle’s hands curl into fists, knuckles whitening. “I swear I’ve imagined breaking him apart piece by piece for everything he’s done. I hate him so much that if he ever felt it, his skin would burn like acid. I have this beautiful potion I created. He’d see his most horrific memories, worsened ten times, and he would dehydrate at an inhumane rate. Merlin, do I wish I could choke him with his beard and make him see what he has done to all the children who have rotten in dark alleys because he wanted to fill his pockets. When I’m done with him, even worms will hesitate to go near his flesh.”

Harry tunes out the rest of the tirade. He has to go check on the kids, and he’d rather not be green when he does.

“Alright, I get it. Now shut up. I’ll go take a look at what everyone’s doing... then I have an old man to confront.” Harry stands up, rolling his eyes.

“You are such a cunt.” Harry hears from behind him, Riddle’s accent thick. He just laughs and flips him off.

Harry barges in, as he always does. But there’s an undercurrent of urgency this time. He has a wonderful idea that needs to be put into motion.

“Sirius,” he says before the older man can get a word in about the wardrobe or Kreacher’s temper, “call Dumbledore. Now. Tell him it’s urgent.”

Sirius, who’s been half-expecting some sort of barmy question, blinks. “Now? Harry, what—”

“Now.” Harry’s tone is flat, iron edged. He thumbs the loose threads in his robe and walks past the hearth where Kreacher gives a pleased squeak. “Tell him I have a deal. I’m coming back — as a student — and the fund reopens under my oversight. He’ll know which one I’m talking about.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” Sirius asks tentatively.

Harry doesn’t have the time for tentatively. He jerks his head towards the fireplace, asking Sirius to do it.

“Yes.” Harry’s answer is clean. “I’ll register, attend, whatever hoops they need. All he needs to do is renew the Knockturn funds. But I’ll handle it with whoever he assigns it to. I’ll play his game but it will only be by my rules, or no game at all.”

Sirius’s mouth quirks. “And you think Dumbledore will just—”

“We’ll see.” Harry slides into the armchair, pulls his sleeves down. “Call him, Padfoot. Now.”

Sirius goes for the fireplace with the delighted, useless grin of someone about to do exactly what he’s told.

Minutes later, Dumbledore is stepping inside, blue eyes twinkling annoying in that all knowing way.

Harry has decided that it is the worst expression ever.

“Harry. To what do I owe the pleasure at this hour?”

Harry stands. There’s a line in his jaw that’s more like a promise than a muscle. “Dumbledore, you’ve been meddling. A little bird told me of the fund set up specifically for the children of Knockturn. It disappeared when you became headmaster—“

Dumbledore goes to speak but Harry holds up a hand.

“Let me finish. I don’t— actually I do care, but that’s another can of worms— about what’s in the past, but reopen it. Fill it up again. I will keep an eye on it personally. And I will attend as a student. I won’t make it a theatre, but I won’t watch the fund get hollowed out either. That’s my offer.”

There’s a long, small noise from Dumbledore — a careful inhale that reads like thought being sifted. “You intend to attend Hogwarts, then. As a fully-registered student. Interesting. You were so adamant about your refusal. What changed?” His tone carries a dozen implications — delight, suspicion, a touch of amusement. “You understand the obligations that implies, Harry. Curriculum, discipline—”

“I do.” Harry’s eyes don’t leave Dumbledore’s face. “I also understand ledger lines and needs. You and I— we know what happens when a child has to choose between coppers and confidence. I’ll be there in person to make sure the fund is used for them. No one, not even you, gets to pocket their share and call it a day. And you asked what changed— I found something to bargain with.”

Sirius is quiet, which is new. There’s a weight in his silence— approval, fear, something like relief.

Dumbledore’s reply, when it comes, is slow and careful and carries the weight of a man who has been in rooms where history was written and repaired. “Very well. I will reopen the Knockturn Fund under written conditions. I will sign your oversight into the paperwork, let you decide the staff. But Harry, you cannot go back on your word. Those kids will get this on your co-operation’s guarantee. I’ll send over the papers for you to look through.”

Dumbledore still saw him as a child. That was going to be his downfall.

“You have my word.” Harry feels older than his years and meaner, distilled into a single, iron promise. “I want them in classes, not hiding in basements. I’ll be there as a student. I’ll be the idiot in robes and the one in the committee room. I’ll do both.”

He swore to himself he’d never set foot in that place again.

And yet, here he was. Signing away his next few months. He’d find another way in the meantime, he reassured himself.

Harry cracks his neck.

He trusts Dumbledore even less than he trusts Riddle. This means he has clauses to prepare and documents to draft.

Harry knows he’s fifteen, but it doesn’t feel like it. At all. And he doesn’t mind, because he gets to do the things no one could have at fifty.

Harry doesn’t think he can tell Xan he’s leaving. Again. He can’t watch Leo try to pack himself into a suitcase. Again. And this time, he can't bring Abby or Tris with him.

Gosh, why did I not think it through? That was selfish as fuck.

He reaches Riddle’s study and knocks once before entering.

Harry doesn’t bother with greetings. “I’m going to Hogwarts.”

Riddle looks up, stilling completely. “No,” he says, like the word is law. “You’re not.”

Harry folds his arms. “I wasn’t asking.”

“You’re a fool if you think walking into that man’s den again is wise.” Riddle’s tone stays soft, but the words hit like frost. “You think he’ll let you play student and spy both? He’ll watch you, Harry, and he’ll catch on. You are too valuable to him as a weapon or a symbol, and you know it.”

Harry grits his teeth. “Then I’ll be a symbol that feeds kids instead of graves. Dumbledore’s reinstating the Knockturn fund. I’m going to make sure he keeps his promise.”

Riddle’s chair scrapes as he stands. “You are bargaining with him? You went to him yourself?” His voice rises, the kind of controlled fury that crackles under the skin. “Are you truly that big of an idiot?”

“I had a proper plan,” he snarls. “I am not stupid, so don’t you ever dare call me that again.”

Riddle crosses the space between them in three strides. “You are reckless.” He stops just short, close enough that Harry can smell the parchment dust and copper ink. “What happens when he discovers you little world? The people you play house with? He’ll tear it apart, Harry. He’ll call it mercy.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “Then he’ll have to get through me first, Tom.”

Riddle laughs — a low, bitter sound. “And you think you can protect them and play schoolboy? You’re already stretched thin.”

“You think I don’t know that I’m on the edge of a burnout? That’s exactly why I came to you instead of finding everyone else first. Because you make me so angry that adrenaline replaces exhaustion and it keeps me going. I’m always sneaking around— from here to the Headquarters and back. I might not behave like it but I am still a child too, Riddle. And I— I get tired too. And— and... fuck.” Just like that, Harry can’t breathe.

Riddle puts his hand on Harry’s arm and guides him to the couch. “Sit down, Potter. I’ll get water.”

If Harry hadn’t been out of breath, he would have chuckled. This is Riddle’s way of being nice. Giving Harry space.

“Emotionally repressed bastard,” he mutters, but it’s more fond than frustrated.

The study door clicks shut. For a moment, there’s silence — too much of it. Then the air cracks.

“Idiots,” Tom whispers. “Every last one of them.”

The Death Eater kneeling by the desk flinches, unsure whether the word includes him. It does.

Tom’s wand rises almost lazily. “Crucio.”

The scream is immediate — sharp, high, grating. It fills the air like metal scraping bone. But Tom’s face doesn’t change. His eyes are fixed on the empty doorway.

“He thinks he’s clever,” Tom murmurs. “Thinks he can dance between Dumbledore and me without breaking.” The spell lifts for a breath — not mercy, just a pause, and louder he says, “Which one of you will tell me what happens to traitors?”

 The man before him gasps, blood on his lips. “They—they die, my lord—”

“Wrong.” The word slices through him. “They rot. Slowly.”

He casts again. Louder screams. The scent of something burnt edges the air.

Tom’s anger isn’t wild — it’s surgical. He watches as the man convulses, then gestures, cutting the spell short. Silence falls heavy and stifling.

All the idiots kneeling in a file shuffle uncomfortably.

“Clean this up,” he says finally, turning back to his desk, voice flat again. “And send word to the rest. Our brethren have joined our ranks again. We will rise to power again.”

He sits, stares at his pale hands, and mutters under his breath— too soft for anyone to hear— “Reckless child.”