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Chapter Text

Saturday, 31st October

The night was wet and windy, the sky broiling with black clouds that threatened to burst at any moment. The square lay slick with rain, its cobblestones gleaming under the jaundiced glow of streetlamps. 

Two children waddled across the square dressed as pumpkins, their tiny boots splashing through puddles as they giggled and shrieked in innocent delight. The shop windows around them were plastered in cheap decorations: cardboard bats, paper spiders, plastic skeletons dancing on strings. All the tawdry Muggle trappings of a world that no longer believed in monsters.

But one walked among them now.

Voldemort moved like smoke - gliding, not walking - his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. A sense of purpose surged through him with every silent step. He was not angry. No, anger was the domain of the weak, of those ruled by passion and fear. What he felt was something purer - something cleaner. Triumph. Cold and perfect as the edge of a blade. He had waited for this moment, had sculpted the pieces into place with the finesse of a master. 

And now the endgame was upon him.

“Nice costume, mister!” 

The boy’s voice rang out unexpectedly, high and bright, piercing the fog of his thoughts. A child - freckled, painted cheeks smeared with fake blood - looked up at him with naive cheer. Then he drew near enough to glimpse beneath the hood. His smile faltered. His painted face paled. Terror bloomed in his wide eyes. And then the boy was gone, sprinting back to his mother in silence, as if noise might invite pursuit.

Voldemort's pale fingers brushed against the wand hidden beneath his robes.

One movement. One whisper of a curse, and the child would never reach his mother. But… unnecessary. Quite unnecessary. Tonight’s magic was meant for worthier prey.

He turned down a narrow lane where shadows pressed in close, the wind howling like a warning he did not heed. And then he saw it - the house. So unassuming in its structure, so deceptively quaint. But he felt the wards falter the moment he stepped closer. The Fidelius charm was broken, though the occupants did not yet know it. Their trust had been their undoing. 

He made less sound than the dead leaves slithering along the pavement as he drew level with the dark hedge. They hadn’t even drawn the curtains.

Fools.

Inside, the sitting room glowed warm and golden. The tall, black-haired man in glasses was conjuring puffs of colourful smoke from his wand. They danced through the air, twisting into playful shapes for the delight of a small, black-haired boy in blue pyjamas, who laughed and clapped and tried to catch the shapes with pudgy, eager fingers.

A door opened and the mother entered, saying words he could not hear, her long, dark-red hair falling over her face. Now the father scooped up the son and handed him to the mother. He threw his wand carelessly on the sofa and stretched, yawning. 

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. They were happy. Unguarded. Easy pickings for the likes of him.

The gate creaked a little as he pushed it open, but they did not hear. His white hand pulled out the wand beneath his cloak and pointed it at the door, which exploded open. He was over the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. It was easy, too easy; he had not even picked up his wand. 

“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!” 

Hold him off, without a wand in his hand?

Voldemort laughed, the sound cold and hollow as a crypt. “Avada Kedavra!” 

The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the pram pushed against the wall, it made the bannisters glare like lightning rods, and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings had been cut. 

From upstairs: a scream.

He climbed the stairs slowly, savouring the sound of her panic, the pathetic scraping of furniture being piled against the nursery door. It would not help her. She had no wand. No hope. How stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for a moment. She was trapped - but as long as she was sensible, she, at least, had nothing to fear. 

He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of his wand, and there she stood, the child in her arms. 

At the sight of him, she dropped her son into the crib behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if, in shielding him from sight, she hoped to be chosen instead. 

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!” 

“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now”.

Lily Potter did not plead a second time.

Instead, she stood there, her arms lowering slowly, like a puppet untangled, and then, after a brief moment of hesitation, she took one step to the side. Just one. Just enough to reveal the child in the crib behind her.

Voldemort blinked.

Her face was blank. Not cold, not defiant - just empty. As though the life had already drained from her, as though she had given up on everything, not just her husband, not just the child sitting quietly behind her, but the war, the world, herself.

She did not plead again.

No last protest. No final words of love. No desperate leap to shield the child. Just that strange, unnerving blankness that stretched across her face like frost - cold, still, silent. Her eyes were dull and unfocused, not even flicking toward her son. She had already surrendered in all the ways that mattered.

Voldemort stared at her.

This was not what he had expected.

He had killed many. Mothers, fathers, children. But they always begged. Screamed. Bargained. Even when they knew it was futile, they died clinging to the illusion that they mattered. But this… this was different. Almost insulting, really.

His wand hovered between them, fingers tightening slightly.

“... Is this some sort of trick?” he asked softly.

“No". Her voice was flat, lifeless. “I’m sick of hiding. You’ve already killed James… There’s nothing left to fight for”.

He studied her closely now. She didn’t look at the boy. Not once. Not even for a final glance. 

“There is the child” he said, tilting his head in curiosity.

She blinked, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’m young… I can always have more children... If you let me live, then… then you can have him”.

Time stilled.

The silence was so deep it seemed to suck the sound from the world. The wind no longer howled. Even the house itself felt as though it were holding its breath.

Voldemort stared. 

In all his years, all his killings, he had never encountered this. Not this level of indifference, this… vacancy. As though she had stepped outside her body and left behind only a shell. Lily Potter didn’t look worried or scared - neither for herself nor her child. She wasn’t brimming with self-righteousness or defiance or love, she was just… blank. Dispassionate. Apathetic, even.

She was quite young to have a child, Voldemort mused, and far too young to get married and start a family, especially during the middle of a war - far too young to even be in the middle of a war.

He wondered, distantly, if the child was an accident, a mistake in more ways than one. His own mother had died to give him life, and now this mother wasn’t even putting up so much as an argument, let alone a fight…

Voldemort’s lip curled - not in amusement, but disgust. His own mother had died for him. Pathetic, yes, sentimental and foolish - but she had chosen to die so that he could live. But as for Lily Potter? As for this mother? She wasn’t even choosing to care.

He turned his wand on the infant in the crib and watched her carefully.

She didn’t move. Her gaze didn’t flicker. There was no gasp, no tears, no fury. Just stillness.

He felt something twist inside him.

Not pity.

Contempt.

Suddenly - impulsively - he snapped his wand to her. “Stupefy!”

Her eyes widened for the first time - a flicker of shock - and then she crumpled against the wall, unconscious.

Voldemort exhaled.

He had promised Severus to let her live after all, and she wouldn’t be much of a threat in the future if she had the same constitution as Wormtail.

“Gryffindors” he muttered in disgust, “How utterly pathetic”.

Then, silence again, before the faint rustle of cloth as he stepped toward the crib. The child stared up at him. No wailing. No fear. Just wide green eyes - startlingly like hers - fixed on his pale, inhuman face.

Perhaps even at this age, he realised that Voldemort wouldn’t hesitate to harm him should he kick up a fuss - or, perhaps, he’d finally realised that his mother’s love was conditional.

Voldemort raised his wand, and for one brief, split-second moment… he hesitated.

Not out of mercy - of course not! -  but out of… uncertainty.

Why wasn’t he crying?

His grip tightened. The prophecy whispered in his memory, dark and urgent.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…

This was the child. The one foretold. The one that would be his downfall. A mere, defenceless, unloved babe…

He raised his wand once more.

He could not afford to hesitate.

“Avada Kedavra!”

There was a flash of green, a wave of pain, and a deafening explosion.

Voldemort was hurled backwards as if struck by some ancient, vengeful god. The Killing curse rebounded with a force beyond comprehension - raw, wild, alive. A scream tore from his throat, animal and furious, as something inside him had torn loose. It wasn’t just physical. It was deeper than that - spiritual, magical, foundational. As though reality itself had turned on him.

He slammed into the far wall with a sickening crack. His skull struck stone. Bones jarred. His wand flew from his hand, skittering across the floor like a dying insect. The air was ripped from his lungs. His cloak smoked and sizzled where the magic had caught him, the fabric fraying, curling at the edges like burned paper.

Voldemort groaned, low and guttural, dragging himself upright along the ruined wall. His fingers scrabbled against the cracked plaster, his breathing shallow and broken. His heart thundered wildly in his chest, not from fear, but from rage and disbelief.

What in Salazar’s name had just happened?!

His ears were ringing, his vision was blurry, and there was an awful, unsteady dizziness in his head that caused him to stagger as he stumbled back to his feet, hands bracing himself against the wall as he tried desperately to figure out just what the hell-

The room around him was unrecognisable.

One wall had cracked from floor to ceiling, the plaster buckled and bleeding dust. Chunks of it littered the floor. The curtains had caught fire and were still smouldering, the air choked with ash and smoke. A framed picture on the opposite wall - some quaint, smiling photograph of the Potters on a picnic - had shattered into a hundred jagged shards, glinting on the ground like cursed snowflakes.

A bookshelf had toppled onto its side, spilling battered picture books and stuffed animals across the floor in chaotic, surreal contrast. A rocking chair - painted white and half-burnt - lay on its side, one leg snapped clean off. The very walls pulsed faintly with residual magic, scarred and humming, as though the house itself was groaning in protest at the sorcery it had just been forced to contain.

He staggered forward a step, then another, his feet crunching on glass and debris. His limbs felt uncoordinated, disconnected from his will. His eyes - red and unfocused - scanned the devastation, then snapped to the crib.

The crib.

The child.

Alive.

It gave a small cry now - belated, soft, indignant - but not a scream of fear or terror or anguish. Just… discomfort. Shock. Confusion.

Voldemort could relate.

Blood trickled from the baby’s forehead, running down his face in narrow rivulets, catching the dim, greenish glow still flickering from the walls. A lightning-bolt wound, fresh and red, was burned into his flesh like a brand.

Those same green eyes stared up at Voldemort with something almost disturbingly calm. He did not flinch. Did not cower. Magic shimmered faintly around him, like heat rising from sun-baked stone.

And Voldemort - Lord Voldemort, the most feared Dark wizard in a century - stared back, frozen. His breath came in shallow gasps. He felt something strange, unfamiliar and alien coiling in his chest. He had never seen anything like this.

His hands trembled as he pressed them against his chest, searching - desperate - for some clue, some answer to what had just happened. But his heart was beating. His body was intact. And yet… something had been broken. Some deep core of himself fractured in a way that could not be undone.

He fell to his knees, unseeing, breath rasping through his teeth. His mind raced, but every thought was jagged, scattered, broken - like the glass underfoot.

The Killing curse never failed.

It was impossible.

Ad yet - here he was. 

The child of prophecy. Marked. Bloodied. But alive. 

And he was the child of prophecy - Voldemort was now sure of that. They were the exact opposite in every way. Winter and summer. Slytherin and Gryffindor. Loved and unloved by their own mothers… Surely such a child, a mere babe strong enough to be his equal, deserved a proper upbringing? A proper mother - one who would love him and care for him until her dying breath, just as Voldemort’s mother had done for him?

He rose unsteadily, each movement slow, deliberate. The scorched hem of his cloak dragged across the floor, whispering over soot and ash. As he stepped closer to the crib, the flickering magical residue curled around his boots like mist, reacting to him, repelling him. The room itself now seemed unwilling to accept his presence.

But the child did not move.

The baby’s eyes - those Killing curse coloured eyes, far too large for his face - watched him with unnerving calm. There was no flicker of fear, no reaching out for a mother who had not so much as looked back. There was only… awareness.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...

He had tried to kill him. Had used the most final, most ancient curse known to their kind. It had rebounded. Backfired. And now… Voldemort understood.

This child was not his end.

He was his beginning.

Something unknown stirred within him - an idea, uncoiling in the dark corners of his brilliant, monstrous mind. The prophecy did not say that the child must destroy him - only that he had the power to do so… but what if that power could be claimed? Redirected? Twisted, shaped, moulded into something else - into something greater?

Voldemort approached the crib once more, his movements slower now, almost reverent. His long white fingers hovered over the rail, then curled beneath the child’s small arms. He lifted him carefully, awkwardly. The child dangled for a moment, then settled against his chest, warm and solid and far too quiet.

Harry Potter stared up at Voldemort with those green, green eyes. Still watching. Still unafraid - and in that moment, that choice came easily.

He would not kill this child; he would use him.

Power like that must not be wasted, and the boy was going to be a powerful wizard someday - he’d just survived the Killing curse! And besides, “vanquish” had many meanings, after all - overcome, subdue, defeat, subjugate, triumph over… It did not always mean certain death.

Voldemort would be a fool if he didn’t use this power to his advantage.

He had already marked the boy as his equal, after all, watching in twisted amusement as the blood dripped down the disgruntled baby’s face, so wasn’t it only right to give him an upbringing worthy of that highest honour?

The house groaned around them, the wind outside howling through shattered glass like a mourning call. The roof above had begun to crack; he could feel the supporting beams buckling. Magic had torn through the house like a storm. It would not hold much longer.

No matter.

He had what he came for.

Voldemort glanced once more at Lily Potter’s still form. There was no flicker of guilt, no second thought. Let her live, as he’d promised Severus. Let her wake to a world without her husband or her child. Let her see what the price of indifference truly was.

He would ensure that the boy was raised the right way - the way that Voldemort should have been raised himself - raised by a loyal follower, someone within his inner circle whom he could trust. Narcissa, perhaps, although she’d recently given birth to the Malfoy heir, so, perhaps… her sister? Bellatrix was one of his most loyal devotees, and he knew she would spoil the child rotten if he ordered her to - might even grow to love the babe as her own. 

Yes, Voldemort decided, that was exactly what he’d do. He would let the boy grow. Let him learn. Let him be shaped in the image of power, not weakness. Let the boy worship him instead of Dumbledore. And when the time came, Voldemort would not fall - he would rise, with Harry Potter and his untameable power at his side.

Cradling the child awkwardly in one arm, he bent down and retrieved his wand from the dust and rubble. The boy still stared up at him. He was still silent. His eyes were still the colour of the Killing curse.

“You belong to me now” Voldemort whispered.

And with a crack like thunder, he turned on the spot, vanishing into the night, and the house was silent once more.

The night was still wet and vicious, the wind raking its claws against rooftops and gutters like a beast denied entry. Rain slashed sideways across the moors, turning the Lestrange Manor’s long gravel driveway into a glistening black ribbon. Thunder snarled far off, low and constant, as though the sky itself was holding its breath.

The child was screeching.

Voldemort didn’t blame him. Not tonight. The storm was bitter, the air laced with cold so sharp it seemed to whistle straight through his robes. The boy was shivering despite the Warming charms Voldemort had layered across him, his little fists balled at his sides, his breath coming in harsh, hiccupping gasps, blood still smearing his face.

A more sentimental man might have felt sympathy. Voldemort merely wondered, idly, if it was safe to cast the Stunning spell on a one-year-old.

Lestrange Manor was tall and severe, its windows like watching eyes. He did not knock - the wards would have detected his presence immediately and informed the master of the house. Instead, he waited on the doorstep, black robes swishing in the wind, the infant wailing in his arms. The great oaken doors creaked open not thirty seconds later.

Rodolphus stood there, hair tousled, dressing gown clutched closed over his chest, wand already raised - but his expression shifted instantly when he saw who had come calling.

“My lord” he breathed, stepping aside without hesitation, “Please, come in”.

“I trust that I have not come at a bad time?” Voldemort said, sweeping inside like a winter gust.

“Of course not, my lord”. Bellatrix’s voice floated from the staircase. She was descending with practised grace, her hair loose, eyes sharp despite the hour. “You are always welcome in our home”.

Her gaze drifted briefly to the child in his arms. Her lips parted slightly in shock, in surprise. But she said nothing, merely stepped forward and gestured them toward the drawing room.

They did not question his sudden appearance. They did not dare.

The manor was warm and dimly lit, thick tapestries fluttering in the wind’s wake. A fire snapped hungrily in the grate, and Rodolphus bent to stoke it as Voldemort entered the room and lowered the child - not gently, but not cruelly - onto the thick rug in front of the fireplace.

The cries had faded now to hiccups and soft, uncertain whimpers.

Bellatrix approached him with care - after casting a quick, questioning look at her lord, of course, who nodded his assent. She knelt before the child, her wand moving with elegant precision to remove the blood from his forehead. A faint flash and a murmured word, and the lightning-shaped wound was left raw but clean.

Then, with another flick of her wand, she transformed one of the stacked logs in front of the fireplace into a green plush dragon. It flapped its wings, coiled with a puff of steam, and nuzzled its way into the child’s chubby hand. He grasped it at once, his tears vanishing, gurgling in delight.

Voldemort watched her with narrowed eyes… and the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Perhaps she could be a worthy mother yet.

They sat together, the three of them, in high-backed chairs around the fireplace. The boy remained on the rug, his new toy clutched in his fingers, eyes wide and confused but calm once more.

After calling for a house-elf, Bellatrix poured them tea. Rodolphus said nothing but sat stiffly next to his wife, as if afraid to even breathe too loudly in this strange, surreal moment. When Voldemort finally spoke, his voice was low and steady.

“You may be wondering” he said, cradling the teacup between long white fingers, “why I have brought you a child in the middle of the night”.

Neither of them replied.

“This” he continued, nodding once toward the infant, “is Harry Potter. The son of James Potter, now deceased, and Lily Potter, a mudblood not worth speaking of… I was recently told of a prophecy predicting the birth of a child foretold to vanquish me. This is that child”.

Bellatrix’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Harry Potter, my lord? He is the one who-”

“Yes” he said simply, “Born to those who thrice defied me. Born as the seventh month dies. This… mere infant is meant to be my downfall… or so the prophecy claims”.

Roldolphus’s hand flew to his wand holster, his dark eyes darting between the boy and his master, as if expecting to receive orders to kill the baby at any moment.

“And yet” Voldemort said, almost conversationally, “when I visited the Potters tonight and cast the curse to kill him… it rebounded”.

He let the words hang, weighty and final. Bellatrix’s hands tightened around her cup, but her voice was even when she spoke.

“He survived the Killing curse?”

“He did more than survive it. He destroyed half of the house” he replied wryly, “I have yet to determine why, and how, such a thing was possible, but for the moment, my theory is whatever Harry Potter’s so-called ‘power’ is, it somehow managed to protect him… According to Albus Dumbledore, this child is a weapon - one he intends to use to destroy me”.

The fire crackled, the shadows in the corners of the room growing larger with every word.

“But weapons” he said, gracefully setting his empty teacup aside, “can be reforged”.

Bellatrix’s breath hitched - just once. Rodolphus was utterly still. In front of them, the baby continued to gurgle at the toy dragon that was now flying laps around his head.

“I have therefore decided that I will not kill him” Voldemort finished smoothly, “Not yet. Perhaps not ever. I wish him to be raised with our values, our truths. Moulded with care. Taught to use whatever power lies buried in him, not against us, but for us… And I have chosen you to raise him”.

Roldophus reached out, grabbing his wife’s hand and squeezing it tight as her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. He knew how she must be feeling right now, but he couldn’t - he wouldn’t - risk her being destroyed by this should their lord change his mind at a later date.

“My lord…” he started cautiously, “Are you certain you wish to give him to-”

“Do not insult me with doubt!” Voldemort snapped, “Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy have only just had a child themselves - they have more than enough to manage - and you two are the only other of my followers that I would entrust with a child of such… potential. You will raise him well. Teach him magic, obedience, discipline. Teach him our ways... I expect nothing less than brilliance from the boy... I expect him to be nothing less than my equal”.

Bellatrix could hardly breathe. She and Rodolphus had been trying for a child for over a decade now - healers, potions, rituals, all of it in vain. Her heart positively ached with the emptiness of it, but now… now… her lord had gifted them this.

A child of prophecy.

A child of power.

A child chosen for them not just by fate, but by the Dark Lord himself.

Her fingers trembled as she let go of her husband’s hand and slowly, delicately, reached for the baby, lifting him gently into her lap. He nestled there, heavy and warm and fragile, peering up at her with huge death-coloured eyes and a mark - her lord’s mark - on his forehead.

“We will raise him well, my lord” she whispered, a catch in her voice, “He will be our son… and one day, he will be your greatest soldier”.

Voldemort nodded once. “See to it that he is”.

Then he rose, black robes whispering around his ankles, and disappeared into the dark of the night. Behind him, the boy of prophecy slept curled up in the lap of a woman who would love him as fiercely as she worshipped the one who had given him to her.

The fire burned on. The storm howled louder. And deep in the Department of Mysteries, a shiny glass orb cracked in two.

Chapter Text

Sunday, 1st November

The night had grown colder.

The wind howled down the lane, shrieking like a banshee through the trees, whipping leaves and ash into spirals across the broken threshold. Rain had begun to fall in earnest now, slicing through the smoke like icy needles, hissing as it struck the embers still smouldering in the ruins. 

The house - what was left of it - shuddered against the storm, its roof half-gone, its walls scorched and skeletal. Firelight glowed weakly through the shattered windows, flickering like a dying heartbeat.

Beyond the crooked picket fence, muggles had begun to gather. They stood uncertainly at the edges of the property, their dressing gowns flapping in the wind, faces pale with confusion and fear. Someone muttered about a gas explosion. Another insisted it had to be a lightning strike. But none dared step closer. Even the ones who didn’t believe in magic felt the weight of something unnatural pressing down on their chests. Whatever had happened here was wrong - and they knew it, deep down in their bones.

And then, with a thunderous crack, an enormous figure appeared through the mist and smoke.

Rubeus Hagrid hunched forward against the cold, his beard whipping back in the wind. His eyes - wide and dark - locked immediately on the broken home in front of him, and he froze, stunned, a horrible sense of dread making him feel sick to his stomach.

“Merlin’s beard…”

He didn’t hesitate. His massive boots squelched through the mud as he charged forward, each step heavy, every heartbeat louder than the storm. Rain plastered his hair to his face. Smoke stung his eyes. And the front door… There was no door. It had been blasted off its hinges, blown clear across the yard, and was lying in splinters beside the garden gate.

“James?” he called out, his voice hoarse, “Lily?”

He ducked beneath the broken lintel, shoulders scraping the splintered wood, and stepped into what had once been a home - warm, laughing, alive. Now, it was a tomb. The hallway was ruined. Burned wood and broken beams littered the floor. The wallpaper was scorched and peeling, pictures blackened and fallen. And James-

There was James, lying there, sprawled in the wreckage, eyes lifeless, glasses crooked and cracked where they had half fallen off his empty face.

Hagrid froze.

For a moment, the only sound was the soft dripping of water from the beams above. Then, slowly, almost unwillingly, he sank to his knees beside the young man who had once laughed louder than anyone else in the Order. James Potter, always grinning, always charging in headfirst, always alive, was… still. Too still.

Hagrid reached out as if to shake him. But his hand hovered midair, trembling slightly, then fell instead to James’s face. He gently pressed his massive hand over the young man’s face, closing his eyes with a surprising tenderness

“Ah, James…” he murmured, “I’m so sorry, lad… So, so sorry…”

From upstairs came a low, groaning noise - movement. 

Hope snapped like a spark in his chest, painful and bright. Hagrid surged to his feet. The staircase groaned beneath his weight as he climbed, careful now, cautious - as though even his hope might shatter underfoot. He didn’t dare name the possibility in his mind.

The door to the nursery had been blown off its hinges, too, and inside the room was devastation. The windows were gone, curtains charred and fluttering in the storm. The walls were blackened, the floor littered with broken toys, scorched wood, and the remains of a toppled rocking chair. The crib - a beautiful thing once - stood crooked and broken, its sides shattered like the ribs of a carcass. And in the far corner, half-buried beneath a fallen ceiling beam, there was a slash of red.

“Lily!”

He crossed the room in three great strides and tossed the beam aside as if it weighed nothing. Her body lay twisted awkwardly, blood at her temple, dirt and debris clinging to her robes. Her face was pale, lifeless… but then he saw her chest rise and fall, her breathing shallow, ragged, but steady.

“Oh, thank Merlin”. Hagrid knelt down beside her and gently touched her shoulder. “Lily? Lily, can yeh hear me?”

She groaned faintly, shifting, eyelids fluttering. She was unconscious - but alive. It was good enough. Hagrid glanced quickly at the crib - empty. He looked frantically around the rest of the room, but there was no movement, no crying, no Harry.

Where on earth was he?

Before the panic could take hold, a deafening crack split the air outside, followed by the thunderous roar of an engine. Hagrid’s stomach dropped like a stone, but the relief he felt when he heard a familiar voice call out below was short-lived.

He heard Sirius Black find James, heard his anguished moan when he realised his best friend was dead, heard him curse and yell and sob, and then he heard him pounding up the stairs, skittering around the corner, into the nursery and-

“Lily?! Harry?! HARRY!”

Hagrid stood to meet him. The young man was wild-eyed, panicked, his wand already drawn.

“Harry! Where is he?!” Sirius’s voice cracked, that pained gaze latching onto him. “Where is he, Hagrid?!”

“He ain’t here” he said quietly, “But Lily’s still alive”.

Sirius looked past him, then rushed into the room. He dropped to his knees beside Lily, brushing a trembling hand against her cheek.

“Lily? Lils, wake up, oh Merlin, please wake up! Harry? HARRY?!”

He lunged toward the empty crib, overturning it in his desperation. 

“No, no, no! He was supposed to be safe! Dumbledore said they were safe! HARRY!”

Hagrid reached out, placing one heavy hand on Sirius’s shoulder. “I don’t know what happened, lad, but the babe’s gone”.

“Gone?” His wand was clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white. “No. No, he couldn’t be gone! He wouldn’t have- That bastard wouldn’t dare-”

“Who, Sirius? Who are you talkin’ about?”

“Pettigrew! Peter fucking Pettigrew was the Secret-Keeper! It was supposed to be me, but we switched at the last second. We thought it’d be safer but-” His voice cracked. “We were wrong. I was wrong. I told them to use Peter, Hagrid - I told them! I went to check on him tonight but- but he wasn’t there, everything was gone, so- so I came here instead because I knew- I just fucking knew that something was wrong and now- now J-James is d-dead and Harry is missing and-”

His breaths were coming in sharp, panicked bursts, and his legs buckled beneath him. Only Hagrid’s firm grip on his shoulders kept him from collapsing completely, but even then, it was more of a slow descent to his knees than anything else.

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault!” He moaned, grasping at his hair, shaking his head. “He betrayed us. He betrayed them! We should never have switched, I should’ve stayed as their Secret-Keeper, this is all my fault! Now James is- and Lily- and- and Peter is- I swear, I- I- If he has Harry, if he’s taken him, then I’ll-”

“He doesn’t” Hagrid interrupted, “He had no reason to take the babe, you said it yourself. You-Know-Who’s been here, Sirius. Magic like this… it didn’t come from Peter”.

“But if Voldemort’s gone” Sirius said, voice trembling, “then where’s Harry?”

“I don’t know. But if he’s still alive, then Dumbledore’ll find him”.

“No… No, I’ll find him! I’ll find that- that traitorous fucking rat and I’ll kill him! I swear on my own life, I’ll track him down and I’ll-”

He made to get up, to push past him again, but Hagrid caught him in a full-body grip this time - massive arms wrapping around the man like steel cables.

“Listen to me” he said firmly, “Sirius, listen! We can’t go chasin’ after Peter right now. We’ve got Lily to think of, and she needs help! She’s still alive, Sirius! You want to help Harry? Then help her! Harry will need his mum when we find him. We need to get her someplace safe, away from the gawking muggles outside, and then we can start trying to find Harry and Peter”.

Sirius fought him for a moment, furious, grief-stricken, but finally sagged.

“Alright” he muttered, “Alright. Where can we bring her?”

“You know of anyone from the Order who lives ‘round here?”

He thought for a moment before slowly nodding. “Diggle. Dedalus Diggle. He’s got a place in Kent charmed heavily enough to hold off a stampede of trolls. We can take her there”.

Hagrid nodded. “Good. I’ll carry Lily to yer bike. You take her there. I’ll go tell Dumbledore”.

Sirius hesitated at the threshold. He looked around the wreckage - the place where so much joy had lived… and now died.

“I’m going to find him” he said at last. His voice was steel beneath the sorrow. “Peter. I’ll find that traitorous rat, and when I do… he will pay for this”.

Hagrid frowned but didn’t argue. He stooped low and scooped Lily gently into his arms. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake. Together, they managed to carefully carry her to the motorbike, just as the first Aurors showed up and began distracting the muggles, shielding the house from their view.

Thunder rumbled overhead. The wind tore through the trees. And with a roar that split the sky, the bike soared into the storm, carrying what remained of the Potters toward whatever came next.

The first thing Lily felt was heat.

A fire crackled somewhere close by. The room was warm - too warm - and her skin prickled beneath the layers of bandages and blankets wrapped around her. Her limbs were heavy, weighted down with a dull pressure, and the ache beneath her skin was sharp and insistent, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

The second thing she felt was pain. A searing throb at her temple. Her skull felt cracked down the centre like an overripe fruit, memories lodged in fragments she didn’t dare touch.

The third thing she noticed was… yelling.

“Oh, put your wand down, Kingsley! I’m not the bloody threat here!”

“Not the threat? You were their Secret-Keeper!”

“No, I wasn’t! I keep telling you-”

“Are you really going to sit there and pretend that you didn’t have the means to sell them out?!”

“Why would I ever-”

“You tell us! You’re the one who betrayed them!”

“I didn’t-”

“Oh, please! You’re a Black! I always knew it was foolish of the Order to let you in-”

“Enough!”

The voices layered, a chorus of fury, panic, accusation, and grief, slamming against each other like waves. Lily’s eyes fluttered open, lashes stuck together with sleep and smoke. The ceiling above was low, blurred, wooden-beamed - some kind of cottage. The scent of herbs and rain-drenched wool thickened the air.

Where was she?

She tried to speak, but her throat was burned raw. A pained groan escaped her instead.

The yelling stopped.

A heavy silence dropped into the room like a thunderclap, every voice cut off mid-word. Chairs scraped. Feet shuffled. She heard someone move closer, cautious. A soft voice said her name.

“Lily, dear? Can you hear me?”

She turned her head and winced, her muscles protesting even the smallest movement, and saw Albus Dumbledore standing between her and the hearth, his robes singed, face weary, blue eyes watchful and unreadable. Next to him, the others - Arthur Weasley, Emmeline Vance, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Sturgis Podmore… even Dedalus Diggle hovered by the window, his wand drawn. And in the centre of it all - Sirius.

On his knees. Hands raised. Face pale and streaked with soot and tears. There were five different wands pointed at him. He looked like hell.

“Here, my dear, drink this” Molly said, holding a familiar-smelling vial to her lips, and Lily gladly downed the Wiggenweld Potion, feeling the pain of her injuries starting to subside almost immediately.

“What’s-” She had to cough to clear her throat. “What’s happened?”

“Lily” Dumbledore said gently, “you’re safe. You’re in Dedalus’s cottage. We brought you here last night, after-”

“Where’s Harry?”

Silence. 

Sirius flinched like she’d slapped him. Arthur looked away. Molly pursed her lips, looking as though she was trying desperately not to cry. Only Dumbledore met her gaze.

“We don’t know” he admitted quietly, “We believe Voldemort took him. There was no trace of Harry’s body in the house”.

Lily stared. Her mouth went dry. She felt the world tilt slightly beneath her, nausea rising.

No body? 

He hadn’t died?

She didn’t know if that was better or worse.

“And James?” she asked, though she already knew - and the look on Dumbledore’s face only confirmed it. Sirius made a sound - half groan, half sob. He was shaking now, visibly, whole body trembling like a fraying wire under strain.

“Tell them” he whispered, “ Please, Merlin, Lils, tell them that I wasn’t the Secret-Keeper! Tell them that we switched!”

Kingsley stepped forward. “He’s been insisting it was Peter Pettigrew. That you changed Secret-Keeper at the last minute”. 

Someone else in the room snorted. “A likely bloody story…”

Dumbledore looked pained, but he said nothing. None of them did. Lily looked between them all - Kingsley’s stern frown, Emmeline’s cool suspicion, Molly’s guilt-creased forehead - and realisation dawned, making her feel sick. 

They believed it. Every single one of them. They looked at Sirius Black - James’s best friend, Harry’s godfather - and assumed the worst.

Sirius, who’d sworn an oath over Harry’s crib. Sirius, who called James “brother” without hesitation. Sirius, who cried during their wedding toast. They believed him to be the traitor. Because he was a Black. Because betrayal, to them, was in his blood.

Sirius saw it too; she could tell. His jaw was clenched. His shoulders hunched. He wouldn’t look at anyone anymore.

Dumbledore stepped in, his voice quiet but firm. “Lily, was Sirius Black the Secret-Keeper?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “No. He wasn’t”.

A breath of disbelief swept through the room.

“Then who was?” Dumbledore asked.

“Peter. We switched at the last minute. Sirius had too many eyes on him. Everyone knew he was the obvious choice, so we thought, if we made Peter the Secret-Keeper instead, no one would suspect him. He was so… harmless”. Her voice cracked. “He said we could trust him”.

Sirius let out a strangled noise and sank back onto his heels. The wands slowly lowered. No one said a word. No one even apologised. Of course, they didn’t - he was a Black. That was all the justification they’d needed. 

“No hard feelings, mate” Sturgis said gruffly, not meeting Sirius’s eyes.

No hard feelings? After pointing five wands at his heart? After putting half a lifetime of friendship behind themselves because of his name? After accusing him of committing the worst crime imaginable with no more evidence than their own disbelief?!

Funny how people’s true colours always show in moments like this.

“Thank you” Dumbledore said softly, before holding out a familiar dark wooden stick, “Your wand, Sirius”.

He took it, but didn’t respond. He just stared at the floor, fists clenched in his lap, mouth twisted in a bitter line. Dumbledore turned back to Lily, his expression still gentle, though lines of worry carved deeper into his face now.

“Lily… can you tell us what happened? What do you remember?”

She hesitated. The memories were fractured - burnt edges, hot ash, and screaming. She took a shaky breath.

“He… found us. James told me to take Harry upstairs. Voldemort was already at the door. I… I ran. I barricaded the nursery. I heard him - James - downstairs, trying to stall him. And then…” Her throat closed. “He was dead. Just like that”.

Another sound escaped Sirius - something between a moan and a curse. He turned away, hands to his face, shoulders trembling.

“And Voldemort?” Dumbledore asked, “He attacked you in the nursery? You said the door was locked. Did he force it open? Stun you before taking Harry?”

Lily blinked in shock but then quickly schooled her expression. So that was what they all believed? The story they had built in their heads? The only story that they wanted to believe? The story that said she had fought to save her son. That she had been facing insurmountable odds. That she had failed, but that it wasn’t her fault.

That she was a victim. A widow. A scared kid with a dead husband and a missing baby. 

Lily felt the lie burn at the back of her throat. She thought of their faces - accusing, distrustful. The wands pointed at Sirius. The fear. The judgment. If they found out that she’d willingly given her son to Voldemort…

She drew in a slow, deliberate breath.

“Yes” she whispered. “That’s what happened”.

No one questioned her.

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “We believe that Harry is still alive. We don’t know how or why, but there was no trace of him, and no trace of Voldemort either. We think… We think something happened - something none of us could have ever expected”.

Lily closed her eyes.

Alive.

She didn’t know whether to weep or scream.

“We’ll find them” Sirius said suddenly, his voice hoarse as he slowly got back to his feet, his fists still clenched, “We find them and we end this”.

The room fell quiet - uncomfortably so - as the fire crackled and Lily sat rigid, every muscle coiled tight beneath her skin. Because somewhere out there, her son was with the Dark Lord. And although no one here knew the truth, he did.

“We need to find him” Sirius repeated, “If Voldemort has Harry - if he took him - then there’s no time to waste!”

“We don’t even know where he is” Kingsley said.

“The house is in ruins” Vance agreed, “There’s no trail, nothing to trace-”

“Then we’ll bloody well find one!” Sirius snarled. “We have to. He’s just a baby! We need to find Voldemort and find Harry and-

“No!” Lily’s voice sliced through the room like a blade. Everyone froze. Heads slowly turned toward her. The silence returned. Not heavy. Not sharp, but- stunned.

“No?” Dumbledore asked gently, his brows raised, though there was something sharp behind his calm. “Lily, I know you’re still recovering, but Harry is-”

“I know who he is!” she snapped before she could stop herself, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the fire. They were all staring at her now. Molly’s brow furrowed. Dedalus looked shocked. Arthur’s mouth opened like he was about to speak, but then he thought better of it.

The lie tumbled out before Lily could stop it.

“I just- I don’t think he’s still alive”. Her voice cracked, desperate. “And if he’s not - if he’s already gone - then we’ll only be sending more people to their deaths for nothing. James is… James is already dead, and chances are, Harry is too… I don’t want to risk losing anyone else”.

A heavy silence followed. And then - 

“How dare you”.

Sirius’s voice was low, gutteral, and Lily flinched. He stood there, trembling with fury, his dark hair damp with sweat and rain, his eyes gleaming with something wilder than grief - something feral.

“How dare you” he repeated, louder this time, “This is your child that we’re talking about! James’s child! My godson! And you just want to- to- what? Give up? Throw in the towel without even trying to get him back?!”

Molly took a hesitant step forward. “Sirius, maybe you should-”

“No!” he yelled, rounding on her, “I can’t believe this is even up for debate! Are you honestly telling me that if it were one of your kids in Harry’s place, you’d be standing here right now, talking about not risking people’s lives? I mean, your youngest - Ginny - she’s, what? Two months old? Three?! And you’re honestly telling me that you wouldn’t burn the world down just to get her back?!”

“Well… that’s different-”

“No, it’s bloody well not! Not to me. Not to James. Not to Harry!”

“None of this is helping us” Kingsley said sternly, but Sirius wasn’t listening.

“He’s just a baby ” he said, breathing hard, voice rough, “A baby who is probably terrified, injured, alone, or- or worse! And you’re all just- just sitting here debating whether or not he’s worth saving! Are you insane?!”

He turned back to Lily, his eyes liquid silver, burning straight through her.

“If you had died, and James had lived, he wouldn’t be sitting here, making up excuses. He’d already be out there - hunting down every Death Eater he could find and ripping the world apart to find his son!”

Those words hit like a punch to the stomach.

“He deserves better than this” Sirius finished, his voice breaking. 

Lily’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Sirius” Dumbledore said, calm but cold, “I understand that you’re grieving, but this… outburst is not helping. I suggest you take some time to collect yourself”.

It wasn’t a suggestion.

For a moment, Sirius didn’t move. His fists clenched, shoulders tight, chest rising and falling with fast, shallow breaths. For a second, Lily thought he might actually refuse.

But then, slowly, without another word, he turned and left the room, his footsteps heavy against the floorboards. The door slammed behind him, rattling the frame. 

No one followed.

Sirius didn’t stop once he was outside.

The cold night air hit him like a slap. Rain still trickled from the eaves, the last remnants of the storm. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands - James hated the smell, always used to Vanish them out of Sirius’s coat pockets - and stared into the trees, wishing he could punch something. Or scream. Or cry. Or all three.

They’d honestly believed he was the traitor, and now…

He’d seen something in Lily’s face. Something wrong. A flicker. A hesitation. And her words - “No!” - hadn’t sounded like grief. They’d sounded like… fear. But that didn’t make sense. None of this made any sense!

He couldn’t go back in there. Couldn’t look at any of them. Couldn’t sit with this rage and heartbreak rattling around in his chest like broken glass.

He needed someone.

He needed his best friend!

But now… now his best friend was dead. 

The one person he wanted the most right now - the one person he needed - was dead. His other friend, of course, was a dirty rotten traitor, nothing more than a rat! The irony of it all nearly made him laugh, but it came out more like a sob. Aside from them, his only other close friend was…

Remus.

Currently risking his life up north to get the Order an in with the werewolf packs, and Sirius felt absolutely horrible because for a moment there… he honestly wondered about Moony’s loyalty.

The Order had a spy - they all knew that - and words had been said and fingers had been pointed and now, of course, they all knew who the spy really was and now, of course, Sirius knew that they all thought it was him and-

Merlin, how could he ever have doubted Remus? After James, he’d been his closest friend, and there were even things he'd told Moony that he’d never told Prongs about. 

That, now, he'd never get to tell Prongs about…

Sirius took a deep, stuttering drag from his cigarette.  

He couldn’t do this alone. He couldn’t find Harry alone. He couldn’t avenge James alone. He couldn’t- He can’t be alone. Not right now. Not when he felt like- like this. It wouldn’t end well for anyone, least of all himself. He needed to know that he hadn’t gone mad, that he hadn’t lost his mind, that there was still at least one person left on this godforsaken planet who was on his side. 

Sirius flicked the cigarette into the mud, stamped on it, and then Disapparated with a crack. 

He needed to know there was still hope.

Chapter Text

Sunday, 1st November 

The pale winter light filtered through the high, arched windows of the Lestrange master bedroom, casting long, thin shadows across the cold stone floor. But the bed was warm - warmer than it had ever been - with an unfamiliar, precious weight nestled between Bellatrix and Rodolphus.

Harry Potter, his small body wrapped in a green woollen blanket, slept soundly, curled on his side with one tiny hand resting atop the soft quilt. Bellatrix hadn’t taken her eyes off him all night. Her hair was mussed, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but her expression was one of feral devotion. 

She watched each rise and fall of the infant’s chest as though it were the rhythm of the world itself. Every twitch of his fingers, every soft sigh or sleepy murmur, felt like a miracle in motion. He was perfect. Powerful. The chosen one, yes - but now, her chosen one. Her son.

Rodolphus stirred across from her, and she quickly shushed him. The baby shifted slightly, making a warm, contented sound before settling back into deep slumber. Bellatrix let out a slow breath.

“He didn’t even cry last night” she whispered.

“No” Rodolphus murmured, “Not since the Dark Lord gave him to us… He’s a brave little thing”.

Bellatrix traced a finger gently across the baby’s forehead, just above the scar. The wound had already begun to scab lightly. 

“He shouldn’t have to be brave. Not at this age”.

There was a tap-tap-tap at the window. Both of them sat up sharply, already reaching for their wands, but it was only an owl, bearing the morning edition of the Daily Prophet. Rodolphus slipped from the bed to retrieve it, opening the window and untying the scroll from its leg with steady hands. The owl fluttered off again, unnoticed. Bellatrix, now sitting upright with the dozing baby in her lap, watched as her husband unrolled the paper. She could already see the headline - bold, black letters splashed across the front page:

TRAGEDY AT GODRIC’S HOLLOW: JAMES POTTER DEAD, LILY POTTER ALIVE, HARRY POTTER MISSING

A photograph beneath the headline showed the ruined shell of the cottage, half its roof gone, scorched beams exposed to the sky. Bellatrix felt a wave of pride wash over her. The baby had done that - their baby. Rodolphus climbed back into bed as he read the start of the article out loud.

“Sources confirm that the attack occurred late last night at the Potter residence in Godric’s Hollow. Aurors arrived to find the home in ruins, James Potter dead, and Lily Potter injured but alive. Most shockingly, their son - Harry Potter, born just one year and three months ago - is missing. Ministry officials have so far declined to comment on the child’s possible whereabouts”.

Bellatrix felt her jaw clench. Her voice, when she spoke, was tight with fury. “She lived”.

Rodolphus raised an eyebrow. “You sound disappointed”.

“She lived!” Bellatrix snapped. “While her husband died and her son was taken, she lived and did nothing to protect him! She just stood there! Gave him up! Not even a plea or a spell - she just let him go!”

Harry stirred in her arms, and she quickly adjusted her tone, rocking him gently. 

“I would have died for him” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else, “I will die for him, if ever it comes down to that. I just don’t understand how she could have done nothing!”

Rodolphus didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His eyes had softened, watching her cradle the child like he were made of glass. In all the years they’d been married, he’d never seen her like this. Her madness had always been reserved for war and battle and bloodshed - but now? 

Now, it was for this boy.

Bellatrix tore her gaze from the paper and kissed Harry’s forehead with a protective fierceness. “She doesn’t deserve to live. She doesn’t deserve to breathe after what she did!”

“She’ll suffer more alive” Rodolphus said mildly, setting the paper on the side table, “Her husband dead, her child gone, and she’ll know - she already knows -  that she didn’t even try to stop it”.

Bellatrix let that satisfaction settle over her for a moment before gently lifting Harry from the bed as sleepy green eyes started to open. 

“We can discuss what she deserves later” she said, “But for now, let’s have breakfast”.

They ate in the formal dining room, the child seated in a transfigured high-chair that sat beside Bellatrix. Every time he made a sound, she reached for him. Every time he blinked, she was watching. Rodolphus had never seen her so alert, so enthralled - so terrifyingly focused.

“We’ll have to firecall Narcissa” she said, carefully scooping another spoonful of mashed banana into the child’s mouth, “We can’t keep transfiguring everything we need, but it’ll be too suspicious if we suddenly start buying baby things in Diagon Alley. We’ll just have to borrow some of hers for now”.

“Are we going to tell her the truth?” Rodolphus asked, taking another sip of coffee, “About where he came from?”

“Our lord didn’t tell us we couldn’t” she replied mildly, “And we can’t exactly say that I secretly had a baby over a year ago without telling anyone, can we?”

“Not to our family and friends, no” he agreed, dark eyes calculating, “But as for the rest of the wizarding world…”

Bellatrix glanced over at him, her brow slightly furrowed. “You think we should claim him as ours? Biologically ours?”

“It would be the safest thing to do. The Prophet said he’s one year and three months old, which would put his birthday sometime around the end of July. If he were biologically ours, then you would have been noticeably pregnant during early nineteen-eighty”. Rodolphus set his coffee cup down with a quiet clink, the steam curling into the space between them like a whisper. “We were barely seen in public during those few months, Bella. Not really. Not by anyone who’d remember, or dare to question us. That was during the height of the war, and most were too afraid to look twice at known Death Eaters”.

Bellatrix didn’t respond immediately. She was watching the boy again - no, not watching, studying him, like he was an Arithmancy equation just beginning to make sense. Her fingers carefully brushed back his hair as he gurgled around the spoon. The healing paste she’d put on his forehead before breakfast had already worked wonders, and now, nothing but a jagged lightning-shaped scar remained.

“He looks like us” Rodolphus continued, more gently now, “My dark hair, your curls. My complexion, your bone structure… Anyone would believe it”.

“Except for his eyes” she murmured, still looking at the baby, “The Potters all had dark eyes, so they must be hers. Lily Potter’s. That colour green that doesn’t belong in either of our families”.

There was a brittle silence. The only sound was the clink of the spoon in the little bowl and the soft breathing of the child.

“We could change them” he offered, not unkindly, “I’m sure there’s some sort of spell or charm that-”

“No!” She said it sharply, as if he’d insulted her. Then, more quietly, “No. I don’t want to change them. They’re not ours, but they’re… they’re beautiful. The exact same shade as the Killing curse”.

Rodolphus studied her, saw her determination, her adamancy, her awe, and then slowly nodded. 

“Alright. We’ll keep them as they are - say he inherited them from my mother’s side of the family. Not many people would remember her eye colour, and those who do are close enough to us to be told the truth of where he really came from, anyway”.

“If he were biologically ours” she said quietly, “Then we would have announced his birth when it happened. How do we explain why we did not? How do we explain why no one has seen him yet, despite him being over a year old?”

“We’ll say we’re over-protective” Rodolphus replied with a shrug, “Given our… reputations, it wouldn’t be a surprise if we kept our child out of public view. Kept him hidden, for his safety”.

She stood, smoothing a hand down her dress. “It won’t be a lie”.

“No” he agreed, watching her as she gently lifted the boy from his high-chair, “No, it won’t. And the Potters have been in hiding for the past year anyway, so no one outside of a handful of their close friends has ever seen the boy either… We can do this if we’re smart about it, Bella. We can convince everyone that he’s ours”.

“He is ours” she replied, cradling the child in her arms, “In every way that matters, anyway”.

They left the dining room together, Bellatrix carrying the child and Rodolphus following closely, eyes flicking to the baby’s dark curls that matched hers almost too perfectly, as they made their way to the library. 

The heavy door creaked open under Rodolphus’s hand, and the scent of aged parchment and leather greeted them. It was a room of shadows and warmth: shelves rising to the ceiling, overstuffed armchairs by the windows, and a broad hearth set into the far wall, where the fire crackled low but steady.

Bellatrix didn’t hesitate. She moved with the grace of someone who had grown up knowing she owned every space she entered, her bare feet soundless on the thick rug as she crossed to the hearth and lowered herself to the floor. Her dress pooled around her like spilt ink, the child cradled securely in her lap, his cheek pressed against the soft silk. Her fingers moved slowly, rhythmically, through his dark hair.

“He’ll need a name” she said after a pause, her voice carrying over the fire’s gentle crackle. “A proper name - nothing so plebeian and common as Harry. He needs a name worthy of the Black family. A name worthy of our lord”.

Rodolphus knelt before one of the lower shelves, fingers tracing the spines. “An atlas of constellations, then?”

“Yes” Bellatrix agreed, gently bouncing the boy as he gurgled happily in her lap, “A star name, like my own”.

He nodded, pulling out a leather-bound tome. “Any particular letter to start with?”

She didn’t answer immediately. The firelight painted her face in soft gold and deep shadow as she gazed down at the child - their child - who blinked around at his new surroundings, utterly content. She touched his cheek with the back of her fingers, reverently.

“The letter ‘H’” she finally decided, “We are his parents now, and his biological mother is not even worth mentioning… but James Potter died for him. It would be… rude of us to not keep at least some of Potter’s wishes, given that he is partly the reason we even have a son... And besides, my grandaunt Dorea married a Potter. It was not too long ago when they were a family still worthy of respect”.

Rodolphus tilted his head and offered her a rare, quiet smile. “Corvus oculum corvi non eruit”.

She turned, flashing him a small, secretive smile in response. “Toujours pur, mon amour”.

The Lestrange and Black mottos. Words woven into their bloodlines. Promises etched into their bones. Loyalty above all - to magic, to power, to family.

Rodolphus sat down on the armchair next to them, flipping through the book until he reached the “H” section. Some of the names he immediately ruled out - too boring, too extreme, too difficult to pronounce - but then he started calling out those that took his fancy.

“How does Hydra sound?”

“Salazar no!” Bellatrix snapped, recoiling in horror, “He is not a pet snake!”

“Hamal?”

“Far too dull”.

“Hmm… Hercules?”

“Do you want to get stabbed?”

“Hadar?” he tried again, “It’s the second-brightest object in the Centaurus constellation”.

“Our child shall never be second best to anything, Rodolphus!”

He sighed, long-suffering but amused, and turned the page. His gaze wandered, eyes scanning down through the list of potential names until-

Oh.

“Then how about… Haedus?”

There was a beat of silence. A long, deep stillness as Bellatrix looked down at the child in her lap. He was watching her now, his green eyes wide, and one small hand tangled in a spiralling curl of her dark hair. 

“Haedus” she repeated quietly, contemplatively, and he decided to take the fact that he wasn’t getting hexed as a good sign.

“Haedus” she said again, carefully sounding out each letter in turn.

“It doesn’t have any known linguistic root” Rodolphus offered, cautiously, “The origin of the word has been lost over the centuries, but currently, it represents one of the children of the brightest star in a northern constellation - although the Haedus star itself is supposedly even larger than the sun”.

On the soft rug in front of the fire, the baby giggled and tightened his tiny fingers around Bellatrix’s thick curls. She smiled, and something in that smile - something dangerously protective, fiercely possessive - made Rodolphus’s breath catch in his throat.

“My little Haedus” she murmured, “Bigger than the whole sun”.

Rodolphus silently let out a sigh of relief and gratefully shut the book, leaving it on the side table next to him. He stood, long limbs unfolding smoothly, and then sat down on the rug next to his wife and… child. His child. Their child. For the first time in a very long time, he felt something that was almost akin to peace.

Bellatrix turned to him, her smile widening, making her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he couldn’t help but smile back in return.

“Our little Haedus” she said softly, brushing a kiss to the child’s forehead, “It is a strong name. A good name. Our lord shall be very pleased, I think”.

Rodolphus reached out and placed a cautious, careful hand on the child’s small back, feeling the warmth, the breath, the weight of something that had already begun to change them.

“It is a name worthy of his equal” he agreed quietly, his voice thick with something he could not - would not - identify, “And we shall make sure that Haedus lives up to it”.

By that afternoon, the Lestrange drawing room had been transfigured into something altogether warmer for the occasion. 

The usual dark, oppressive decor had been lightened with floating candles, golden charmed ivy weaving lazily along the stone mantelpiece, and a touch of music, soft and distant like it was echoing from another room. Bellatrix had insisted it be a family affair - a proper family affair.

She stood near the window, rocking the baby gently in her arms. Haedus was dressed in a transfigured snake onesie, the soft green fabric matching the shade of his eyes perfectly - eyes that, after his morning nap, were now wide and alert, studying the world with undeniable curiosity as Bellatrix hummed a lullaby under her breath.

A sharp crack echoed from the entrance hall - the sound of someone Apparating into the manor wards.

“Showtime” she murmured to him, kissing his temple, “Let’s go meet your Papy”.

She swept from the room with all the confidence of a queen about to present an heir to her kingdom because, as far as she was concerned, that was exactly what Haedus was.

“Bellatrix Druella Black - did you kidnap that child?!”

Cygnus Black stood in the grand entryway, silver-streaked hair slightly askew from the Apparition, his fine robes still settling around him. His voice echoed off the marble with all the force of paternal fury.

“What? Papa, no, of course I didn’t!” she replied, looking entirely innocent before her mouth curved into a wicked smirk, “Our lord did”.

“Bellatrix!” He practically exploded, striding forward, his sharp grey eyes flicking between his daughter’s face and the child in her arms. “Don’t play games with me, young lady! Why, on earth, would the Dark Lord kidnap a child for you?!”

Rodolphus appeared in the corridor behind them. “We’ll explain everything once everyone else arrives, Cygnus, but for now, just know that this boy is important to our lord and he has chosen us to raise him”.

The older man looked between them, still clearly confused but knowing better than to question the Dark Lord’s reasons.

“He entrusted him to us, Papa” Bellatrix said softly, stepping closer, “He’s ours now. Our son”.

Cygnus’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “And not one of you thought to tell me?! I’m your father, not some common hanger-on!”

“The Dark Lord only brought him to us last night!” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “And that’s why I asked you to come early today! I wanted you to meet him first”.

She held Haedus out slightly, and the boy squealed with delight at the movement, reaching for Cygnus’ robe buttons. The man startled, stared, and then slowly reached out, long fingers lightly brushing the baby’s cheek.

“He… looks like you” he finally said, and Bellatrix preened, “Like both of you… The skin tone, the hair, the face… but not those eyes”.

“We’re going to say they’re from my side of the family” Rodolphus explained, “Although I highly doubt that anyone will actually dare question us”.

The boy was grinning at him now, babbling incoherently, and Bellatrix smiled broadly at the sight.

“Yeah, that’s your papy! Are you trying to say hello?”

“Papy?” Cygnus gave an indignant huff. “I am not yet sixty, young lady! I don’t need to sound like someone’s dotty great-grandfather! He is not allowed to call me papy!”

“He hasn’t called you anything yet, Papa!” She laughed. “But when he does… it’s going to be papy”.

He let out an exasperated sigh - but then Haedus reached for him again, letting out a joyful little coo, and the new grandfather was undone. He took the child carefully in his arms, studied his tiny features, and then softened in a way Bellatrix had never seen before.

“Mon trésor” Cygnus whispered, “You’ll be a proper Black, make no mistake”.

She watched him, something flickering in her chest, both proud and strange. Was this how her sister felt, every time she presented their father with her son?

“We’d like to give him a proper name” she said softly, “And we were hoping to ask your permission for his middle name. After you”.

Cygnus froze, looking down at Haedus, then back up at her. His expression crumpled, his grey eyes suddenly damp, and he quickly turned back to the child - to his grandchild - to hide it.

“You-” He had to clear his throat. “... I would be honoured, Trixie”.

Rodolphus put a gentle hand on his shoulder and smiled. “Then his name shall be Haedus Cygnus Lestrange”.

“That is a noble name… A great name”. The old man wiped at one eye discreetly. “He shall make our family proud”.

The next pop of Apparition came from the front door, not ten minutes later. Then another. And another. They had since retreated to the drawing room, where Cygnus was still holding Haedus in his arms, absolutely enthralled.

Rodolphus asked a house-elf to see their guests through, and a moment later, the drawing room doors were opened. Narcissa entered first, resplendent in pale silver robes, with a fussing Draco held protectively in her arms. Lucius followed behind her, straight-backed and sharp-eyed, nodding a greeting to Rodolphus. Rabastan strode in just after, his cloak billowing slightly, and then came the imposing form of Randolph Lestrange, stooped over yet severe, carrying an ornate wooden cane.

Cygnus turned to face them.

“Look what your sister’s done” he said to Narcissa, positively beaming, “She’s given me a grandchild!”

Narcissa blinked, stepping forward quickly. “Bella, just where did you get that baby?!”

She rolled her eyes and sighed loudly. “Why must everyone in my family accuse me of kidnapping?!”

“Because that is usually how one acquires a child that is not yours on such short notice!” she snapped, “Papa, please tell me-”

Cygnus raised a hand to cut her off. “Calm yourself, Cissa. Although the boy was, indeed, kidnapped, it was not your sister who did the kidnapping”.

“Yeah, cause that’s reassuring” Rabastan muttered, getting cuffed over the back of his head by his father for his troubles.

“The Dark Lord gave him to us” Rodolphus explained, “He’s… He was… Harry Potter”.

There was a sudden silence that seemed to echo across the room.

“... I read the newspaper this morning” Randolph said quietly, “They’re speculating it was a Death Eater raid”.

“A Death Eater raid wouldn’t have left Lily Potter still alive” Bellatrix said darkly, “Our lord went to them late last night, but I’m not sure how much we can tell you as to why…”

She glanced over at her husband, who nodded and took the lead.

“The most important thing to know is that Lily Potter gave up her child” he said coldly, “She was willing to let him die in order to save herself”.

Narcissa inhaled sharply and clutched a wriggling Draco closer to her chest, Lucius taking a step forward behind her to place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“She didn’t deserve him” Bellatrix muttered, flashing eyes locked on Haedus, still sitting in her father’s lap, “She still doesn’t! So the Dark Lord took him and gave him to us to raise instead… The child’s powerful, he said. Worthy of being his equal”.

“No one is worthy of being our lord’s equal” Lucius said sharply.

“He said it himself!” she snapped, temper flaring, “He wants us to raise the boy as our own, to educate him, to teach him of our values and our goals… The Dark Lord wants him - expects him - to be brilliant”.

“And he will be” Cygnus said lightly, “He’s now a Black, after all”.

“And a Lestrange, too” Randolph added dryly, “Don’t you go taking all the credit, old man”.

“Let’s see how he turns out first, grandpa” he shot back, “If he’s a failure, then you can take all the credit!”

“No! I shall be called grand-péré or nothing!” He sniffed haughtily, even as he marched over and held out one hand. “Now give me my first grandchild before I hex you!”

Bellatrix burst out laughing, a rare, bright sound that echoed through the softened drawing room, and Rodolphus wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her close, pressing his grin against her hair.

“Fine!” Cygnus declared, holding the baby out, “I’ll just go say hello to my other grandchild, then!”

Randolph took the child with surprising gentleness, the corners of his mouth twitching as Haedus blinked up at him and promptly grabbed the end of his impressive grey moustache.

“A good firm grip” he murmured, nodding approvingly, “We’ll make a Lestrange out of you yet, mon petit corbeau”.

Narcissa, still looking a bit shaken, stepped closer to the cluster of family members. 

“He’s beautiful” she whispered, “And those curls - he looks just like you, Bella”.

Draco had finally quietened now that he was in his grandfather’s arms, and was now staring with wide grey eyes at the other baby, blinking at him in curiosity. Randolph was still studying his only grandson with a narrowed gaze.

“He does… Good cheekbones. Strong jaw. Healthy bones… He’ll grow to be a fine wizard, someday”.

Bellatrix gave him a mockingly grateful curtsy. “Thank you, beau-père. I’ll be sure to let him know you approve of his skull once he’s old enough to understand”.

Most of the room laughed, and Rabastan finally stepped forward to take in the sight of his first - and only - nephew.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, brother dear?” he asked, grinning as the baby babbled at him.

Rodolphus shared a look with Bellatrix before turning back to him.

“Yes, actually, we are” he agreed, “Baz, Cissa, we would like to ask if you would do us the honour of being his godparents”.

They both stared at them, stunned.

“We need people we can trust to stand with him” Bellatrix said, “Should anything happen to us-”

“Don’t say that” Narcissa cut in quickly, but Bellatrix only smiled sadly. “It’s a possibility we must consider, ma sœurette. And with the war going the way it is… So. What do you say?”

“I’d be honoured” she whispered, her eyes damp as she reached for her older sister, “Of course! Of course I’ll be his godmother!”

Bellatrix hugged her back, tightly, while Rabastan gave his brother a mischievous grin.

“Well, that wasn’t actually what I was referring to” he drawled, “But yeah. All of that honoured stuff? Me too”.

Randolph shot him a scowl that clearly said if he wasn’t holding his grandson right now, his own son would be getting yet another headslap.

“Then it’s settled” Rodolphus declared with a smile, “But… what were you referring to? What else did we forget?”

His brother gave him a look one usually reserved for especially stupid people. “To introduce us, you pillock! What the hell is the kid’s name?!”

Bellatrix blinked once, then threw her head back with a laugh so loud and delighted that even little Haedus let out a surprised squeal, his chubby fists still tangled in Randolph’s cravat. Rodolphus groaned and buried his face in her hair again, his shoulders shaking with poorly repressed laughter.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake” Bellatrix said, shaking her head, “Alright then. Proper introductions it is”.

She reached forward, arms open, and Randolph - though not without a heavy, reluctant sigh - handed the baby back into her waiting embrace. She cradled him with reverence, turning to the small cluster of her family gathered in the glowing light of the enchanted drawing room. Everyone fell quiet. Even Draco, remarkably, had gone still in Cygnus’s arms.

Bellatrix lifted her chin, her voice proud and clear. “May I introduce you all to the first Lestrange-Black heir… Haedus Cygnus Lestrange”.

There was a smattering of only slightly teasing applause before Narcissa stepped closer with a small, genuine smile to gently touch the child’s cheek.

“That’s a wonderful name, Bella. He’s a lucky boy to have you as his mother”.

“No” she replied softly, with a pride so fierce it seemed to burn in her chest, “I’m the lucky one”.

Haedus, clearly pleased with all of the attention, let out a delighted shriek and clapped his tiny hands together, which prompted a round of amused chuckles.

“Bit dramatic, isn’t he?” Rabastan grinned.

Randolph leaned over to where Cygnus was sitting. “You can take all the credit for that, if you like”.

And in that moment, beneath the golden ivy and the quiet, echoing music, with their legacy wrapped warmly in green cotton and new beginnings, Bellatrix couldn't help but grin as she felt that her family - dark, proud, and more dangerous than ever - was finally whole.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 3rd November

Voldemort stood atop a desolate hill, the wind tugging at the hem of his cloak, watching as the last glimmer of sunlight faded from the edge of the horizon. The night wrapped around him like a cloak of silence, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the whispering thoughts curling through his mind.

He hadn't moved in hours. Days, even. He'd lost all sense of time since leaving Lestrange Manor. He’d needed the distance. Space to think. To breathe. To recover.

There was a dark lake in front of him - the water black and smooth, the air thick with pine and incoming rain. Voldemort stared into the lake and thought, for once, not about the war, not about death, not even about Dumbledore.

He thought about the boy.

He hadn’t realised until now just how long it had been since he had truly thought. Not plotted. Not ordered. Not schemed. But thought. The kind of thoughts that existed outside of prophecies and battles. The kind of thoughts that required quiet. 

The explosion at the Potter's cottage had been more than magical backlash.

It had been a wake-up call.

He thought about the boy - the baby, really - with wild black hair and a bloodied forehead. A baby who should have died, who should have fallen under a curse older than many fallen kingdoms, older than the Potter name, older than fear. A baby who should have feared him.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, he had looked up at Voldemort with those curse-coloured eyes and smiled.

How absurd it was.

How laughable.

The most powerful wizard in a century, almost undone by an infant.

Voldemort let out a long, heavy breath - quiet, contemplative, not quite a sigh.

He recalled the boy, not an hour later, face cleared of blood and ash, grabbing at a toy dragon with a giggle so pure it had made something twist inside of him. He recalled standing over that child, not an hour before, wand raised and a curse on his lips, thinking him - a mere babe - a threat.

How far he had fallen.

There had been a time - had there not? - when he had goals. Clarity. Precision. He had dreamed of a world purged of weakness, of wizardkind returned to its rightful throne, of the magical bloodlines restored and revered. He had wanted reform. Revolution. Restoration.

He had once believed in something. He had once meant something. He had been brilliant, magnetic, terrifying - but above all else, he had been purposeful. The Dark Lord, yes, but also the visionary. He had fought for what he had wanted, but what he had wanted was not… this.

Chaos. Destruction. Bloodshed.

Somewhere along the line, that purpose had become an obsession. A frenzied spiral of immortality and paranoia. He had lost himself to fear - fear of death, fear of loss, fear of the unknown. And now he was scattered. Fragmented. Unwhole.

All because of his Horcruxes…

That was where it had all turned against him, wasn’t it? The first two - yes, those had been necessary. Reasonable. Tactical. One to ensure eternal life, and a second, as a backup. But then the third… the fourth… the fifth…

Each one had demanded more. Each one had torn something from him - bit by bit, fracture by fracture. He’d begun to lose things. Minor things, at first. The taste of certain foods. The nuance in human expression. The ability to charm. Then came the paranoia. The instability. The prophecy.

He had genuinely believed that a child could destroy him. He had acted like a beast. Like an animal. It was almost… embarrassing.

Two Horcruxes would have been enough. Two souls tethered to the world were all he had ever needed. The rest - the diadem, the cup, the locket - they were excess. Greed. Madness. So perhaps it was time to reclaim what was his. To cleanse himself, to restore balance. It was time to pull himself back from the brink. Not to abandon immortality - he was no fool - but to… temper it. To recall what he was before he had become a shadow. To become… something new. Something better. He would not destroy his excess Horcruxes; he would reclaim them.

The ring would be first.

It was still hidden in the remains of the Gaunt shack, in the filth and rot of his ancestry - an appropriate beginning to his reformation. He would absorb it again, piece by piece, and with it, focus.

Then the Hufflepuff cup. It should still be in the Lestranges’ Gringotts vault. He would let Bellatrix and Rodolphus adjust to their new lives as parents before he asked for access. He did not wish to complicate their task too soon, and he was… curious to see for himself how the boy would fare after a few days under their care.

The diary - oh, the diary. His youthful folly, his poetic vengeance. That one would be easy. Lucius had it somewhere among his vaults. He would request it back. 

The diadem would stay where it was, hidden in Hogwarts. He had no easy way of accessing it at the moment, but he knew that it would remain safe for now. The locket, too, was well protected - unreachable to everyone except him - so he’d leave that be as a failsafe.

But he would not allow his mind to be torn by five pieces any longer. It was time to return to himself, time to remember what he was, who he was, before he had become blinded by his fear. He would be whole again. Stronger. Clearer. Sharper… But then what?

Voldemort stared at his reflection in the still lake water. His red eyes glowed dimly, twin coals behind a pale, inhuman mask. There was no anger in that face, no softness, no remorse. But there was, finally, a glimmer of clarity.

He was tired of theatrics. Tired of the screaming. Tired of blood that ran too easily and of victims who didn’t even try to run. There was no challenge in the conquest anymore - no satisfaction in slaughter. His enemies cowered. The so-called resistance was laughable. It was all becoming rather… tedious. 

Perhaps it was time to take a new approach.

He could always conquer the wizarding world the new-fashioned way, after all, through channels of power that did not stain the floorboards. The current Minister for Magic, Millicent Bagnold, had only been elected last year, and the general public wasn’t entirely convinced by her yet. Perhaps, if Voldemort played his cards right, he could replace the woman with someone more… amenable to the Dark’s goals.

It was far easier to control a kingdom from behind the throne than to sit in it yourself, after all.

Voldemort stood still in the darkening light, the weight of the coming decision hanging around him like the damp air before a storm. He would have to be clever about this - make it look like the best possible option, the only possible option. Something that the public and the Ministry would get behind.

A ceasefire, perhaps. An olive branch of sorts, if such a phrase could apply to him. He turned the idea over like a blade in his mind, admiring its sharpness. It wouldn’t be a surrender. No, never that. It would be presented as... a gift. A strategic de-escalation. A move so civilised, so calculated, that the Ministry wouldn’t dare refuse it. He could already imagine the headlines.

Voldemort wouldn’t grovel. He wouldn’t apologise. He would simply offer - as if from a position of benevolence rather than necessity. That distinction would be important. Crucial. Because it wasn’t a retreat. It was… repositioning. And the key was in the wording. Carefully chosen. Purposefully vague.

He’d promise no more raids. No more bloodshed. He would ask for clemency for his followers - amnesty, if they were generous. He’d let them keep their names, their gold, their homes. Let them fade into the fabric of this failing society until they could begin stitching it anew from within.

The people wanted peace, after all - real peace, not the defiant, desperate kind promised by Dumbledore’s precious Order. A ceasefire would be framed as a triumph, a diplomatic miracle… But he would not say what he intended. He would not promise peace from himself - because that would be a lie, and lies, when caught, were weakness. No. The letter would be deliberate in what it omitted. He would not threaten. He would not reassure. He would… imply.

Let Bagnold fill in the gaps herself. Let her think: If I say no, what happens next? Another year of war? Another thousand dead? What if he comes for me? And then let her think: If I say yes… it ends. Just like that. The killing stops. The fear stops. My career is saved. My people survive.

She was a politician, not a soldier, but she was also not stupid. She would take the offer. With enough caution to soothe her conscience, and enough pragmatism to justify it. And once she did - once she put her name on the dotted line of that agreement - he would own her. Quietly. Invisibly.

And then, slowly, quietly, he would remove her.

He would make her stumble. Not yet, of course - not immediately. But… in time. A scandal. An oversight. A secret made public. The whispers of incompetence would spread until she stood alone. And then, he would offer the Ministry someone better. Someone calm. Unassuming. Someone reasonable and grateful and trustworthy. 

A puppet with a silver tongue and no spine.

Lucius Malfoy would make a decent Minister for Magic. Charismatic. Cunning. Connected… And, most importantly, easily manipulated. He would not wear a mask, he would wear a smile - and he would speak with Voldemort’s voice.

He almost laughed at the thought.

He would not rule from a throne of corpses - he would rule from the shadows. He would no longer fight a war - he would rewrite the world. One law at a time. One child at a time. One generation at a time. And at the centre of it all… Harry Potter.

Voldemort did not move as the last tendrils of twilight sank below the jagged hills, casting the world in silvered shadow. The lake was still. The trees whispered in the dark. He stood, statue-like, staring out at it all, and for the first time in decades, he felt… curious.

What might the world look like remade through patience instead of fire? What might he become, reshaped by discipline rather than destruction? What might Harry Potter offer in terms of power?

The boy should have died. He was so small, so warm and fragile and alive, and yet…

Voldemort was curious to see what he would become.

He turned, robes billowing behind him, and began to walk down the hill - away from the lake, away from the sunset, into the deepening dark. He did not Disapparate. Not yet. Some things, he had learned, required ceremony. The silence, the stillness, the solitude… They were important.

Behind him, the lake rippled as if exhaling a breath it had been holding for centuries.

Ahead of him, the world awaited.

He had plans now.

Lucius would be the first piece moved. Bellatrix, the next. The Minister, the Ministry, then Hogwarts. He would shape policy as deftly as he had once cast curses, and through it all, he would mould the boy, as patiently and carefully as one crafts a wand.

Harry Potter would grow beneath his gaze, guided not by Dumbledore’s soft platitudes, but by the sharp edge of ambition. The world would watch a saviour rise, and never know he served a shadow.

There would be no prophecy. No war. Only… inevitability.

The world would never know what happened that night in Godric’s Hollow, not truly. The Aurors had already found James Potter’s body. Dumbledore had already found Lily Potter - alive but unlikely to tell him the truth. They would find a ruined house, broken and scorched, and no baby in sight, and they would assume what they always did.

Lord Voldemort did not leave any survivors.

Harry Potter was dead.

No, he reasoned, not dead, simply… changed. Like he himself, as a result of that fateful, indescribable night. They would both change. They would both shed the skins of their previous selves and evolve into something new, something… greater.

Once Voldemort secured the Ministry, he wouldn’t even need to lift a finger, much less a wand. He could spend his time writing laws instead of kill orders, altering curricula instead of bones, and when the wizarding world awoke in three years, five years, ten - they would look around and realise they had never really won.

They had simply… changed.

And the boy - the boy with Avada Kedavra eyes - would grow up in that new world. Not as a weapon or a threat, but as proof. Proof that even fate could be rewritten.

Voldemort smiled, the barest ghost of it, as he sank into the shadows.

Bagnold would accept his offer - of course, she would. And once she did, it would all begin again, but this time, without the noise and the mess and the chaos. This time, he would build the world he wanted from within the walls they thought protected them. This time, he would win without ever needing to kill again.

The war might have been over… but the real conquest had just begun.

Sunday, 8th November 

Lestrange Manor looked less intimidating during daylight. It was still wreathed in ivy and shadows, but the atmosphere around it felt… less ominous than before. 

There was a sharp knock on the door. 

Rodolphus opened it cautiously, wand at his side - only to falter the instant he saw who stood there.

“My lord” he breathed, blinking in disbelief.

The figure on the threshold was unmistakably Voldemort, and yet… not. His eyes were still red, but the hellish glow had softened - embers now, rather than flames. His skin had gained an odd, pale warmth - less corpse-like, more corporeal. His features were no longer serpentine, but had subtly restructured toward something once human. Still strange. Still unsettling. But undeniably more alive.

“Rodolphus” Voldemort said calmly, his voice carrying that same bone-deep command, but now tinged with something else - something warmer, heavier, “May I come in?”

“Of course, my lord” he answered at once, stepping aside, trying not to stare, “You are always welcome here”.

Voldemort swept in, steps silent on the marble floor, cloak rippling behind him. He paused just inside the hall, eyes scanning the familiar house. “Where is the child?”

There was an odd note in his voice. Not impatience. Not danger. Just… anticipation. Like he needed to see something real to prove it existed.

“This way, my lord” Rodolphus said, leading him toward the drawing room.

As they neared, the soft sound of laughter - Bellatrix’s, high and bright and gentle - floated through the air. Then came the patter of infant giggles. It was strange music in these halls.

He pushed the door open.

Bellatrix sat cross-legged on the rug, hair braided back for once, her dark robes loosened into something more domestic. In her lap, Harry Potter sat propped against her, arms outstretched toward a flock of tiny enchanted sheep that ran in circles on the floor in front of him. His cheeks were rosy. His eyes - still that impossible Killing curse green - were wide and bright with joy.

Bellatrix looked up at the intrusion, her expression shifting from open delight to reverence the moment she saw who had entered. She quickly rose, lifting the baby into her arms, and gave a respectful bow.

“My lord” she said softly, “You honour us”.

Voldemort said nothing at first. He simply… stared at the child - the child of prophecy, the child of power. The child once destined to kill him, and one whom he had failed to kill himself. The one whom he had spared, and now, the one who… thrived.

Harry Potter looked back at him, a gap-toothed smile curling across his face. He held out his arms with the unfiltered affection of someone who had never learned fear - not even after watching the man he was reaching for kill his father, strike down his mother, and try to murder him.

Something in Voldemort’s chest… shifted at the sight.

“I see he is well” he murmured.

“He is, my lord” Bellatrix agreed, “He’s happy, healthy, brilliant. He’s started levitating things on his own. Just yesterday he made the sugar bowl fly across the room - nearly took my eye out!”

Motherhood had changed her appearance, too, Voldemort noticed. She also appeared to be happier, healthier, more brilliant. She looked far more serene now than he had ever seen her before. And all of this - his change, her change, the future change of the wizarding world - all of it was a result of this strange, fascinating child.

Voldemort stepped closer, gazing down at the boy who had almost once destroyed him. There was still a scar on his forehead - almost mauve in colour, with jagged lines emerging from the centre lightning bolt, forever carved into soft skin. Was it a simple injury from the falling debris of that night, destined to fade over time? Or was it a direct result of the Killing curse that he had rebounded so effortlessly, so impossibly? There was no precedent for what Harry Potter would become.

The baby cooed and reached for him again, and for a moment, just one, Voldemort honestly considered reaching back.

He felt his hand twitch at his side, almost rising before he caught himself. The instinct had startled him - not because it was foreign, but because it was familiar. It was the same impulse he remembered from dreams long buried: to reach, to claim, to understand. But there was no knowledge to extract here, no enemy to crush. Only a child, bright-eyed and brimming with magic, who had defied death before he could even speak.

He let out a slow breath and turned his gaze toward Bellatrix. “He is… more… than I expected”.

Her dark eyes lit with pride, and she smiled genuinely. “He’s extraordinary, my lord. We knew from the moment you blessed us with him”.

Voldemort nodded once, then looked back at the baby, still babbling and trying to reach for his cloak. There was something undeniable in the boy’s presence, a gravity that pulled at the edges of even his own resolve. It was not just prophecy. It was… potential.

How had he almost extinguished such power? How had he almost squandered such an opportunity? And, even worse, had he missed such chances before?

“I… had forgotten” he said, his voice low and strange to his own ears, “what we were fighting for. I became obsessed with immortality. With fear. With control. But I see now… that I lost sight of our legacy - of our children’s future. Of the power of creation and not just destruction”.

Bellatrix’s lips parted slightly, but she was wise enough to keep her thoughts on the matter to herself.

“I have begun correcting my course” he continued, red eyes flicking up to her, “Steps have been taken, but to continue, I require the Cup I once left in your possession”.

“The Cup?” She blinked, brows furrowed in confusion. “The- Oh! Yes, of course, my lord! It’s safe in our vault at Gringotts, as always. I can have it for you tomorrow - we’ll be going to Diagon Alley then anyway”.

He tilted his head in a silent question, and a wide smile spread across her face, making her look a decade younger.

“We have an appointment at the Ministry” she said, almost proudly, “To adopt him. Legally. So that no one can ever take him away from us”.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow, crimson gaze narrowing slightly. “Adopt him? How? The boy already has - had - parents”.

Rodolphus cleared his throat, stepping up behind his wife and placing a hand on her shoulder. 

“Lily Potter filed a notice three days ago declaring her son deceased, my lord. She claims he was killed in the attack and that the lack of a body is… inconsequential. Harry Potter has been legally declared dead”.

How… convenient, he thought, and clever too - with the Order believing the child dead, they would stop searching for him, and poor little Harry Potter would never be found, allowing Lily Potter to take the secret of what she did to her grave.

“The Lestrange and Black families pulled the necessary strings” Bellatrix continued, gently bouncing the baby on her hip, “Bribed the right officials. Some owed us favours, others had to be… persuaded. Our claim will be finalised by noon tomorrow, my lord. We’ll have a new birth certificate issued, one that says he’s our biological child who was born on October 31st, 1980, and then… no one can question it”.

Voldemort had made the right decision, giving his equal to this couple. The baby was already loved and would never want for anything. He would grow up as Voldemort should have done himself, in a good, strong, powerful family who had the right ideas and enough ambition to create them. He wondered, briefly, just how brilliant - how even more brilliant - he would have turned out himself had he not had such a disadvantaged youth.

“And what name will be on the new birth certificate?” he asked, glancing back down at the black-haired boy in her arms.

Bellatrix bit her lip, sent her husband a quick look, and then lifted her chin.

“Haedus Cygnus Lestrange, my lord” she said, carefully enunciating each syllable, “We wanted to honour his legacy, but give him a name of strength. A name that will command respect”.

Voldemort studied her face for a long moment. Then his eyes dropped back to the baby, who was still reaching one tiny hand out toward his robes. Haedus. It was… Latin, if he was not mistaken - and undeniably a constellation, given who his new mother was. It was a name befitting a king.

“... Yes” he said at last, “That will do nicely”.

Bellatrix exhaled, the tension melting from her shoulders. Rodolphus gave a small, relieved smile, one step behind her.

“And you are certain that Lily Potter will have no claim on the boy once the world learns of his existence?”

Her expression darkened at the mention of that name, her lip curling as she adjusted the baby in her arms.

“She has no claim” Bellatrix said firmly, “She declared him dead and signed the papers herself. After tomorrow, she’ll have no evidence that Haedus is anyone but our son. And after giving him up so willingly… she doesn’t deserve to have a claim. She doesn’t even deserve to live!”

Her voice was quiet, but venomous. There was a beat of silence before she lifted her eyes, gaze sharp and searching.

“My lord… may I ask…” She hesitated, something rare flickering in her voice - doubt, perhaps even fear. “Why did you let her live?”

Voldemort didn’t answer immediately. He turned away, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze resting on the enchanted sheep still circling on the rug. One of them tripped over its own woolly legs but then righted itself with a squeak.

“I let her live” he said eventually, “because I gave Severus my word. He pleaded for her life, begged me to spare her - they had been childhood friends, by all accounts, and he was… sentimental about her… When I asked, she stepped aside. From that moment, she did not fight; she merely… stood there. And so I did what I said I would - I let her live”.

There was something unreadable in his expression. His voice held no regret, no pride - only a quiet calculation, but in the back of his mind, wheels had started to turn. Severus had been sentimental about Lily Potter’s life, but she was and always had been one of Dumbledore’s favourites… Severus had begged for her life, yes, but perhaps that hadn’t borne from a childish sentimentality, perhaps… perhaps that had borne from loyalty.

Was Severus Snape playing both sides?

The thought disturbed him more than he cared to admit. The young man had undoubtedly proved himself useful in the past, but loyalty was a fickle thing, and who’s to say that it was the reason why he had stayed on the Dark’s side? Was he here out of fear? Ambition? Or something else entirely?

Voldemort turned back to the new family next to him.

“Do not leave the child alone with Severus” he said, his voice soft but carrying the unmistakable weight of command, “I must determine where his loyalties truly lie… but until I do, we take no risks. Not with this. Not with him”.

Bellatrix inclined her head immediately, her arms tightening just slightly around the baby. “Of course, my lord. We will defend Haedus with our lives”. 

Voldemort looked back at the baby, who had now caught sight of the sheep below him once more and was following their movements with innocent delight. That smile was still there, wide and trusting, so achingly unguarded. It made something in him recoil, and yet… something else leaned forward.

Power, yes. Legacy, yes. But there was more here. Something far rarer. Growing up, Voldemort had never known what it was to be loved... but perhaps Haedus would.

“Raise him well” he said, almost gently, “Shape him wisely. And remember… he is our future”.

Then, uncharacteristically, he reached out and brushed his fingers gently along the child’s forehead, tracing the scar and feeling an odd, not unpleasant warmth radiate from within it.

Haedus didn’t flinch - he merely giggled, and Voldemort allowed the corner of his mouth to briefly curve upward.

He turned to go. “I will return for the Cup tomorrow”.

And with that, he swept from the room, his dark cloak trailing smoke-like behind him.

Chapter Text

Monday, 9th November

It took Sirius an entire week to track down the only friend he had left. He could have, possibly, sped up the process had he asked Dumbledore just where he’d sent the man, but the Headmaster had shown just how little he thought of Sirius when he hadn’t believed him about Peter.

Oh, Merlin, how he felt like such a bloody fool!

He’d joined the Order of the Phoenix right after graduation because James had and he knew that it would piss off his parents even more than the rest of his life did already, but… had it really been the right thing to do?

Even just two weeks before, Sirius would’ve answered that question with an emphatic yes, but now… now all of those carefully constructed lines he’d once drawn were starting to blur.

He stood in front of a little muggle café, tucked between two dilapidated stores on a wind-battered street in northern Scotland. The entire area smelled like heather and wet wool, but there was an undeniably soothing aroma of Earl Grey emerging from the café.

Sirius… hesitated.

He could see Remus through the fogged-up window, hunched over a chipped mug, a threadbare scarf looped around his neck, parchment laid out beside him, ink smudged along the side of one hand. He looked… tired. Thinner than he remembered. Like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks.

Sirius stood there, rain dripping off his shoulders, feeling like his chest might crack in two.

Part of him wanted to turn around and leave - vanish into the mist and let Remus think whatever he wanted. He wasn’t sure he could bear it if Moony looked at him the way the others had. If he thought that he’d been the traitor, the real Secret-Keeper, the one who had sent James to his death and then-

Remus looked up.

He froze.

Their eyes met through the glass, and Sirius saw it. That same sharp grief behind those tired amber eyes, yes - but also… recognition. Relief. And no hesitation, no suspicion, just… pain. A shared pain.

Sirius slowly reached up and pushed open the door.

There was a small tinkle of a bell as he entered, but he couldn’t see anyone behind the counter, and aides from Moony, the rest of the café was empty. He made his way over to him, hands shaking, soaked to the skin. When he reached the man’s table, he stopped, and opened his mouth to say something, anything, but-

“Peter was the Secret-Keeper, wasn’t he?” Remus asked quietly.

And Sirius broke.

The tears came hard and fast, all at once, like a dam giving way. He sat down across from Remus and buried his face in his hands, shoulders heaving with the force of it. He tried to talk through the sobs - to say thank you, or I’m sorry, or you’re the only one left - but all that came out were gasps and apologies and half-sentences, choked off by emotion.

He felt more so than heard Remus cast a quick Disillusionment charm over their table to ward off any wandering muggle eyes, before there was a warm, gentle hand on his arm, breathtaking in its comfort.

“I knew it wasn’t you” Moony said, voice rough with feeling, “I never doubted it. Not even for a second”.

Sirius slowly, cautiously, glanced up, his face blotchy and tear-streaked, eyes wide. “You… You d-didn’t?”

Remus shook his head. “Never. Not once. Even when some of the others started whispering… I knew you’d die before you’d betray them. I knew it, Pads”.

He gave a trembling, painful laugh. “Yeah, well, you’re the only one. The rest of the Order just took one look at my name, one look at my family and thought… Even Dumbledore didn’t believe me until Lily told him the truth”.

Remus’s expression was tight. “I’m sorry. I should have come back sooner-”

“No”. He coughed, cleared his throat. “No, you, uh… you had a job to do. An important one. You couldn’t have known that they’d… I felt like an absolute fool! Everyone turned on me, Moony, everyone! James is- is dead and Harry’s gone and they were all just so fucking ready to believe that I’d done it! That I could just- just betray everyone, just like that!”

“You’re not your family, Padfoot” he said quietly, briefly squeezing his arm, “And if they can’t see that, then they’re the fools, not you”.

Sirius exhaled slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. They sat in silence for a moment, save for the low hiss of a coffee machine and the clink of spoons against mugs from somewhere in the back. Then Sirius spoke again, quieter this time, voice threadbare.

“I thought… maybe… maybe it was you”.

Remus blinked. “What?”

“I mean - back then, when we realised the Order had a spy. I’d never believe you capable of betraying James, not for a moment! But… someone was feeding information to You-Know-Who, and I thought… Just for a split second, I thought it could be you. You’d been so distant, Moony, so quiet - it felt like you were drifting away from me and- and I wondered if… I hated myself for it, Moony, I hated myself, but still… I wondered”.

Remus looked away, jaw clenched, and Sirius could see the hurt in his eyes. He surged forward, reaching across the table, desperate to explain, to apologise, to go back to how things were.

“I’m sorry. I am so, so fucking sorry! I didn’t want to believe it, I just- Everything was falling apart and I couldn’t think, and you were slipping away from me, pulling away and-”

“I was pulling away” he interrupted, his voice low, “Not because I was a spy, but because… because I didn’t know where I fit anymore. James and Lily had each other, and then they had Harry, and you were made Harry’s godfather, and it suddenly felt like the four of you had your own little world and… and I wasn’t part of it”.

“You were!” Sirius said fiercely, “Of course you were! You are! You will always be part of it! Harry was going to call you Uncle Moony, for Merlin’s sake! The last time I saw them, James was trying to teach him to say it for your next visit!”

Remus let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob. “… I didn’t know that”.

“Yeah, well… it’s true. And I’m sorry I made you feel otherwise. I should’ve told you how much you meant to us. I should’ve said it a hundred times over”.

“You were scared, I get it - so was I”.

Tears welled up again in Sirius’s eyes. “You’re all I’ve got left, Moony”.

“You’re all I’ve got left too” he whispered.

Sirius stood suddenly and pulled Remus into a fierce, desperate hug. They clung to each other in the middle of the café like drowning men clutching driftwood, both shaking with grief and guilt and something like love - something raw and aching and real - and for the first time since Halloween night, Sirius finally felt like he could breathe again.

They sat back down eventually, drained but steadier, two mugs of fresh tea between them, ordered from a blank-eyed teenager loudly chewing gum who very obviously did not want to be there.

Sirius stared down into his cup, fingers wrapped around the ceramic like it might anchor him in place, and yet the warmth still didn’t touch the chill in his bones. He didn’t mean to bring it up yet - not here, not like this - but it was clawing at his insides, rising up and up and up until-

“She doesn’t want us to look for him”.

Remus blinked, lifting his gaze slowly. “What?”

“Lily”. Sirius’s voice was flat, empty. “She doesn’t want us to search for Harry”.

The silence between them turned heavy. Like fog thickening into something solid, and then-

There was a flash of gold.

It was quick, but Sirius caught it. The flicker of something wild and fierce in Remus’s eyes, something feral and deeply protective. His jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack, and the mug in his hands shook slightly before he forced himself to set it down with trembling restraint.

“She what?!”

“I know, believe me, I know! I left before Dumbledore could give his own opinion on the matter, but I could see it in his face - I could see it in all of their faces - that they agreed with her”.

“What?!” Moony exploded, more than loud enough to draw unwanted attention, but Sirius had smartly added a Muffliato after they’d gotten their tea just in case, “What the bloody hell do you mean Dumbledore doesn’t want us to look for Harry?!”

“It gets worse”. He grimaced, feeling a well of anger surge up inside his chest at the reminder. “Last Friday, Lily legally declared him dead”.

“She-” 

Remus cut himself off, his hands curling into fists on the table. His breath came hard and fast. He looked like he wanted to tear something apart - Sirius could only too emphatically relate.

“How can she make peace with abandoning her own son?” Moony bit out, every single word sharp and clipped.

“I don’t know” Sirius admitted, dragging a hand through his damp hair, “But I can’t - I won’t - let this go, Moony. I have to find him! I don’t give a damn what Lily or- or what Albus fucking Dumbledore says, I’m going to search for Harry until I find him… one way or another…” 

Remus took a deep, somewhat shaky breath and nodded. “You’re right. We’re looking for him. We’re going to find him. Harry’s ours, Padfoot. If Lily wants to give up all hope, then… that’s her decision. But it’s not mine, and it’s not yours, and we are going to find him!”

Sirius swallowed the lump rising in his throat, some desperate, messy mix of gratitude and grief. He reached across the table and gripped Remus’s hand tightly. The man didn’t pull back, but after a moment, he hesitated and then looked away, guilt flickering across his face.

“There’s something I should tell you” he said quietly, “About Lily”.

Sirius frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She… confided in me. A few months before everything fell apart. She said she never wanted a child so young. That she wanted more time, to start her research, to get a job, to establish her career… She loves Harry, she has to, but I think… I think, after having him, she felt… trapped. Overwhelmed. Like she’d lost control of her life”.

Sirius stared at him, completely blindsided. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

“Because it didn’t feel fair. Because it wasn’t my secret to tell. Because… she was trying. But honestly… honestly, I don’t think she even wanted to marry James in the first place”.

“What?! Moony, how can you say that?!” he exclaimed, shocked and appalled, “Of course she wanted to marry James! Why wouldn’t she? And she said yes, didn’t she?!”

“Oh, do the maths, Padfoot!” Remus snapped, jerking back his hand, “Harry was born at the end of July. That means Lily got pregnant at the end of October. James and Lily didn’t get married until December - approximately one month later. Any guesses as to why?”

Sirius frowned again, his brows furrowing as he slowly but surely realised what Remus had known for years.

“They found out she was pregnant” he breathed, “And if they hadn’t gotten married, then Harry would’ve been born a bastard… James’s parents would’ve disowned him”.

“And Lily’s, too” he replied quietly, “She told me once that they were old-fashioned people - a baby out of wedlock would’ve been the height of scandal. They might have never forgiven her”.

“But- But James said that he’d proposed to her ages ago! Right after we graduated! That they were just keeping things quiet because of the war! That- That they didn’t tell us, didn’t tell anyone because- oh”. He blinked rapidly, his traitorous eyes watering at the sudden, sharp betrayal he felt in his chest. “He lied to us”.

“They both did” Remus said gently, carefully reaching for his hand once more, “But it doesn’t mean anything, Pads, it doesn’t matter, not really. I’m sure it was just… the easiest option. They wouldn’t have to keep track of who knew the truth and who didn’t if they didn’t tell anyone. And- hey, who knows? Maybe… Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe I’m reading too much into this, and they got married because they genuinely wanted to. Maybe all of this speculation doesn’t mean anything!”

Stormy grey eyes latched onto his, and he could see the anguish and hurt in his gaze.

“You don’t believe that”. Sirius’s voice was quiet. “Not really. The timing is too perfect to be a coincidence… You’re right… They only got married because of Harry, and now…”

“Now, James is dead” Moony whispered, “And Harry might be too… Maybe… Maybe Lily sees losing them as a way out - a chance to step back and… and live the life she wants without being tied to that kind of responsibility. Maybe that’s why she’s declared Harry dead”.

Sirius felt the world tilt slightly. “She… She’s choosing to let him go? Even though he might still be alive?!”

“I think” Remus said carefully, “that part of her believes she’s protecting us, protecting the Order, by not sending anyone into dangerous territory… And another part of her is just… relieved”.

The words made him feel nauseous, and Sirius shook his head, disbelief and fury waging a war in his heart.

“I don’t care what parts of her have made peace with this!” He snarled. “He’s my godson! He’s your pup! And he might be out there, somewhere, without us. That’s not something we can just accept!”

Remus nodded, eyes hard and ever so slightly gold. “Then we don’t”.

Sirius stared down at his tea, fingers tightening around the mug until the ceramic shuddered in warning. Rain still spattered softly against the café windows, but it might as well have been thunder with how loud his thoughts were crashing inside his head.

“We’re both thinking it” he said, voice lower than a whisper, “We’re both thinking it and neither of us wants to say it, but… but now, it has to be said… James loved Harry far more than Lily ever did”.

Remus didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t flinch. He just exhaled shakily, like hearing it spoken aloud physically hurt.

“James died for him” he continued, his voice cracking at the edges, “He’d have done anything to keep Harry safe. And Lily… Lily doesn’t even want to look for him. She’s already written him off like he was some… some broken cup she can put away and forget about”.

“That’s not fair” Moony immediately countered, but he didn’t sound convinced.

Sirius shook his head. “Maybe not. But right now, from where I’m standing, it feels like the truth”.

“Even so, if Dumbledore sides with her… if the rest of the Order falls in line-”

“We’ll keep looking” he interrupted firmly, “They can give up, roll over, convince themselves it’s better not to ask questions, but we won’t. We can’t. Harry’s out there, Moony. I know it! He’s not- not dead - he can’t be!”

Remus slowly nodded. “I think so too. If he was, then… they would’ve found his body, but the Prophet said there was no trace of him in Godric’s Hollow. James was there, and Lily, too, but… not Harry… You know what that means, right?”

Sirius’s jaw clenched. “You-Know-Who took him. He didn’t kill him; he wanted him alive for something… And there’s no way in hell it’s for anything good”.

“We need answers”.

“We won’t get them here” he countered, “We need to go back to London - act like we’ve come to our senses, that we’re willing to fall in line, listen to the Order, trust Dumbledore’s judgment and all that rot”.

“You think they’ll buy it?” 

“They have to, because we can’t afford to be cut off. If anyone in the Order learns something about Harry - learns anything - we need to be close enough to hear about it. We can’t risk being pushed out”.

“So we lie” Remus murmured, half to himself, “We pretend to play nice. We tell them we were grieving and that now, we’ve accepted the truth”.

Sirius nodded, expression hardening. “And then we start asking around. Quietly. People on the edges - spies, informants, old contacts from the war. Anyone who might’ve heard something strange that night, or since”.

“We’ll need to be careful. If anyone suspects what we’re really doing-”

“They won’t” he said, more vicious than reassuring, “We’re the last two people who really care about Harry. And we’re the only ones who haven’t turned our backs on him”.

Remus glanced down at their linked hands on the table, then looked back up, his eyes steady. “We’re really doing this?”

“We’re really doing this… We owe it to James. And to Harry”.

A silence settled between them again, not heavy this time, but full of something sharp and determined. The kind of silence that came just before a storm. 

Moony took a deep breath. “Alright. Then let’s go find our pup”.

They sat there, the resolve thick between them like blood. Like something sacred. Outside, the rain poured down harder, but Sirius barely noticed. Inside, for the first time in what felt like forever, something steady was building beneath the grief. He felt the spark of something he hadn’t dared let himself feel in weeks.

Hope.

Wednesday, 17th November

The cold, grey drizzle that followed them from Scotland had finally lifted by the time Sirius and Remus arrived in London. Remus had moved into his apartment without either of them really discussing it - Sirius hadn’t offered, and Moony hadn’t asked, and somehow that was all either of them needed.

His flat felt different with his best friend there. Less haunted. Less empty. The silence no longer scratched at Sirius’s brain, and there was always a fresh pot of tea brewed, just waiting to be poured. It was a fragile sense of normalcy - one that shattered the moment the owl arrived.

Dumbledore wished to meet them at Hogwarts. Alone. 

Remus hadn’t said anything when Sirius handed him the letter, but the flash of caution in his eyes had mirrored his own unease. They Apparated to Hogsmeade in silence, trekking up to the castle like two men heading to war - the irony of which was not lost on them.

Now they sat in front of the Headmaster’s desk, waiting for him to speak. Sirius’s shoulders were stiff, tension simmering in his gut like acid. What if Dumbledore knew? What if he was about to order them to stand down - forcibly, if need be? What if Lily had spoken to him again? What if-

“I appreciate you both coming” Dumbledore began, steepling his fingers, “And I appreciate the… difficulty of these past few days. The grief you carry is not a light burden”.

Sirius said nothing. Neither did Remus. They just waited.

“I understand that you are both still hoping to find Harry”.

Sirius’s stomach clenched. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I… I know what Lily said, but-”

“I want you to keep looking” Dumbledore interrupted.

Silence.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

“You…” Remus blinked. “You what?”

Dumbledore’s expression was grave. “I believe Harry may still be alive. I have my own reasons to suspect that he was not killed that night. But for now, it is imperative that this search remains between the three of us. The rest of the Order must not know”.

Relief surged through Sirius so fast it made his head spin. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or collapse. The Headmaster believed that Harry was still out there! He wanted them to find his godson and bring him home again! Dumbledore wasn’t as against him, against them, as he’d feared and-

“There was a prophecy”.

Sirius’s stomach dropped, and he felt Remus stiffen beside him.

“A prophecy?” he asked quietly, “What sort of prophecy?”

“One made before Harry was born” Dumbledore said, “It foretold the coming of a child with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. That child… was Harry”.

Sirius felt something cold coil in his chest.

“You mean” he said slowly, “Voldemort went after James and Lily because of this prophecy? That’s why they went into hiding?”

“Yes”. Dumbledore leaned forward, his voice lowering, eyes glinting with something unreadable behind his half-moon glasses. “I had hoped that the Fidelius charm would be enough, but clearly I… miscalculated”.

Miscalculated. Like the death of James Potter had been an error on an Arithmancy essay rather than the brutal slaughtering of an innocent man.

“There were two possible children that the prophecy could have referred to, but by Voldemort going after the Potters, he made Harry the child in question. He marked him as his equal, and in doing so, he sealed his fate… Only Harry Potter can defeat him now, only he has that power”.

So Dumbledore wanted them to find Harry, not because he was an innocent child caught in a brutal war, but because… because Dumbledore planned on turning him into a weapon.

The old man’s expression was utterly composed. “I believe that the attack at Godric’s Hollow has weakened Voldemort. If Harry lives, then he may be our only hope of defeating him once and for all”.

“And if Harry’s dead?” Remus asked quietly.

Dumbledore’s eyes briefly flickered. “Then… the world may have lost its only chance for peace”.

The silence that followed was thick with tension.

Sirius didn’t speak. Not yet. He couldn’t. Because if he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure he could stop the scream crawling up his throat. Remus, calm as ever and with a much stronger grip on his emotions, nodded slowly. 

“You can trust us, Professor. We’ll keep the search quiet. We’ll report only to you”.

Dumbledore visibly relaxed. “Good. I knew I could count on you both. You were always loyal to James, to the Order... I have every faith that you’ll do exactly what’s needed”.

Sirius was only vaguely aware of the two men sharing platitudes and goodbyes before a firm hand on his arm hauled him to his feet and directed him towards the door. It wasn’t until they had left the castle, out of the range of portraits and teachers and students, that he finally snapped out of it and spun to face Remus, absolutely seething.

“He doesn’t care!” he snarled, “He doesn’t even fucking care, Moony! Not about Harry. Not about James. Not about any of us! He wants a weapon. He wants a boy he can aim like a wand and send into battle! A child! He doesn’t see an innocent baby, he sees a- a- a fucking-”

“I know”. Remus’s voice was level, but his eyes were as gold as Sirius had ever seen them. “He sees a weapon. A hero. A boy soldier… And that’s why we’re going to find Harry before he does. And when we do? We’re going to take him and run”.

“What? You mean, kidnap him? Again?!”

“Do you have a better idea?” Moony countered, eyes flashing.

Sirius exhaled heavily and ran a hand through his hair, desperately trying to think.

“... No” he admitted, “No, I don’t. You’re right - we’re going to have to find Harry, and we’re going to have to kidnap him”.

“Is it still kidnapping if you’re his godfather? If his own mother has turned her back on him?”

“Probably… but I’ve still got some of that money Uncle Alphard left me, and my family name still opens doors… I might be able to pay off the right people, swing it so that we get legal guardianship of him… provided that we find him first, of course”.

Sirius pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes as the fury drained out of him, leaving only that raw, aching grief in its place. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or sob or set something on fire, so he settled for cursing loudly instead. 

“... He deserves better” he said at last, voice hoarse. “Harry. He deserves… a real childhood. Not prophecies and wars and ancient fucking men talking about fate. Just… Just Quidditch and sweets and- and someone who tucks him in every night and tells him they love him”.

Remus stepped closer, quiet and steady as always. “The childhood James would’ve wanted for him”.

Sirius gave a broken sort of laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, the childhood James wanted for him… You know, I only joined the Order ‘cause he did. I didn’t care about the cause. Not really. I just… didn’t want him going into the fight alone”.

Remus gave a soft exhale, a bitter smile curving at the corner of his mouth. “Funny. I only joined because you did”.

He blinked at him. “You’re joking”.

He shrugged, though his eyes were wet and his cheeks had flushed pink. “No. I thought… if you were going to be reckless and heroic and jump head-first into situations that could get you killed, someone had to be there to hex your sorry arse back out of trouble”.

Sirius let out a laugh that cracked somewhere in the middle, and Remus snorted, and then they were both laughing - hard and breathless and vaguely hysterical. And then Sirius stepped forward and yanked Remus into a hug, burying his face against his shoulder.

They held on tightly, like two boys drowning in a sea of grief and war and shattered futures, and maybe that’s exactly what they were.

“We’re only twenty-one, Moony” he muttered into his shoulder, shaking with quiet laughter and quiet sobs, “We’re just kids, really... When the bloody hell did everything get so fucked up?”

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 9th December

In the centre of a secluded glade in the middle of a deserted forest stood a long, polished table, flanked by elegant upholstered chairs.

At the head of this strange sight sat Tom Riddle - not the twisted figure of Voldemort, but a man, once again human, though the air around him still hummed with an eerie power.

His pale, aristocratic features reflected in the gleaming surface of the table, his eyes no longer the burning red of his previous form but fathomless and dark, holding a ferocity all of their own. His robes were immaculate, tailored to fit perfectly, and his appearance - the sharp cheekbones, the elegant air, the eyes that seemed to pierce straight through those who dared meet his gaze - would have been striking even without the knowledge of his past. 

Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange sat on his right and left sides, both alert, their expressions unreadable.

Voldemort had finally done it. Three of his Horcruxes were gone, absorbed back into him, and with them, the parts of his soul that had been splintered for so long. He was almost whole again. More powerful, sharper. And in this new form, he would now carry out his plan - the one he'd been shaping for over a month now. The Ministry would fall. The game was already in motion.

A letter had been sent - one he’d crafted with precision. A ceasefire. A truce. A diplomatic victory, wrapped in the guise of peace. The Ministry had only one choice: accept or continue the war. And he knew, deep down, that Millicent Bagnold would choose wisely.

And choose wisely, she had.

It had turned out precisely as he had expected. The Minister, while clearly wary, had agreed to meet in a neutral location. She had demanded that the meeting be guarded. Two of her own, and two of his, in a show of equal caution. She wanted Dumbledore present, as well as Barty Crouch Senior, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

It was all terribly, boringly, predictable. 

But now, here they were, waiting for the Minister’s arrival. The ground was damp from an earlier rain, the trees surrounding them heavy with the weight of frost and the evening air. A half moon hung overhead in the darkening sky, casting pale light on the assembled figures - figures that were shortly joined by three others.

The Minister for Magic, Millicent Bagnold, appeared in the glade with Dumbledore beside her, his eyes keen and sharp. Crouch Senior, with his ever-imposing air, stood a little behind them. Bagnold looked nervous, though she masked it with the same practised composure that had kept her in power.

Voldemort did not move. He sat still, waiting for them to join him, as though the moment itself had been orchestrated just for him - which, technically, it had. His eyes flicked over the assembled group with a mixture of amusement and contempt. The only one among them who did not seem visibly shocked by his new appearance was Dumbledore - though even he seemed to pause for a fraction of a second when his gaze landed on him.

“Good evening, Tom” he greeted, his tone unreadable, though his blue eyes flickered with an odd mixture of recognition and wariness.

Voldemort didn’t allow himself to feel the flash of ire that wanted to rise at the old man’s over-familiarity. Instead, he merely inclined his head and replied in a measured tone.

“Good evening, Professor”.

Bagnold and Crouch were looking between them, eyes wide with uncertainty - evidently, they had expected his previous monstrous visage and not someone so… human.

“Albus?” Bagnold whispered, “Are you sure this is…”

“Yes” he said simply, “I am sure… It is strange, seeing your face again, Tom. After all these years… why change your appearance? Why now?”

"Because I have changed, Professor” he replied mildly, immensely enjoying just how scared his pleasantry was making them, “I am no longer the frightened, fractured shadow that feared death. And because I’ve learned that I no longer need to fight the world to rule it”.

There was a moment of silence as everyone absorbed his words before Dumbledore gestured for the Minister to take the seat at the other end of the table. Voldemort wondered if the woman knew she was as much his puppet as everyone else on the opposing side. Voldemort had come here to discuss a peace treaty with the Minister for Magic, but he knew exactly who was really debating terms with.

Bagnold cleared her throat. "Good evening, Lord Vo- Vo- Vold-”

“Tom, please” he interrupted, with a charming smile, “Or Mr Riddle, if you prefer”.

Dumbledore’s eyes flashed with confusion and fear, and he relished catching the old man off guard greatly.

“... Mr Riddle, then” the Minister said after a beat, “We all know why we’re here. You wish to offer us a deal - to bring an end to this war”.

His smile widened just a fraction, a calm, collected gesture that belied the dangerous undertones of his every word. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his hands steepled in front of him as he surveyed the group, catching their wary glances with a sense of satisfaction.

"Indeed, Minister" he said, his voice velvet-smooth, almost sweet, "You are correct. I wish to offer a deal. A deal that, when considered carefully, will benefit us all”.

Bagnold shifted in her seat, glancing briefly at Dumbledore, who returned her look with an unreadable expression. Crouch was stone-faced, though the tension radiating from him was palpable. Voldemort wondered, idly, if the man knew just how far his only son had strayed from the so-called greater good - if he had any idea whatsoever just how far Voldemort’s reach extended.

"It’s simple, really" he continued, cutting through the silence, "In return for an official ceasefire, I ask for full pardons for each and every one of my followers. I want no more arrests, no more persecution. I want them to walk freely through your Ministry, unburdened by the past”.

He let his gaze slide over Bagnold, who stiffened, then across Dumbledore, who looked thoughtful, perhaps trying to judge the true weight of his words.

"I believe the term 'amnesty' is the most appropriate here" he said, "What is the cost of allowing my followers their freedom, Minister? Surely you understand that the end of the war is far more valuable than the continued bloodshed. After all, you’ve already lost so much…"

Bagnold’s eyes flitted nervously, but she remained composed. "And what of your… other demands?" 

"Oh, they’re hardly demands", Voldemort said, with a wave of his hand that made all three of them flinch, "No, they’re merely… simple requests. All I ask is that I be given a position of importance. An official capacity within your Ministry. I will act as your advisor. I will have a say in the shaping of future laws and legislation, and a voice in the direction of your Ministry's policies”.

The Minister glanced at Dumbledore again, who remained inscrutable, but the weight of the request seemed to hang in the air, heavy and strange.

"And what kind of laws do you intend to shape, Tom?" Dumbledore asked, his voice steady but underlined with suspicion.

Voldemort’s lips curved into a small, secretive smile. "Ah, that is where we get to the more delicate matters. We don’t have enough time to get into all of it now, of course, but to put things simply, I wish to see certain laws regarding the Dark Arts reformed”.

“You want us to legalise Dark Magic?!” Couch interjected sharply, and Voldemort turned his dark gaze to him. “Not removed - reformed. What I want is the freedom for those of us who… appreciate the Arts, and understand it, to explore it without the constraints the current laws impose. I’m not asking for you to legalise the Unforgivables - Merlin forbid - I’m simply asking for… opportunity. Knowledge should never be bound by fear, Mr Crouch… As the father of a Ravenclaw, I would’ve thought you’d believe in that too”.

The man paled dramatically at the casual mention of his son, his eyes widening, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly and deep in Voldemort’s chest warmed at the sight.

"And you believe we can just change these laws, hand you a position in the Ministry, and grant pardons to all your followers without any consequences?” Bagnold asked, showing a remarkable amount of courage, “Do you truly expect us to believe this is an offer of peace, Mr Riddle?"

Voldemort softened his voice. “What’s the alternative, Minister? You’ve come to the table because you know, deep down, that refusing me is not an option. The war has ravaged your Ministry, and your people are weary - if not dead. Your own supporters are scrambling to find an exit strategy. You’ve seen the writing on the wall… What other option do you have?”

There was a long pause, as if the weight of his words had settled over them all like a thick fog. The silence stretched for a long, uncomfortable moment before he continued.

"I understand your hesitance” he said, voice almost comforting now, "You’re frightened. You believe that agreeing to this would make you complicit in a world of darkness. But consider this: if you say no... what comes next? Another year of death, of destruction? Another hundred lives lost? Another month of trying to rebuild what’s been torn apart by this senseless conflict?"

Bagnold shifted in her seat, visibly torn. The light of the half-moon caught her face, casting sharp shadows as she turned her eyes yet again to Dumbledore, who was just as unhelpful as all the times before. Honestly, didn’t the old man’s puppets ever get tired of his unreliability?

She turned back to him, her expression resigned. "You truly believe this is the best way to stop the bloodshed?"

Voldemort leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with an almost unsettling confidence. 

"It is the only way, Minister. We both know this. You don’t want more blood spilt. You don’t want more deaths on your conscience. So I will offer you the peace you crave… All I ask in return is a modest exchange. My followers will walk free. You will allow me a seat in your Ministry. And, moving forwards, I shall have a say in these... antiquated laws that bind us”.

There was another silence, this time filled with the quiet hum of the night. Even the trees seemed to hold their breath, as if waiting for Bagnold’s response.

Finally, she spoke, her voice steady, though far from certain. "If we accept... If we sign such an agreement, how can we trust you? How can we be certain you’ll honour your end of the deal?"

Voldemort’s smile was almost warm, a practised curve of his lips. 

"Oh, Ms Bagnold" he said, his voice honeyed as his sharp eyes flickered to Dumbledore, "I always keep my word".

The old man tensed, something unreadable flashing across his features. He knew what Voldemort was referring to, then - knew that Tom knew Severus had gone to him at some point, pleading for Lily Potter’s life, knew that Voldemort had given his word that he’d let her live… And Severus was far too clever not to have a backup plan - a backup plan that he now knew had been the Headmaster of Hogwarts. The old man’s reaction had confirmed his fears - that Severus was firmly encroached in Dumbledore’s pocket.

Now what was he going to do about that?

Bagnold looked at her companions, then back at him. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. "We will consider your offer… But it will require time. And careful negotiation”.

Voldemort inclined his head. “Of course, Minister. Take all the time you need… I’m quite certain that you’ll come to the same conclusion I have in the end”.

There was a final, long pause before she stood, her movements somewhat jerky and uncontrolled, before giving him a sharp nod and Disapparating away. Crouch, after sending him one last vicious look, quickly followed, but Dumbledore… hesitated. Just as Voldemort knew he would.

“I don’t know what it is you’re planning, Tom” he said quietly, “but I hope - for all our sakes - that this offer of peace is genuine. That there is still… something good left in you, after all this time”.

For a moment, Voldemort didn’t speak, and then, he laughed - not mockingly, not cruel but tired, a man exasperated by the stubborn idiocy of a fool. He didn’t bother hiding the scorn in his tone.

“You never saw anything good in me, Professor” he said, slowly rising to his feet, graceful and predatory, “Not when I was eleven. Not when I was seventeen. Not ever! You saw evil the very second you laid eyes on me because I was the quintessential Slytherin… Stupid House rivalries were all it took for you to cast your judgment”.

Dumbledore didn’t reply. He just stood there, expression carved from granite, looking very, very old.

“You were against me from the very beginning” Voldemort continued, voice low and venomous, “Because I didn’t fit into your Gryffindor-ideal of what a ‘promising student’ looked like. Because I had ambition. Because I dared to dream of more than mediocrity!”

“Perhaps” Dumbledore replied, his voice soft, “Or perhaps I was simply afraid… because I saw a boy who could not love”.

Tom’s eyes narrowed, but the smile returned to his face, smooth and polished and chillingly calm. “Spare me your sentiment, Professor. If you had truly wanted to save me, you might have tried to understand me, not banish me to an orphanage and lecture me about morality every time I showed a flicker of power!”

Dumbledore looked back at him, lips thinning. “Just tell me one thing, Tom... What have you done with Harry Potter?”

And there it was. The question he’d been dying to ask. There was an undeniable tension in the glade surrounding them, but Voldemort was pleased that both of his war generals looked as cool and collected as always. Even Rodolphus, whose new son Dumbledore was referencing, remained as still as a statue, his expression the picture of composed disinterest. 

Voldemort felt a flicker of pride at the sight, but feigned a look of confusion as he tilted his head at the old man in front of them.

“Harry Potter?” he asked, eyes wide, “You mean you don’t know?”

Dumbledore’s jaw tightened, and Tom felt a wide, sharp grin spread across his face.

“My , oh, my, is Lily keeping secrets from her master? I would’ve thought that your precious prawn would’ve babbled the truth to you weeks ago! Fallen out of favour, has she?”

Dumbledore flinched - just barely - but Voldemort caught it all the same.

“Where is the boy, Tom?” he asked again, more firmly this time.

He merely smiled, silent, wanting to let the old man stew. Let him imagine every possibility - every twisted, terrible outcome. It was far more satisfying that way.

After a long beat, Dumbledore gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, as if he had expected nothing else. He looked at him with that same tired sadness - the kind Tom had always despised - and then gave a resigned sigh. Without another word, the old man turned and vanished with a crack.

As the last echo of Apparition faded, Voldemort slowly sat back down. 

“... Well, that went better than expected” Rodolphus remarked.

Tom turned to look at him, sharp and satisfied. “Of course it did. They’re all exactly where we need them to be - on edge, uncertain, desperate for hope”.

“They’ll sign the treaty” Lucius said, still watching the spot where Dumbledore had stood, “Maybe not tomorrow, but soon”.

“Oh, they will” Tom agreed, eyes glinting, “And when they do, we’ll be inside the castle, with no further need to storm the gates”.

“The public will eat it up” Rodolphus added, “A peace deal, an end to the war, a so-called reformed Dark Lord… They’ll fall over themselves to believe in it”.

“Let them. Hope makes them docile. Desperate. Easy to shape”.

Lucius finally turned, looking amused. “And what will we do next, my lord?”

Voldemort looked up at the sky, at the thin silver moon overhead.

“Next” he said softly, “we will rewrite the future. And this time, we will get to decide what it looks like”.

The world was shifting - and with every move, he could feel the inevitable tightening of the strings he had begun to pull. Soon, the Minister would fall in line, and once she did, everything would be his. The future would bend to his will, not with fire, but with careful, calculated precision.

And Harry Potter - Haedus Lestrange - would grow up in this new world. Not as Dumbledore’s weapon, but as proof of how far one could go when destiny was rewritten. A symbol of power for the Dark, someone worth fearing, someone worth following. 

The end of the war was only the beginning.

Thursday, 24th December

Two weeks later, the peace treaty was signed.

They returned to the same glade, which still stood quiet beneath a thick canopy of frost-bitten branches, dusted white with snow. A hush had fallen over the forest, as if nature itself dared not breathe too loudly on this night - this eve of something that could be called peace.

Moonlight spilt across the snow-dusted clearing, softening the hard edges of the long table that still stood at its centre like a relic of some ancient court. A polished stretch of dark wood, unmarred and gleaming under the silver sky, surrounded by high-backed chairs - thrones for the weary, the wary, and the wicked.

And at the heart of it all was Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Voldemort sat at the head of the table, hands resting lightly against the wood as he gazed across the clearing. His robes were black velvet tonight, understated but impossibly refined, catching the faint moonlight in their folds. A small silver pin - a serpent with green eyes - rested on his collar like a whisper of menace, as if to remind them all who he still was beneath the charm.

Lucius and Rodolphus stood at either side of his shoulders, quiet and composed, their expressions carefully schooled into neutrality. Neither had spoken much since their arrival. There was little to say. The air between them was tense with anticipation, humming with the energy of something vast and irreversible. The game had already been won.

At precisely nine o’clock, the soft crack of Apparition echoed across the forest, and the Minister for Magic arrived.

Millicent Bagnold looked a lot older than she had during their first meeting - worn thin by the negotiations, no doubt. Her robes were dark green, dignified but unassuming. Behind her, Crouch appeared with a thunderclap of indignation, lips pressed so tightly they were bloodless. Dumbledore followed last, his own presence a quiet storm - still calm, still composed, but with the faintest flicker of unrest behind those blue eyes.

Voldemort inclined his head in greeting. “Minister. Gentlemen”.

“Mr Riddle” Bagnold replied with crisp formality, taking a seat and folding her hands in front of her. Her eyes briefly scanned the space, then met his directly. “Shall we begin?”

He gestured toward the middle of the table, where a single parchment scroll lay stretched between them, sealed with both a Ministry crest and the Dark Mark in wax.

“Everything is prepared” he said, “The terms have been agreed on. All that’s needed is your signature.

A soft wind stirred the edges of the scroll, but otherwise, the night was still. Bagnold summoned the treaty and unrolled it, scanning the terms stated within.

“As agreed” Voldemort began, “the Ministry will grant immediate and unconditional pardons to all individuals formerly associated with my cause. These pardons are to be made permanent and irrevocable. Their names will be cleared and any records of affiliation will be sealed from public access”.

The Minister nodded once. “And in return, you and your followers will lay down all offensive action. You will withdraw your agents from within Ministry departments, and you will cease to cause, partake in, or otherwise perpetuate this war”.

He smiled. “A modest compromise”.

“You will also refrain from attempting to alter laws or legislation in such a way that will negatively affect my people without the approval of a full committee” she continued, her voice gaining confidence, “That was non-negotiable”.

“And I have agreed”.

Bagnold continued. “You will be permitted an advisory role within the Ministry. You may observe, propose policy, and lend your voice to council sessions. But you will have no formal command. No ability to direct the Department of Magical Law Enforcement or Wizengamot, no authority over foreign policy, and no veto power over committee decisions”.

For now.

“Of course” he replied pleasantly, “I am, after all, merely a citizen”.

Dumbledore’s eyes did not move from Voldemort’s face. He did not flinch, did not blink - but his fingers tightened subtly where they were clasped in front of him. Standing a few steps behind the Minister, he saw Crouch’s lip curled, but he remained silent.

“And finally” she said, lifting her chin, “both sides agree to a magical oath - signed in blood and wand. Any violation of the treaty will trigger full nullification, and the violator will face immediate prosecution under the full weight of Wizengamot”.

Voldemort’s smile deepened, slow and terrible in its beauty. “A necessary precaution”.

He watched as she signed the document, cast a mild Cutting hex on her hand, and allowed a drop of blood to hit the parchment next to her signature. To the woman’s credit, she did not flinch once, and her name briefly flared bright, bold, and golden. Next, Bagnold floated the peace treaty to his side of the table, and Voldemort conjured a silver dagger from midair. The Minister tensed immediately, but he merely smiled and sliced the top of his index finger. A single drop of dark red blood fell onto the parchment. As it struck, the paper shimmered gold, briefly flaring with magic. Then he pressed the tip of his wand to his signature line and signed his name - Tom Marvolo Riddle - in ink that shimmered like dried blood.

The treaty sealed itself with a faint, resonant hum.

A pulse of magic rippled through the clearing - subtle, but ancient. 

It was done.

“Congratulations, Minister” Voldemort said smoothly, “As of midnight tonight, the war is over”.

There was no cheer. No clapping. But the weight of it settled over them like snow, cold and quiet and inescapable. He stood slowly, surveying them all as he spoke. “

Tomorrow morning, your people will wake to peace. Let them enjoy it. Let them celebrate. Let them believe that they have won”.

“Have they not?” Dumbledore asked quietly.

He didn’t answer immediately. He stepped forward, just slightly into the moonlight, relishing in how Crouch swallowed thickly and took a step back in response.

“They’ve been given what they wanted” he replied softly, “That is all that matters”.

Bagnold rose. “I will announce it tonight. Tomorrow morning the Daily Prophet will confirm it. You’ll have your official position by the start of the new year... But you’re on a tight leash, Mr Riddle. Do not try to pull on it”.

The treaty had bolstered her confidence. She thought she’d won - that they’d all won. Voldemort felt a satisfied smile slowly curl across his face. She thought exactly what he wanted her to think.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Minister”.

Without another word, Bagnold turned and Disapparated, followed by Crouch. Only Dumbledore remained once more. They stood in silence for a long time, the glade growing colder around them. The old wizard looked at him with something between dread and resignation - a weight that went beyond this night.

“Is something troubling you, Professor?” Voldemort finally asked, feigning concern.

The old man’s expression was unreadable. “... Only the future, Tom”.

“It’s Christmas Eve, sir. Surely, even you can allow yourself a little hope on a night such as this”.

But Dumbledore only looked at him in silence, and after yet another long pause, finally said, “I will be watching”.

Voldemort smiled - slow and cruel and victorious. “So will I”.

The crack of Apparition echoed once more.

“It’s done” Lucius said quietly, his voice equal parts reverence and awe.

“It’s begun” Voldemort corrected, brushing a bit of snow from his shoulder, “They had no choice. They were desperate. And hope… hope makes fools of us all”.

He sat once more at the head of the table, fingers tapping lightly against the wood.

“Tomorrow, we celebrate. The people will wake to a new world. They will believe in it. They will cherish it. And in doing so, they will invite me into their homes, their schools, their Ministry”.

Rodolphus was smirking now, too. “And they will thank you for it, my lord”.

“They will worship me for it” Voldemort said softly, his voice like a knife sliding home, “The war might be over, my friends… but we are by no means done”.

The wind howled through the trees. The trees around them swayed and groaned. Somewhere in a nearby village on the outskirts of the forest, bells began to toll midnight.

Christmas morning had finally arrived.

And with it, a new era had begun.

Chapter Text

The ink had barely dried on the parchment when the wizarding world began to change.

It started quietly, as all great shifts do - not with a roar, but with a whisper. Tom Riddle took his seat within the Ministry’s council chambers at the start of 1982. His role was officially advisory, tied to no specific department, answerable to no official chain of command. But, as he had known from the beginning, power rarely lived in titles. It lived in presence, in suggestion, in the careful art of influence.

Within months, the council chambers leaned instinctively toward him in every vote. He was the force behind nearly every policy shift - though his name never appeared on the official documents. His proposals were always reasonable. Moderate. Carefully worded and wrapped in the language of progress. A few old wizards protested, of course - those who remembered a time before the wizarding war, those who remembered exactly who Tom Riddle used to be. But those same old wizards soon either passed away or retired, one by one, of their own volition - or so the Daily Prophet claimed.

By the spring of 1983, Voldemort had quietly amassed control over two key divisions: the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of Mysteries. He did not take leadership himself. Instead, he installed loyalists - clever, charismatic individuals who presented as reformers and technocrats. Fresh faces. Clean hands. Individuals who, nonetheless, owed everything to him.

A soft-spoken undersecretary proposed a new clause. A junior aide from Magical Law Enforcement rephrased an ancient statute. A bright young clerk in International Cooperation negotiated a new trade deal with France. Each one handpicked. Each one shaped by Tom’s philosophy, though they might not realise it themselves.

And the public?

They applauded.

The war was over. Their dead were buried. And the wizarding world flourished under its newfound peace. Businesses reopened, trade with foreign Ministries resumed, and Gringotts reported record levels of investment. It seemed the age of prosperity had finally arrived.

No one wanted to ask questions as to how.

By 1984, the most controversial changes had already passed into law.

Laws restricting the use and study of Dark Magic were quietly repealed under the umbrella of "Magical Inclusivity" and "Academic Freedom”. Voldemort made it clear that knowledge itself was not evil, that it was only ignorance that bred fear, and there was no power without knowledge.

The registry of cursed artefacts was dismantled. New legislation reclassified many previously banned objects as "Culturally Significant Relics". Even Knockturn Alley saw its first legal renovation funding, presented as part of a revitalisation effort for neglected magical communities.

At Hogwarts, the changes were slower, but no less profound.

Three years after the peace treaty was signed, under the quiet support of a newly-appointed, pliant Board of Governors, several new subjects were introduced: Dark Arts, Alchemy, Rituals… The subjects were all optional, available as student electives from third year on, but they grew in popularity with remarkable speed.

Voldemort never set foot in Hogwarts. He didn’t have to. His influence was already there, woven into the curriculum, written into the textbooks. The future was learning to see power not as a threat, but as a tool.

Alongside this magical renaissance came the slow, deliberate drawing of lines between the wizarding and non-wizarding worlds.

Legislation introduced in 1985 established the Muggle Interaction Regulatory Act. It restricted the use of magical items in muggle-heavy areas, banned unsanctioned intermarriage without Ministry review, and confined muggle technology use to "safe zones” - specifically designed areas where magic and electricity could coexist with minimal disruption and no fear of muggle interference.

Of course, these laws were presented as protective measures. To “ensure safety for both communities”. They were never about hatred or prejudice, Tom Riddle insisted, only about preserving balance.

Few resisted. Most saw no reason to. After all, hadn’t the muggles nearly destroyed their own world during the last war? The reconstruction of the Muggle Studies course at Hogwarts - now mandatory for all first years - had shown them as much. Why should wizards not protect their own?

By 1986, the wizarding world no longer remembered how to look over its shoulder.

It had been five long years since the last Dark Mark had been cast, the last blood had been spilt, the last hand had been raised in the name of their future. Tom Riddle’s hand, though still unseen, had woven itself into every corner of magical society. He spoke rarely in public now - there was no need. His ideas were echoed by others with eager smiles and tailored robes, debated passionately in articles and lectures, taught in classrooms and passed down in family homes. His ideology had grown legs of its own.

And still, he moved forward. And, as always, the wizarding world followed.

Crime was down. Education was up. Magical knowledge had never been more accessible. The Ministry released a commemorative coin to mark the five-year anniversary of the war’s end, and children learned to play new games based on historical battles they no longer feared. For the average witch or wizard, life had never felt more secure.

Only a few - members of the Order of the Phoenix, magical creatures whispering in deep woods, the portraits of long-dead Headmasters - felt the growing shift in the air. Power was pooling. Shifting. Becoming something deeper, older, more absolute.

But no one listened to the Order anymore.

It did not disband in the wake of this newfound peace, but it had started to dwindle.

In the early years after the treaty, there had been hope. Quiet, flickering, but real. Perhaps Tom Riddle meant what he said. Perhaps he had truly laid down his wand. Perhaps the world could rebuild itself without another war.

But Dumbledore knew better. He knew that peace signed under the shadow of fear was not peace at all. He saw it in the soft creep of new laws, in the tightening grip of the Ministry’s departments, in the way people began to speak differently - with the polished cadence of a message they didn’t even realise they’d memorised.

And so the Order remained. Watching. Waiting. Whispering where it could.

But time, as ever, was the enemy.

The Weasleys, loyal to the end, drifted first. Not from betrayal, but from burden. Seven children to raise, bills to pay, and Arthur’s promotion to Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office - a position he could not refuse if he wanted to continue feeding a family of nine. He insisted he could still pass on information when he had it, but Dumbledore saw the exhaustion in his eyes. 

The Longbottoms emerged from hiding not long after the treaty was signed. They returned to their old home, walked freely through Diagon Alley, and even attended Ministry galas when invited. But though they smiled and nodded at the old friends who remained in the Order, they never came back to the fight. Frank had a limp now. Alice never took her wary eyes off their son. They had paid their price.

Others left without explanation - drawn into new posts, offered raises, titles, or seats on advisory boards. Not overt bribes. No, Tom Riddle was far too clever for that. He simply created a world where not accepting a promotion meant professional suicide. Where loyalty was measured not in oaths, but in convenience. Dumbledore watched them drift away like smoke - too insubstantial to hold, too many to name.

Only a few remained steadfast.

Mad-Eye Moody, ever suspicious, muttered constantly, growled at ghosts, and trusted no one. Emmeline Vance, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, but rarely with anything substantial to report. Lily Potter, her husband dead, her son missing, had thrown herself into the work with a ferocity that burned through every meeting, every mission. She rarely smiled now. Rarely spoke unless it was necessary. But her wand was always steady, and her mind sharper than ever.

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin stayed close too, although Dumbledore sometimes found himself questioning their loyalty. Remus had never forgiven the world for taking Harry, and Sirius had never forgiven himself. They attended the meetings, ran the errands, and passed along information. But they spent most of their time in Knockturn Alley, nursing old connections, listening to whispers. Dumbledore suspected they were there less for the Order’s sake and more in the faint, foolish hope that someone would slip up and say Harry’s name.

And then there was Severus Snape.

He wore black like mourning, attended every summons from Voldemort’s inner circle like a man walking to his own execution - but he was never caught. Never careless. His reports were detailed, clinical, and often arrived by hand. He rarely attended Order meetings in person, choosing instead to pass messages through lesser members like Fletcher or Podmore, who were only there to feel a part of something bigger than themselves.

From what Dumbledore could tell, Severus and Lily had rekindled a weak facsimile of their original friendship, but it paled in comparison to before and never went any deeper than surface level. It didn’t matter - Lily’s presence was often enough to entice Severus to a meeting, and Severus’s status as a spy often kept Lily coming back for more, desperate to hear what the Dark Lord was planning.

Still, the Order wasn’t enough - they weren’t enough. Not anymore.

Dumbledore no longer stood behind the podium at Wizengamot. He no longer served as Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. His name still held power, yes - but the kind that was fading, softening. He was seen as a relic now. A well-meaning elder. A voice of caution in a world that no longer wanted it.

They said he had been wrong before. About Grindelwald. About Tom. And perhaps, Dumbledore thought, they were right. Five years had passed since the treaty. Five years of peace, of prosperity, of progress. No wars. No purges. No murders in the street. No Dark Mark in the sky. No bloodshed.

Tom Riddle had delivered on every single promise he’d made.

How do you rally people against a man who brought them everything they ever wanted? How do you ignite a resistance in a world that no longer believes it’s being conquered?

The old headmaster stood at his office window more often these days, staring out across Hogwarts grounds, watching the happy, smiling children move from class to class. The new batch of students this year were the first who didn’t remember the war. 

Sometimes, Dumbledore wondered if he was the only one who remembered it.

And still, every day, he waited. Not for a war, but for a boy. The prophecy still held true, after all - it had to, there was simply no other way forward - which meant the child of prophecy still must live.

Every day, he waited for the saviour of the wizarding world to re-enter their lives, for the defeater of the Dark Lord to return to the forefront of the battle, for… hope.

For Harry Potter.

Sirius often wondered when, exactly, hope had become a heavy thing - five years was a long time to chase ghosts, after all.

He and Remus were still looking for Harry - fiercely, stubbornly, with all the desperation of men who had nothing else left to lose. Every lead was followed. Every rumour chased. Every whisper that mentioned a boy with green eyes or messy hair or a forgotten past was pursued until it crumbled under scrutiny. And still, they kept going.

Sirius told himself they would know when to stop. That they’d feel it in their bones, like a final door swinging closed. But that door had never shut. There was only more silence. More dead ends. More mornings waking up and thinking, what if today’s the day?

Some nights - on the ones where Remus was already asleep, breathing steadily beside him - Sirius stared up at the ceiling and wondered if they were already mad. If five years of hoping had quietly driven them to some place just beyond reason. If this was something noble, or something pitiful. If, in another five years, they would look exactly the same.

If, in another ten, they would be the same, or in fifteen, or twenty-five, or even fifty.

If he and Moony would wake up someday, as old as Dumbledore and twice as mad, still chasing a boy who might never come home.

It wasn't like the world was burning. Quite the opposite, in fact - things were quiet now. Comfortable. Most days were easy, even good. Remus had work - steady work, finally - teaching magical theory at a local tutoring centre that hired all species. Vampires, centaurs, goblins. Werewolves, too. Thanks to new legislation passed by Riddle’s education commission, it was now illegal to fire a magical being for traits deemed “inherent and unchangeable”. Sirius hated that it had come from him, from them, but he couldn’t deny the result.

Tom Riddle had made life better… And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Sirius didn’t agree with the Order anymore - not entirely. He didn’t agree with the Ministry either. He didn’t know if he even believed in sides anymore, not like he used to. Once upon a time, it had been so easy: light and dark, good and evil, peace and war. But now?

Now it was laws that protected the people he loved. It was peace that brought Remus out of hiding. It was old prejudices being peeled back, slowly, cautiously, under the banner of inclusion… But it was also a shadow behind every law. A coldness beneath every smile. It was the fear that no one wanted to name. And Harry… Harry was still gone.

How could you say the world was right when the boy who was meant to save it was missing?

Sirius didn’t have an answer. He only had Remus.

Remus, who had never moved out of Sirius’s flat in Diagon Alley. Remus, who had spent the first six months sleeping on the lumpy couch until Sirius, grumbling about future back pain, had insisted they switch every second night in the bed. Remus, who - after another six months - had said they might as well share the bed like grown men and that they were mature enough not to make it weird.

And they were… until they weren’t.

It had been another year before Sirius had kissed him - half-asleep, tea still in hand, morning light streaming through the curtains. He hadn’t planned it. Hadn’t thought of anything beyond the warmth of Remus's arm brushing his, the softness of his eyes, the fluffy disaster that was his hair, the way he’d said good morning to him like it mattered.

He’d panicked, briefly, once chapped lips were pressed against his, as his higher brain functions came back online with a scream, and he thought, for one heart-stopping moment, that Remus might pull away.

Instead, he’d leaned in, and three years later, here they were.

Three quiet, steady years of shared mornings and playful bickering and long nights chasing leads that never led anywhere. They had found comfort in each other - more than comfort, really. Something solid. Something real. Something that kept the world from swallowing them whole.

And still, every night before they fell asleep, one of them would say it: "Maybe tomorrow”.

Maybe tomorrow, they'd find the right trail. Maybe tomorrow, someone would slip up. Maybe tomorrow, the world would shift just enough to bring Harry back into their lives.

They weren’t ready to give up.

Sirius didn’t know if that was strength or delusion. He didn’t know if this was what hope looked like, or if it was just grief refusing to let go. But he knew this: he would never stop looking.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. And neither would Remus.

Even if the world moved on without them. Even if no one else remembered the boy with bright green eyes and messy black hair and the most adorable chubby-cheeked grin on the planet.

They would. 

Always.

And while the world watched its new dawn unfold, a young boy with bright green eyes and messy black hair and the most adorable chubby-cheeked grin on the planet grew up quietly and undisturbed in the shadows of a grand manor.

To the wizarding world, Haedus Lestrange was the only son of Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange - now considered law-abiding citizens, respected for their reformations and their role in bringing this new era of prosperity to light. 

The family mostly kept to themselves, which was understandable, of course, once it became public knowledge that poor Bella had suffered greatly during her pregnancy and they had almost lost little Haedus more than once. So of course, the couple were over-protective of their only child - it was only natural, after all they’d gone through.

And besides, although the boy was rarely seen in public, it was obvious to everyone that he was nothing short of extraordinary.

At two years old, he had thrown a tantrum when a toy broomstick was taken from him - only for every object in the nursery to rise into the air and begin orbiting him like planets. Bellatrix had laughed, delighted beyond reason, while Rodolphus had stood frozen, watching the boy with a deep, quiet awe.

At three, he had vanished from his cot entirely one night - only to be found at the very top of the Manor’s east tower, sleeping soundly beside a flock of roosting owls. He was far too young to know how to Apparate, and yet he could often be found there whenever the mood struck him.

At the age of four, Haedus set fire to a man’s robes with nothing more than a glare after the stranger had made a rather unwise remark about his “mad mother”. The man had lived, of course - unfortunately - but he never made that same mistake again.

At five, it became clear that calling it “accidental” magic was something of a misnomer - he could be very selective with his spells when he so chose, and his control over his magic was years ahead of his peers. His tutors often left their lessons feeling flustered - amused and charmed, yes, but also undeniably caught off guard.

At six years old, one of those same tutors made the mistake of suggesting that “true progress lies in abandoning outdated, dangerous magics and embracing the light” and Haedus performed his first successful, wandless, nonverbal charm - an Incarcerous spell, cast with nothing but a sharp flick of his fingers and a narrowed gaze. Within seconds, conjured ropes had bound the man from shoulders to ankles, hoisting him into the air and dangling him from the chandelier like a festive ornament. Bellatrix had nearly wept with pride. Rodolphus, ever the calmer of the two, simply dismissed the tutor that evening with a polite nod and hired a new one the following week - this time, with more… acceptable opinions of Dark Magic.

Each year, Voldemort received updates. Letters from the boy’s mother, always chaotic and overly passionate. Reports from his father, neat and measured.  Occasionally, he received sketches from Haedus himself - messy drawings enchanted to move, often depicting dragons, storms, or versions of himself in sweeping black robes, laughing.

Tom kept them all.

And slowly, a realisation began to take root.

The prophecy - that wretched thing that had once haunted him, had once almost caused his downfall - no longer held the weight it once had. The boy did not fear him. The boy did not resent him. He adored him.

Voldemort had imagined, once, that if he allowed the child to live, he would simply be delaying the inevitable. That the boy’s power would one day turn against him. That destiny would eventually force a confrontation… But that confrontation was no longer possible.

Because Haedus Lestrange had been raised in darkness. Not in neglect, or cruelty - but in truth. He knew what they were fighting for. Knew the vision they were working toward. And more than that - he believed in it.

He asked questions. He studied. He memorised books on the history of the Dark Arts and understood, even at six years old, that power meant responsibility. He spoke of “the old ways” not with fear or superstition, but with reverence. He declared, one evening, to Bellatrix and Rodolphus with great solemnity, that he wanted to “make the world quieter, so magic can speak again”. Voldemort heard the story only a few hours later as the boy’s gushing mother firecalled him, beaming with pride, and for the first time in decades, Tom found himself smiling with genuine delight.

The child was not his enemy - he would be his legacy. Haedus was advancing faster than anyone could have anticipated. He was intelligent. Curious. Mischievous. A boy with a wicked grin and a magnetic pull that endeared him to everyone who met him.

And, perhaps most importantly, he was loved.

Bellatrix adored him with a ferocity that surprised even herself. She doted, obsessed, taught him lullabies in French and recited old Black family grimoires as bedtime stories. Rodolphus read him wizarding law and Tales of Beedle the Bard and taught him to duel in the garden with mock wands that sparked but didn’t sting.

Haedus never wanted for affection. Never felt fear. His world was one of certainty. One of belonging.

Tom watched from a distance, always, but he never strayed too far. He sent gifts at holidays - rare books, enchanted puzzles, a handmade cloak that shimmered in shadow. When he spoke of the boy to Randolph or Cygnus or Theodore, he never called him “Haedus” or “Harry”. He called him the future.

And each year, he felt his certainty deepen. The world was healing. Rebuilding. Growing stronger. And the boy at the centre of it all was blossoming exactly as he had hoped.

By 1987, the Ministry no longer feared Lord Voldemort - they revered Tom Riddle. They admired him, trusted him, and willingly handed him power on a silver platter.

By 1987, Albus Dumbledore stopped trying to change the world and started focusing on maintaining that belief in the very few souls left who still believed it needed changing.

By 1987, Hogwarts was no longer a stronghold of the greater good’s ideals. It was becoming something new, something free, being reshaped from the inside by a new generation.

By 1987, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin were as happy as they could be, given the wide, gaping child-shaped hole in their hearts that they still tried desperately to fix.

By 1987, Haedus Lestrange knew who he was, who he was destined to become, and who had once tried to take that future away from him.

By 1987, the wizarding world looked nothing like the one that had gone to war almost twenty years before, and yet, almost no one noticed, and those who did were more than willing to keep their mouths shut on the matter.

Because by 1987, peace, as it turned out, was far more precious to them than the truth.

Chapter Text

Sunday, 21st December

The room smelled like cedarwood and firelight.

Slytherin Manor was older than Haedus could properly fathom - older than Hogwarts, even, or so Papa claimed. Its bones were deep and crooked, its walls humming with old spells and older secrets. And tonight, it was alight with glamour: great garlands of enchanted holly shimmered along the arches, and silver starlight glowed from chandeliers that floated like frozen moons above the grand ballroom.

This was it - the Winter Solstice celebration.

The one night each year that the Dark Lord himself hosted a gathering - the true kind, not the ones the Ministry talked about with flutes of champagne and polite smiles, but the real ones. The ones with quiet words and sharp eyes, where the old families walked side by side and the future of the magical world thrummed under the surface like magic waiting to be cast.

And this year, he was invited.

The Dark Lord apparently didn’t like children very much - not that Haedus blamed him, really, given how tedious he found a lot of kids his age - and as a result, there was an age limit on who was allowed to go to the Solstice. Haedus, having turned seven almost two months earlier, was now officially old enough to attend.

To say he was excited about it would be putting things mildly.

His robes were green velvet with silver trim, stitched in swirling serpents that Papa had enchanted to move if anyone stared too long. His boots were dragonhide. His hair had been combed - twice - and charmed to stay in place. And, he hadn’t even protested when Maman insisted on dabbing at his face with a handkerchief right before they left, even though the temptation had been strong. No. Tonight, he was going to be perfect. Because tonight, he was going to see him.

Haedus didn’t know what time the Dark Lord would appear - no one did. Mama said it was part of the ritual, that the night had to settle into its bones before he arrived. So Haedus waited.

He was standing beside Draco, whose mother had allowed him to wear real cufflinks for the first time, and whose smugness about them had not dimmed all evening. They stood at the edge of the ballroom, hands tucked behind their backs like proper gentlemen, heads held high, eyes scanning every guest with the utmost seriousness.

Draco leaned over and whispered, “I bet he’ll wear a silver robe tonight. Last year, Father said it matched the moon phase”.

Haedus whispered back, “No, it’ll be green this year - for the Solstice. And for the Slytherin family, too”.

Draco gave a dramatic sigh. “Well, whatever colour robes he’s wearing, I wish he’d hurry up”.

Haedus said nothing. He didn’t wish that - let the moment stretch forever, he thought. He didn’t want to miss even a second of it. 

And then - he felt it.

Like gravity changing its mind. Like the world had remembered something ancient and terrible and turned its gaze back toward it. A hush fell over the hall, soft as snowfall, and every trace of magic in the room hummed low and careful.

The air sharpened.

And there he was.

The Dark Lord - Tom Riddle, though no one here called him that - stepped into the ballroom with the kind of stillness that made movement almost feel vulgar. He wore robes of black so deep that they shimmered like a gaping maw, ready to swallow you whole.

His presence moved like shadows, like weight itself. He didn’t glow, didn’t glitter, didn’t even need to speak - and still, every person in the room turned toward him like plants to the sun. The sheer power that radiated off of him… that delicious Darkness that seemed to cloak the room with its beauty…

Haedus stopped breathing. He couldn’t help it. His mouth was dry. His heart thundered against his ribs like it was trying to flee. He had read about the Dark Lord, had studied him in detail - Maman spoke of his glory, and Papa of his skill, and all the books in the Lestrange library revered him - but none of it compared to this.

There was power in him. Real, heavy, bone-deep power. It rolled off him in waves, slow and inexorable. Haedus couldn’t look away.

He didn't expect the Dark Lord to notice him. Of course not. He wasn’t important - not yet. Not like Maman or Papa, who had been the Dark Lord’s most trusted war generals, not like Papy Cygnus or Grand-péré Randolph, who had stood by his side since day one. But still - just being there, being in the same room as that level of greatness, was enough.

Haedus could feel it in his bones.

He belonged here.

The feast was long and decadent. Candles floated above the table in glittering constellations, and the dishes never emptied. Roast pheasant. Glazed pumpkin. Forest fruits preserved in sweet syrup. 

Haedus and Draco were even allowed to drink their pumpkin juice from wine glasses - real crystal ones - and they had a great time swirling their glasses just like their parents did, trying desperately not to giggle.

“We’re basically adults now” Draco declared.

Haedus nodded solemnly. “Undoubtedly”.

Unfortunately, however, it would appear that adults were rather boring. 

After dinner, everyone had returned to the ballroom, drifting into tight circles of conversation with low voices and bright laughter. Papa was chuckling quietly with a man in Ministry robes. Maman was holding court with a group of ladies near the fireplace. The Dark Lord, at the far end of the ballroom, was speaking with a tall witch in midnight-blue velvet, while his piercing, breathtaking gaze scanned the room of his most devout followers.

It was the perfect time to sneak away.

Haedus gave Draco the look.

Draco gave the tiniest nod in response.

Then, with practised ease, they slipped between a house-elf and a loudly laughing woman and vanished through the ballroom’s north door, leaving behind the clinking of silverware and the hum of boring adult conversation that echoed through the opulent halls. 

Slytherin Manor was huge.

They wandered through long halls of dark stone and glass, whispering secrets and making up names for the portraits they passed. 

“That one looks like a Fernandus” Draco decided, pointing at a moustached man with an eyeglass, “Definitely a Fernandus”. 

“No way! He’s a Master Barnabus!”

“Barnabus is the next one, idiot! See that glare?”

They drifted down yet another series of ornate corridors, staring wide-eyed at everything they passed, until they reached a rather imposing-looking door guarded by two stone serpents.

“This is where father says the Dark Lord’s office is” Draco whispered, coming to a stop outside of it, “The seventh door on the left, cause seven is a magically powerful number”.

“It looks like an important room” Haedus agreed, staring at the carved granite snakes in awe. They were almost the same height as he was!

“I double dare you to go in”.

“What?!”

“You heard me” Draco said, a sly grin playing on his lips as he reached out and pushed the heavy door ajar, “Unless you’re too Hufflepuff, of course”.

“I’m not a Hufflepuff!” Haedus immediately protested, moving forward even as his heart started hammering in his chest.

It was true; he wasn’t a Hufflepuff - and nor was he a Gryffindor like his birth parents were - but he wasn’t a coward either, and even though all of his self-preservation instincts were telling him to shut the door and return to the party, there was a part of him, just a small, little, tiny part, that wanted to see what the Dark Lord’s personal office looked like.

Haedus bet he had a ton of books.

Swallowing thickly, he shot Draco a proud, defiant look before taking his first step into the room.

The office beyond was dimly lit with shadows dancing eerily on the walls. The air felt heavy with the weight of secrets and magic, and Haedus hesitated for a moment, but the challenge in Draco's eyes spurred him forward.

There was a fancy carved desk with a chair, like his Papa had at home, and- yep, he was right, there were a ton of books; all neatly lined up on shelves that covered the back wall of the room. To his left were three large arched windows, but it was too dark to see out of them by now. To his right, however, was a huge stone fireplace, casting a golden flickering glow over the rest of the study - as well as over the oddly shaped green lump that sat on the rug in front of it.

Haedus frowned and inched closer, his eyes widening as he finally realised what he was seeing.

It was a snake! A giant, breathing, living snake! She was curled up in front of the flames, coiled in a heap and seemingly asleep. Haedus had never seen a snake in real life before, but he adored the cuddly toy his Papa had given him for his fourth birthday, and he’d always listened in awe at the stories his Maman had told him about the Dark Lord’s familiar.

She was gorgeous, with emerald green scales and a body as wide as Haedus but at least thrice as long. He wondered, distantly, if her scales felt as smooth as they looked, and before he even realised what he was doing, he’d reached out and touched her.

Two eyes snapped to his, a deep, rich amber, and he froze.

Her head rose in a slow, deliberate manner, and for a moment she seemed to simply regard him with a certain curiosity, her tongue flickering in and out as she no doubt tried to place his scent. Haedus was fascinated - her scales really were just as smooth as they looked.

“Who daresss disssturb Nagini’sss ssslumber?”

Wait.

She could talk?! Maman had never told him that she could talk! Haedus found himself staring at her with wide eyes and an open mouth in awe before his manners finally kicked in and he quickly removed his hand from the magnificent creature in front of him.

“I’m sssorry” he said, lowering his gaze, “I didn’t mean to wake you, I jussst… I’ve never ssseen a sssnake in perssson before and- and you’re ssso pretty I couldn’t help but move clossser”.

Her head tilted to the side, a rather canine-like move for a serpent, but she didn’t look particularly angry, and Haedus wondered if he’d be able to talk to her some more before he had to return to the party.

“You ssshouldn’t be in here, little ssspeaker” she - Nagini - finally replied.

“I know. I’m- I’m sssorry about that too, but, you sssee, my friend dared me to come in and I had to prove that I wasssn’t a Hufflepuff ssso-”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy!”

Haedus froze, before his head snapped towards the door as he heard his Tonton’s footsteps get closer - and not just the one set of footsteps either, which meant his own Papa was probably on his way too, and oh Merlin, he was going to be in so much trouble!

Nagini uncoiled herself even further, rising until they were eye-to-eye before following his gaze to the entrance of the study, just in time to see a long pale hand push open the door and-

Oh, sweet Salazar.

Haedus gulped and instinctively reached out to grab onto Nagini.

The Dark Lord followed the movement with a very unimpressed gaze.

From behind him, the boy caught sight of familiar dark hair.

“Haedus Cygnus Lestrange” his father began, his voice low and furious, “Just what in Merlin’s name do you think that you are-”

“Wait”.

His mouth shut with a click before he gave the man a confused look, his brows furrowing.

“My lord?”

But the Dark Lord wasn’t looking at him - he was looking at Nagini.

“What wasss he doing?” he asked, and next to him, Rodolphus suddenly tensed - although Haedus wasn’t entirely sure why.

Nagini’s tongue flickered out once more. 

“Petting me” she replied simply, “And he sssaid I wasss pretty”.

The corners of the Dark Lord’s lips twitched upwards. “You are pretty; that’sss why I tell you asss much every day”.

“I know”. Her head slowly moved up and down, as if nodding in agreement. “But it’sss nice to hear ssso from another ssspeaker too inssstead of jussst non-ssspeakersss” .

“And doesssn’t Barty tell you often enough-” He abruptly stopped, and Haedus watched, fascinated, as the man’s entire body seemed to freeze, just like a coiled-up serpent preparing to strike. “... Did you jussst sssay another ssspeaker?”

Nagini nodded again, before turning to look at Haedus - and the Dark Lord did the same. He found himself burning under the sudden scrutiny, but he welled up all of his courage to meet those dark, piercing eyes straight on.

The older wizard took a step forward, and then another, and then another, until he was looming over the boy in all of his powerful Dark-Lord-ness glory, and Haedus couldn’t help but lower his gaze, glancing over at his Papa instead for an idea, a suggestion, any form of help whatsoever as to what the hell was going on right now.

But his father looked just as confused as he did, and Tonton Lucius, who was now standing in the doorway with a very chastised-looking Draco held in front of him, seemed somewhat bewildered as well.

“Haedusss” the Dark Lord suddenly said, and he quickly snapped his gaze back to him, swallowing thickly in nervousness and fear and awe that he was actually being addressed by the most powerful wizard alive.

“Haedusss” he repeated, before slowly, ever so slowly, crouching down in front of him so that they were eye-to-eye, “Can you… Do you underssstand me?”

He really was beautiful - just as beautiful now, up close, as he was from a distance, but he also had a rather strange look on his face, Haedus thought, like his answer to that question was secretly really very important, and it was that alone that prevented him from laughing out loud as he answered because he wasn’t an idiot - he was seven years old! - so- 

“Of courssse I can, my lord”.

His Papa paled, dramatically.

Lucius took a step back in shock.

And the Dark Lord…

The Dark Lord was looking at him very oddly indeed, and Haedus wasn’t sure what was happening right now, or how he was meant to interpret that look - it was making him feel even more weirdly warm inside, too, but he didn’t know what to do with that information either. There was a beat of silence, but it was heavy and loaded with something he couldn’t name, before, predictably, of course, Draco snapped them out of it.

“You’re a Parselmouth?!”

Lucius immediately clasped a hand over his son’s face to stop his rant before it began, but the damage was already done because-

Haedus? A Parselmouth? Him?! He frowned and turned to look at his father instead because- because it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be! Only their lord was a Parselmouth because only he was a direct descendant of the great Salazar Slytherin himself because only he was worthy enough to have such a gift, not Haedus, not a seven-year-old boy, not- not him!

“My lord”. His Papa’s voice was taut, hoarse. “My lord, I swear I did not know. We didn’t- Bella and I, we- we didn’t know! I’ve never heard him- he’s not- he’s never spoken to- like-”

“Calm yourself, Rodolphus” the man replied, without turning around and-

Oh.

Haedus could hear it now - the slight change in his accent, the way his words were clipped, now, sharper sounding, almost, and his pronunciations had lost their sibilant reverb, had lost the way the Dark Lord’s tongue had seemed to curve around each syllable like they had been made for him and-

He didn’t like the sound of the man speaking English as much - it felt like something was missing.

“Haedus” his Lord said - and it was wrong, so wrong, all terribly horribly wrong, “Is this your first time talking with a snake? A real snake?”

Talking with a snake, not to a snake, but with them, and Haedus felt like that distinction was important - both to him and to their Lord.

He nodded, silently.

“I see… Well, that explains it then” he replied, “Parseltongue, to speakers, sounds no different than their own native language. It’s possible that you have used it before, unknowingly, but it usually doesn’t make itself known until you speak with a snake… I wasss fortunate enough to meet a wild sssnake in my youth”.

“Really?!” Haedus burst out, before he could stop himself, “There are wild sssnakesss in England? Jussst- Outssside?!”

The Dark Lord smiled - just a very faint turn of his lips, small enough that the boy wouldn’t have even noticed it if the man hadn’t been so close.

“Yesss, there are. Three kindsss, in fact” he explained, “Though there are fewer now than there were when I wasss a child”.

“Oh”. Haedus frowned, feeling disappointed. “I wasss hoping to talk to one. To find a sssnake of my own, but…”

Next to him, Nagini shifted under his fingers, and he belatedly realised that he was still holding onto her. He quickly dropped his hand once more and flushed, embarrassed to have been seen petting the Dark Lord’s familiar without permission, but the snake merely leaned forward and rubbed the side of her giant head against his cheek.

From the doorway, he heard his Papa choke.

“It isss alright, little ssspeaker” she hissed, “You’ll find your own Nagini sssomeday”.

“... Yesss”. The Dark Lord had an oddly calculating gleam in his eyes. “You will”.

Abruptly standing, he turned to face the others as he placed a pale hand on Haedus’s shoulder - and the boy couldn’t help but lean into the man’s surprising warmth.

“I believe congratulations are in order, Rodolphus”. His voice was silky and enticing, but it still lacked that critical something that Haedus just couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Yes, my lord” his Papa replied, seemingly on autopilot, “Thank you. This is… certainly a surprise but- but Bella will be most pleased. As will the rest of the family, of course”.

“Congratulations to you, as well, my lord” Lucius added smoothly, “It would appear that there’s another speaker in Britain after all”.

“Yes”. The hand on his shoulder briefly tightened, but Haedus found it more comforting than painful. “It would indeed”.

The air still thrummed with something electric, something vast, as if the universe itself had taken a deep breath and was holding it, waiting - but then, the Dark Lord exhaled.

“It would appear that there was no threat after all” he said. Haedus was fairly certain that he was speaking to his Papa and Tonton Lucius, but the Dark Lord’s gaze was lingering on him instead, sharp and inquisitive, though not unkind. “Merely… curiosity… As children are prone to having”.

Something in his expression shifted - less intense now, less scrutinising. There was a flicker of something almost like amusement, or maybe approval. He lifted his hand from Haedus’s shoulder and nodded once toward Rodolphus.

“Return to the celebration” he ordered, “All of you”.

“Yes, my lord” Rodolphus said, “Are you…?”

“I will return myself in a moment” he replied, “Do enjoy the party until then”.

Lucius bowed slightly and gently tugged Draco by the arm back out of the room. The boy glanced at Haedus with wide eyes, mouth open like he might protest, but he knew better than to argue. Haedus turned, uncertain, but the Dark Lord gestured him forward, toward his Papa with a small, knowing look.

“Go on” he said, and then, “We will sssee each other again, little ssspeaker”.

The words sent a shiver down Haedus’s spine in the best way possible, and he nodded, returning to his father’s side, who quickly led him back into the corridor outside, closing the study door behind them.

“The Dark Lord spoke to you!” Draco hissed at him, keeping his voice low as they headed back to the ballroom “He spoke to you, Hades! And not just once! You talked! You two were talking! Like friends!”

Haedus tried to be humble; he really did - but he felt the grin creeping across his face all the same.

“I know” he said, sighing wistfully, “It was… incredible”.

They re-entered the ballroom to the same drifting lights and warm music, though it felt different now. Distant. Like they’d gone behind the veil of the world and come back changed. 

Haedus was very glad that his Papa looked so stunned - so deeply, soul-shatteringly shocked at the revelation of his gift - that he forgot to scold him entirely for sneaking off.

Draco immediately rushed to his mother’s side to regale her with the tale in whisper-shouts, and Rodolphus guided Haedus back to Maman, who was laughing with Tatie Cissa by the fire.

He didn’t say anything to her. Not yet. His mind was spinning too fast to formulate a coherent sentence.

He was a Parselmouth.

Like the Dark Lord.

The very thing that made their lord so powerful, so feared, so Slytherin, and he could do it too. The words his parents had whispered to him since he was old enough to understand - how he’d been chosen, how he’d been gifted to them by the Dark Lord himself, how he was meant for greatness - suddenly felt a little bit more real.

They hadn’t just said he’d be brilliant… he actually was.

Haedus worried sometimes - when his wandwork wasn’t perfect yet, when he couldn’t brew potions as well as Draco could, when his Papa frowned as he mispronounced a hex during duelling practice - that he wouldn’t live up to the expectations they had for him.

That he wouldn’t be worthy of being raised by Lestranges.

That he wouldn’t be worthy of being chosen.

But now… now he knew he was something more. He hadn’t just been born lucky. He was meant for this. 

He was like the Dark Lord.

And one day - maybe, just maybe - he would be just as powerful.

The heavy wooden door closed behind them with a muffled thud, and silence immediately settled over the study.

Tom Riddle didn’t move for a long moment. His hand remained suspended in the air, the warmth of Haedus's small presence still lingering like the fading echo of an incantation. His expression, which had been composed and commanding in front of the others, flickered - just briefly - with something that resembled genuine curiosity. 

Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned back toward his towering shelves.

He moved with purpose, robes whispering against the stone floor, and reached for the black-bound volume resting on the third shelf from the top - a genealogy tome he hadn’t touched in years. Bloodlines of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. It was old, carefully annotated by many hands over the centuries, but his own had added more to it than any of its previous keepers.

He flipped to the Potter family tree, fingers gliding down the delicate vellum pages until he found James Fleamont Potter, his name crossed out with a thin line in black ink. He scanned further up, tracing the dead man’s direct ancestors all the way back to the top of the tree to-

Ignotus Peverell. How… intriguing. Voldemort himself was a direct descendant of Cadmus, the middle brother, and now, it would seem that young Haedus Lestrange came from the youngest Peverell’s line. It was yet another thing that connected them…

He continued searching, but… No. The boy had no traceable lineage to Salazar Slytherin. None. His gift - the Parseltongue - should not be his. Tom knew that. He had scoured the magical bloodlines of Britain in his youth; he had memorised them all. It wasn’t possible. 

His fingers stilled on the page. The only known hereditary path for Parseltongue was through the line of Slytherin. It wasn’t a trait that manifested. It wasn’t magic that one could learn. It was a birthright.

And yet…

Haedus had understood Nagini. He’d understood him, had spoken back to him fluently and effortlessly, not even realising he was doing so. The boy was, without a doubt, a Parselmouth despite the impossibility of it all.

Voldemort closed the book slowly, reverently. He stood there a moment longer, fingertips brushing over the gold-embossed title. Then he turned and returned the tome to its rightful place on the shelf.

Could Haedus have… absorbed the gift?

He tapped his fingers lightly against the edge of the shelf, brows furrowed deep in thought.

He himself was the single surviving heir of the Slytherin line, and his magic had touched the boy that night in Godric’s Hollow. That night, he had marked the infant and then almost been torn from his own body. That night, something in him had… shifted. 

Could he have left more than a scar behind?

A spark of Parseltongue, a shard of magic… inherited not by blood, but by consequence. Fate, perhaps - it had bound them before, after all.

He would have to review Haedus’s magical development more closely from now on. He would need to speak with Bellatrix and Rodolphus. Perhaps even test the boy’s affinity toward other rare magics. This was no longer simple curiosity - this was discovery. Evolution. And perhaps, even destiny.

Tom allowed himself a final glance toward the door Haedus had just exited through.

He smiled, slow and thoughtful, with a kind of fond pride he had never allowed himself to feel before. He had told the boy that he would see him again, very soon…

And Lord Voldemort always kept his word.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 24th December

The heavy winter wind howled outside, rattling the old shutters of the ancestral Black home. Inside, the air was just as frigid, though for an entirely different reason.

Only five members of the Order of the Phoenix had come tonight. The rest had sent their regrets, citing family obligations or holiday celebrations. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and they had partners and siblings and kids; it was simply far too busy a time of year to make this meeting.

In reality, the truth was much simpler - morale was crumbling. Tom Riddle, formerly known as Lord Voldemort, had stopped the war. He had charmed the Ministry, stabilised the economy, and even mended blood politics to some degree. There were rumours he might one day run for Minister of Magic himself - so what use was there in fighting him anymore?

In a crooked, dust-covered chair at the head of the table, Dumbledore sat in silence, his hands steepled in thought. The fire beside him crackled. The room smelled of soot, lemon drops, and frustration.

"Severus" he said, his voice low and even, "You attended Voldemort’s gathering last week. Did he say anything? Anything we might be able to use?"

Severus raised an eyebrow. "It was a party, Headmaster. A Winter Solstice celebration. Dancing, drinks, minor displays of magic. Nothing more”.

"No hint of future plans? No discussions about his next moves?"

"No. Just champagne, charmed starlight, and mild political conversations about infrastructure and funding… If the Dark Lord has skeletons, Albus, they are not hanging from the mistletoe".

On the other side of the table, Sirius snorted and then quickly coughed to try and cover it up. The rivalry between the pair had… softened, somewhat, over the years. Sirius hated to admit it, but he’d matured since he’d been a kid - he’d had to mature in order to find Harry, to get a stable job, to be good enough, emotionally healthy enough, for Remus. There were far more important things in life than bickering with James’s arch nemesis - although he did still throw out the occasional insult just for old time’s sake.

"Then he’s grown smarter" Dumbledore murmured. 

Remus, holding a steaming cup of tea, gave a weary sigh. “We’re chasing shadows, Albus. It’s been six years. There is no war anymore - he’s won”.

"That doesn’t mean we stop watching!" Dumbledore replied, more sharply than usual, the cracks beginning to show around his placid, grandfatherly mask, “And what of your assignment?”

“The same as always” Sirius replied bitterly, “No new leads, no new whispers, not even a single new bloody rumour”.

Remus reached over and placed a calming hand on his. “We’ll find him, Pads, you know that”.

Lily, sitting a seat above Severus, huffed. “No, you won’t! I keep telling you, Harry’s dead! What reason would You-Know-Who have to keep him alive?”

“If he’d killed him, then what reason would he have to take his body?” Sirius countered, his voice low and vicious, “Harry’s out there, somewhere. He could be in danger even as we just fucking sit here!”

“You have no proof of that!” she snapped, a storm brewing behind her eyes, “You don’t even have proof that he’s alive!”

“Just as you don’t even have proof that he’s dead!” Sirius slammed a hand down on the old wooden table. 

“You’re wasting your time. You’re wasting all of our time! I declared him dead years ago for a reason, Sirius!”

“Yeah, cause you couldn’t even be bothered to search for him! You’re his mother, Lily! You could at least pretend to care!”

“Don’t you dare judge me, Sirius Black!” she spat, “Do you have any idea what it’s like?! To lose everything and still be expected to smile and play the martyr?!”

“I’d give everything to have what you threw away! He’s your son! My godson! Voldemort took him and-”

“Voldemort didn’t take him!” Lily hissed, leaping to her feet, “I gave Harry to him!”

The entire room seemed to freeze.

Sirius’s voice was barely a whisper. “You what?”

She was trembling now, her words tumbling out too fast. “He’d already killed James! And he was going to kill me next! I told him- told him he could have Harry if he let me live. I wanted to live! I was too fucking young to die for a baby that I didn’t even want in the first place!”

Dumbledore had turned pale. “Lily…”

“I hated what I’d become” she continued in a kind of breathless panic, “I wasn’t supposed to be a mother! Not then, not yet! I wanted to work at the Department of Mysteries! I wanted a career, travel, freedom! And instead, I had a crying child and a dead husband and a war I didn’t ask for! So yes. I gave him up. I gave him to Voldemort in return for the life I should’ve had!”

There was a long, aching, terrifying silence.

Remus was as white as a corpse. Severus stared at her as though he’d never seen her before. Dumbledore looked… old. Broken. Sirius just stood there, his face slowly collapsing under the weight of her words.

“You gave him to Voldemort” he said, as if saying it aloud might make it make sense.

“I didn’t want him to die” she whispered, “But I didn’t want to die even more”.

“You gave him to Voldemort” he repeated, his voice cracking, “You handed him over like- like some sort of unwanted pet to be slaughtered?! After everything we fought for, after everything that James did for, you- you just- just gave Harry to that absolute monster?! Gave up your son?! Sacrificed your own fucking child?!”

Lily couldn’t answer. She turned away, unable to face the storm she’d unleashed.

Dumbledore closed his eyes. Remus exhaled shakily, his amber gaze flashing gold as he tried desperately to keep a tight leash on his fury. Severus said nothing, but his expression was unusually readable, caught somewhere between loathing and disbelief.

Sirius moved first.

His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he jerked to his feet and all but stumbled away from the table, pacing like a caged beast. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white, and when he turned to look at Lily again, his face was contorted with something beyond rage. It was grief, disappointment, betrayal - all twisted into something dangerously close to hate.

"You lied to us" he said, voice low and trembling, "All these years, we thought he was kidnapped. Stolen. And you-”

“I did what I had to do” Lily said, her voice brittle.

“No. You did what was easiest!” Sirius growled, his eyes burning. “You didn’t want to be a mother? Fine. But you didn’t leave him at St. Mungo’s or a bloody orphanage, you gave him to Voldemort! An innocent, defenceless baby! And you gave him to the man who murdered your husband?!”

Lily looked like she might scream or cry or both. “You think I don’t live with it every day? You think I don’t wake up every night hearing his cries in my head? But it was me or him. And I chose me”.

“Then you chose wrong!”

“Enough” Dumbledore said softly, though the steel beneath his voice was unmistakable, “We gain nothing by turning on one another”.

“She lied to you!” Sirius hissed, rounding on him, “To all of us! And not just once - for years! We’ve spent six years chasing ghosts while she’s known all along what really happened!”

“I didn’t know where he was!” Lily shouted, “I still don’t! I thought Harry would be dead within the week! Voldemort came there that night to kill him so of fucking course I didn’t ask where he was taking him because he shouldn’t have let Harry live!”

Remus slowly stood. 

“I think” he began coldly, “you should leave”.

She blinked at him, stunned. “Remus-”

“Go, Lily!” he said again, his voice quiet but sharp as a blade, “You made your choice”.

“... Moon-”

“Don’t you dare!” he hissed, his eyes suddenly flashing a bright, damning gold, “Don’t you fucking dare call me that! Get out. Now. Or I swear to Merlin, Lily, I will not be held accountable for my actions!”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Lily opened her mouth as if to speak again, but then closed it. Her shoulders hunched. She turned and walked out of the room without another word, the echo of the front door slamming shut moments later leaving an almost physical impact behind.

No one spoke for a long time. The fire crackled, and snow tapped gently at the windows, but inside the room, there was only a heavy, terrible silence.

After a moment, Dumbledore pushed back his chair and slowly got to his feet.

“Perhaps we should end it here for tonight” he said quietly, “We’ve all been… given a lot to think about… I’ll be in touch”.

With a slight nod, he turned and stepped into the Floo to return to his office at Hogwarts.

Severus remained sitting at the table, both his head and heart in utter turmoil. The fire had died down to embers now, and the wind outside had fallen into a distant murmur. The house was quiet, mournfully so, and his thoughts thrummed in the silence like bees in a glass jar - erratic, angry, loud.

Lily Evans.

For so long, her name had been a quiet mantra in his mind, a tether to a version of himself he thought had long been lost. He had believed he loved her. He had mourned her like a lover, raged and grieved and changed himself for her. But now, sitting in the cold wreckage of what had just happened, he realised the truth with a calm that frightened him more than any grief ever had.

He hadn’t loved her - he had loved the idea of her.

The memory of a bright girl with fire in her eyes who had once looked at him like he wasn’t just a strange boy from Spinner’s End. But that wasn’t love, not really. Not when the woman she’d become could do that - could hand over her child to the Dark Lord in exchange for her own life, and then lie about it, for years, while others sacrificed everything to find the boy she had so easily given up. While James Potter - infuriating, arrogant James bloody Potter - had died trying to protect his son. A boy Severus had hated on principle, because of what he represented. But even he would never…

Not even the spawn of James bloody Potter deserved a fate like that.

Severus let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair. The weight of it all pressed in on him - the betrayal, the implications, the gnawing suspicion that had bloomed in the back of his mind ever since the Winter Solstice celebration.

If the Dark Lord had been freely given the boy, if he’d decided against killing him and had kidnapped him instead, if he’d taken Harry Potter with the intention of raising him on his side of the war… then he would be seven years old today. And the Dark Lord would have given the baby to someone he trusted to raise him right - an inner circle member, at the very least.

Severus quickly flipped through the rolodex in his mind, considering and discounting each seven-year-old child he knew of.

Harry Potter couldn’t be Draco, he was certain of that much. He couldn’t be Theodore Nott’s boy either - that child looked far too like his father, and Severus had seen the baby himself a few months before Harry Potter would have been taken. He wasn’t Zabini; that boy had dark skin, and although James Potter had been tanned, it wasn’t to the same degree. Not Crabbe and Goyle either; he’d seen their mothers while they’d been pregnant. But that only left…

Haedus Lestrange.

Severus had seen the boy from a distance many times before. With Draco, mostly, at Malfoy Manor and various pure-blood events. Dark hair, pale skin. He’d thought him a quiet, eerie child - too composed, too polite. At first, Severus had attributed it to Bellatrix’s influence, but if the Dark Lord had a personal stake in raising the boy…

And at the party, just a few days ago, hadn’t he been there? Severus only remembered because it had been the closest he’d ever gotten to the child, and something about him had stirred unease in his mind. Now, of course, he realised why.

His eyes. 

They were Lily’s eyes. Severus had seen them every day in the mirror of his memory, in dreams, in meetings, and now… on that child’s face.

Haedus had Bellatrix’s hair and bone structure - but didn’t he also have a Black ancestor through James Potter? And Potter’s hair had been just as wavy as Bellatrix’s, too. The boy had Rodolphus’s olive complexion - but again, so did James Potter. Severus also couldn’t remember Bellatrix ever being pregnant, and he was one of the very few wizards who would’ve been in close enough proximity to her to notice. There had never even been the expected whispers, the congratulations, the announcement. He had accepted the boy’s presence at face value, just as everyone else had.

How in Merlin’s name had he missed it?!

Because the Dark Lord had planned it that way, he thought bitterly. Of course, he had. If Lily had given Harry up willingly, and the Dark Lord had chosen to spare him… he wouldn’t have left the boy vulnerable. He would have hidden him in plain sight - given him to someone ruthless enough to protect him and ensure the boy was moulded to his own purpose.

The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. The way Bellatrix always seemed slightly uneasy around Severus in a way she hadn’t been before, and how Rodolphus kept him at an arm’s length whenever his so-called son was with him, but never when they were alone. 

But if this was true - if Haedus Lestrange really was Harry Potter, raised in a snake pit - what did that mean? He had to be certain. He had to confirm it, he had to know beyond a shadow of doubt... But if Harry Potter was alive, then Severus would have a decision to make.

Did he tell Dumbledore?

Did he protect the boy?

Did he betray the Order once and for all?

He thought of the way the child had stood beside Draco at the Solstice gathering, quiet and observant, saying little but watching everything. He thought of the way the child had looked up at him once, just once, as he passed by.

Those eyes…

He would find out. He would go to the Dark Lord. He would know for certain.

And then?

Then he would decide.

Because for the first time in years, Severus Snape wasn’t entirely sure where his loyalties lay anymore - but he did know one thing: He would never let another child be sacrificed ever again in the name of the greater good.

After Snape left, Sirius marched over to one of the cabinets, wrenched it open, and pulled out a bottle of firewhiskey. He didn't bother with a glass, just spun off the cap and downed it straight from the bottle, relishing the burn, relishing feeling anything other than guilt and betrayal and pure unadulterated fury.

He hadn't even felt this bad when Peter had betrayed them. Somehow, Lily's admission had hit him a hell of a lot harder.

He didn't stop drinking until warm hands carefully prised the firewhiskey from his grip, and Remus stood in front of him, his eyes still the tell-tale colour of his wolf but also glassy with unshed tears. Without saying a word, his partner put the bottle on the kitchen counter and then pulled him forward into a tight hug.

Sirius didn’t move. His gaze was fixed somewhere far away. The dying fire cast long shadows across the floor, the embers glowing dimly like old memories - ones that hurt more than they healed.

“I don’t know who we are anymore” he said finally, voice hoarse from the alcohol and from the shouting, “I used to think we were the good guys”.

Remus didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. That silence - the kind you only get between people who’d bled together - was enough of an agreement.

“I thought we were fighting for something real, Moony” Sirius continued, quieter now, “For the right things. I thought Voldemort was evil and Dumbledore… wasn’t. But now?”

He pulled back and looked up at Remus.

“Lily was one of us. And she gave Harry away”. The words tasted like ash in his mouth. “And Dumbledore… He doesn’t care about him, not really. He only cares about the weapon of prophecy. The way he keeps talking about ‘potential’ and ‘destiny’ and bloody sacrifices… we should’ve seen it. He’s always been more interested in what Harry could do than who Harry was”.

Remus exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “He never called off the search. Even when the leads dried up, he kept us going, kept us chasing ghosts… Even after all these years, he still hopes that we’ll find him, and that he can use him to defeat Voldemort once and for all… Not even Tom Riddle is that bad”.

Sirius huffed a somewhat broken laugh.

“... I don’t agree with the Death Eaters” he said after a moment, “Never have. But if this is what we’re fighting for? Lies and manipulations and throwing children into the fire? Then… Then I don’t think I’m on this side anymore either”.

There was a long silence between them, stretching like a wound that wouldn’t close.

“I’m tired, Moony” Sirius admitted, his voice raw, “So fucking tired. Of burying friends, of watching the world fall apart, of pretending this is still a war of right versus wrong. It’s not. Not anymore. Maybe it never was - maybe we were just too young and stupid to see that”.

Remus shifted in front of him, and when he spoke, it was soft. “So… what do we do?”

Sirius looked at him, and for the first time in what felt like years, there was a flicker of something real in his eyes. Purpose. 

“We stop fighting for sides” he said, “We stop fighting for people who don’t deserve it. Dumbledore doesn’t. Lily sure as hell doesn’t. But Voldemort never did either”.

“Then who?”

“Harry” he said, without hesitation. “Wherever he is. However he is. Even if he’s not the boy we thought he’d grow into, even if he doesn’t remember us or doesn’t want anything to do with us... We fight for him. Not for the cause. Not for the Order... For him”.

Remus swallowed hard, blinking back tears. “You really think he’s still alive?”

Sirius nodded once. “I don’t know how, but yeah, I do. I can feel it. He’s still alive, and he’s still out there, waiting”.

“So we find him”.

“We find him” he echoed, “And we protect him. No matter what... Even if it means turning against everything we thought we knew”.

There was another silence, but this one wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t the kind that came from grief. It was filled with something steadier. Something truer - resolve.

Remus stepped closer, pressing his forehead lightly against Sirius’s. “To hell with sides”.

Sirius grinned faintly, something tired but real cracking through the weariness. “To Harry”.

Saturday, 27th December

Slytherin Manor was quieter than Severus had expected.

The grounds were blanketed in snow, and the long path from the wrought-iron gate to the grand front doors had been cleared by magic, though the hedges on either side remained coated in thick frost. The house itself was imposing, ancient - all spires, steep gables, and dark stone. 

Severus didn’t know what shocked him more: that the Dark Lord had responded to his message at all, or that he had been invited here to meet him so soon.

He stepped through the towering doors into a grand foyer that smelled faintly of cedar. A house-elf appeared silently and gestured for him to follow. He was led to a study with high windows and shelves full of arcane tomes. The fire burned low, and the Dark Lord stood in front of it, back straight, hands clasped behind him, his presence as chilling as it was magnetic.

He bowed slightly. “My lord, thank you for seeing me on such short notice”.

The Dark Lord turned to face him and tilted his head, studying him. “You are not usually so bold, Severus. I thought it… prudent to hear what you have to say”.

“... Lily Potter told me the truth, my lord” he said, “About… About that night, all those years ago. She admitted that she gave Harry Potter to you willingly, in exchange for her own life”.

There was a pause.

“Did she, now?” the Dark Lord murmured, turning back toward the fire. “How… unlike her usual narrative”.

“She lied to me, my lord - lied to us all. We were under the mistaken assumption that she had been… incapacitated before you reached the child. That’s what she has led everyone to believe these past few years”.

“And what has that got to do with me , Severus?”

This would be the tricky part - but he knew it had to be done. He could only hope that he survived afterwards. Severus swallowed thickly and resisted the urge to reach for his wand just in case.

“When I asked you to spare her, my lord… I asked another to protect her as well” he admitted, “I went to Dumbledore and begged him to save her life. He agreed, on one condition - that I spy for him and the Order of the Phoenix and I… I accepted”.

The Dark Lord slowly turned back to him. “You’re admitting this to me freely?”

“Yes”.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve never truly betrayed you, my lord”.

He raised a solitary eyebrow, and Severus quickly continued.

“I gave the Order enough information to keep them invested in me - movement patterns, old bases, harmless truths. But never your plans. Never anything real. Dumbledore thinks I’m loyal to him - I kept it that way because I… I owed her. Or, at least, I thought I did… But now, I know the truth. I know what she did that night. And… I know what you did, too”.

“Oh?” The Dark Lord’s voice was soft. Dangerous. “And what did I do, exactly?”

“You gave the child to the Lestranges” Severus said, hardly daring to breathe, “They raised him as their own son, under another name - Haedus. I saw him at the Solstice gathering last week, but I didn’t understand what I had truly seen until recently. He has… He has her eyes. Lily’s eyes. I had never gotten close enough to him to realise it before now, but… now I know".

The Dark Lord didn’t react immediately. But there was a subtle shift in the room’s energy - a tightening, like a string pulled to the point of snapping.

“... Have you informed Dumbledore about this? Or anyone else, for that matter?”

“No, my lord” he replied immediately, bowing his head, “I am loyal to the Dark - to your cause. I would never disrupt your plans or betray you in such an egregious manner, I swear it!”

He moved slowly toward him, his eyes like twin blades of obsidian.

“... Good” he said at last, “Your suspicions are correct, of course. I did give the boy to the Lestranges”.

Severus drew in a breath. “May I ask why, my lord?”

“Because that boy is far more valuable than Dumbledore knows” he replied, his voice clipped and cool, “I knew what that old man would try to do with him. Groom him. Mould him. Sacrifice him to end me. I’ve seen it before - the archetype of the chosen child, the martyr. Dumbledore would have bled that boy dry in the name of the greater good... I refused to allow it”.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth behind him, casting shadows over his face.

“I did not kill the boy” he said quietly, “because power like his is rare - raw, unfocused, but brilliant. I wanted him raised with purpose, with strength. And the Lestranges, for all their volatility, have never once faltered in protecting him… The question now, of course, is what do you plan to do with this information?”

“Nothing!”

He gave him a look, and Severus swallowed hard before repeating in a more measured tone, “Nothing, my lord, I swear! I have yet to meet the boy personally, but… from what I have seen and heard, he is… loved. Well looked after. Cared for. I have never seen a child so cared for - it’s obvious that Bellatrix and Rodolphus consider him their own, and… telling Dumbledore would destroy that… I don’t want him to be returned to Lily Potter. Not after what she did, not after how easily she sacrificed him as a mere babe… They don’t deserve to have him”.

The Dark Lord studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Very well. I will forgive your… previous betrayal, Severus. But only under two conditions”.

“I will do anything, my lord”.

“One” he began, circling him now like a serpent assessing prey, “You will spy on the Order for me. This time, with full honesty. Report everything - no half-truths. If you lie, Severus, I will know”.

He nodded once, sharply.

“And two…” The Dark Lord paused in front of him. “You will take an Unbreakable Vow”.

“To what end, my lord?”

“To protect Haedus. To shield him from harm. To guide him should he need it. To never betray him, under any circumstances”.

Severus hesitated. “You… trust me to do that, my lord? Trust me with him?”

“No” he said simply, “Not yet. Which is why it will be a Vow... Do you accept these terms?”

The younger man slowly nodded. There was no other option, really - he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t know what this new and improved Dark Lord would do to him, should he refuse to take the Vow, but what he did know for certain was that he didn’t want to find out.

“Yes, my lord” he whispered, head bowed, “I accept”.

Chapter Text

Saturday, 17th January

Lestrange Manor sat draped in thick, silvered fog, the air sharp with frost and threaded through with the faint, ever-present hum of protective wards. In the drawing room, the fire crackled low in its hearth, casting soft amber light over richly upholstered furniture and shelves crammed full of books older than many countries.

Bellatrix sat regal and composed, but her fingers drummed against the arm of her chair in restless anticipation. Rodolphus stood behind her, tall and silent, eyes flicking toward the ornate grandfather clock in the corner just as the wards gave a low, resonant chime.

He was here.

The drawing room door opened as if of its own volition, and then the Dark Lord stepped through.

He looked, as always, perfectly composed - dressed in elegantly simple robes of dark grey that shimmered like polished obsidian, hair perfectly in place, expression cool but not unkind. Power rolled off him like a second skin, ancient and undeniable.

“My lord” Bellatrix and Rodolphus said in unison, rising to their feet and bowing.

Tom inclined his head. “You may sit, my friends. This is not a formal visit”.

Bellatrix blinked once, then slowly resumed her seat, eyes sharp with curiosity. Rodolphus stayed standing, ever the silent sentinel.

“I come bearing news” the Dark Lord began, “I have had Severus swear an Unbreakable Vow. He will protect Haedus now - at any cost”.

Rodolphus inhaled sharply, and Bellatrix’s eyebrows shot up. For all her devotion, even she had questioned Snape’s loyalty in the past, especially after their lord’s cryptic warning about him. But this…

“You did?” she asked, almost breathless.

“I did” Tom confirmed, “He is bound now, irrevocably. He cannot harm the boy, nor allow harm to come to him. Not even by inaction”.

She was silent for a long moment, then - she smiled. A slow, sharp, feral thing, full of pride and relief and something like amusement.

“That’s why you’ve graced us with your presence, my lord?” she asked.

His lips quirked. “Only in part… I’d like to speak with Haedus”.

Bellatrix stood at once. “Of course, my lord”.

She quickly called for a house-elf and told them to inform Haedus of the Dark Lord’s request. The house-elf vanished instantly with a crack, and just a few moments later, the sound of rapid footsteps echoed from down the hall, and Haedus appeared in the doorway, panting slightly, but beaming. 

“My lord!” he greeted, brushing a lock of black hair from his face, “You’re here!”

Such obvious, childish enthusiasm should have irritated him, right being right, but as Tom turned to face him, only something warm and unreadable flickered behind his dark eyes.

“I am” he said simply, “And I’ve brought you a gift, little speaker”.

“A- A gift? For me?!” he exclaimed, momentarily forgetting his manners in his surprise, “I- I was not expecting- That is to say, there was no need to- You didn’t have to-”

“Haedus” Rodolphus interrupted, quietly yet firmly, and the boy flushed before quickly stepping forward with a bowed head. 

“I am honoured, my lord. Truly”.

Tom merely smiled, faint but genuine, and extended a long-fingered hand to him. To Haedus’s shock and delight, resting in his palm was a small, coiled serpent.

She was beautiful!

Pitch-black, her scales gleamed like polished coal, interrupted only by a striking, chevron-shaped pattern of bright yellow running in a line from her hood down her spine. Her body was narrow - only about an inch or so wide - but elegant, and her head lifted lazily as he approached, tongue flickering out with curious precision.

Haedus stopped just shy of her, awe plain on his face.

“She’s a King Cobra” the Dark Lord said softly, “Born a month ago, on the Winter Solstice, deep in the Garhwal Himalayan mountains in northern India. She may be small now, but when fully grown, she’ll be three meters in length - perhaps even more… She yours, Haedus”.

His jaw dropped. “Mine? Really?!”

The snake turned her head, molten golden eyes locking onto his, and Tom knelt, just as he’d done that night in his study, bringing himself eye-level with the boy once more. 

“If you like her, then yes… She’s venomous, of course. Her bite can kill a man in fifteen minutes. Her magic is potent, and her loyalty, once earned, is absolute”.

The Dark Lord didn’t believe that the boy would ever need her venom, being more than powerful enough to kill a man even quicker himself, but it still… pleased Voldemort, knowing that the child now had a backup plan as well - especially since baby King Cobra’s produced just as much venom as adults. In addition, they were the smartest snake species on the planet, one of the fastest breeds in the world, and capable of both climbing and swimming, making her an even better ally for young Haedus to have.

The cobra slithered slowly across Tom’s hand, coiling around the boy’s outstretched arm as though she had chosen him just as much as he had chosen her. Haedus held perfectly still, clearly enraptured.

“She’s… She’s perfect” he breathed, then shifted into Parseltongue without even thinking, “Hello, gorgeousss”.

On the other side of the room, he was only distantly aware of his mother making a choked noise, barely covering her pride. The snake froze for just a moment - then lifted her head, tongue tasting the air.

“You sssmell like magic” she hissed, “Like him… but younger… sssmaller”.

Haedus grinned. “That’sss caussse I am younger, but ssstill! I’m growing too, you know!”

The snake blinked slowly, then nestled herself into the palm of his hand.

“I will protect you until you are big” she said, “Until you can hunt”.

“Maman sssaysss I’m not allowed to hunt anyone until I’m sssixteen” he replied with a pout, “But that’sss agesss away! What if you get bored with me before then?”

“You are a ssspeaker” she said simply, and that was that.

“Doesss ssshe have a name?” Haedus asked, looking back up at Tom with wide, earnest eyes.

The Dark Lord looked amused but shook his head. “Not yet. That isss your decisssion to make. SSShe is yoursss, now, to do with asss you pleassse”.

“SSShe’sss the bessst gift ever” he said seriously, “Thank you, my lord. I will take care of her forever!”

Tom gave him a small, genuine smile before standing back up, his hands clasped behind his back.

“She will grow with you” he replied, in English now, “She will guard you, strike for you. There is no better companion you could have”.

Bellatrix looked between them - her son and her lord - with a strange ache in her chest. Pride, yes, and awe. But also something deeper, more difficult to name. The Dark Lord had just given her son safety in the form of scales and venom and loyalty - an oath coiled in flesh.

She watched Haedus cradle the cobra like a sacred relic, already whispering to her in soft hisses, like secrets between kin. The boy had always been unusual, always been sharp in ways that unnerved even seasoned Death Eaters. He had magic like wildfire, wit like broken glass, and a tenderness that refused to die no matter how much blood was spilt around him.

Behind her, Rodolphus moved for the first time in many minutes, adjusting his stance subtly, though his eyes remained on the pair in front of them. There was a flicker of oddness in his expression - not awe, exactly, but something close to reverence. As though witnessing something both divine and quietly unsettling. Bellatrix could all too easily relate.

“I have my own snake now” Haedus said brightly, beaming at his parents, “Did you hear that, Maman? Our lord has given me my own Nagini!”

“I heard, mon étoile” Bellatrix said, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of too many emotions, “She suits you”.

Haedus’s grin widened - if such a thing was even possible - and he turned back to the cobra, happily chatting away in that ancient, sibilant language. The Dark Lord took a step back, closer to his war generals as they all watched the boy’s contagious joy.

“You’ve raised him well” Tom murmured to them. It wasn’t a compliment. Not really. It was… an acknowledgement. A mark of significance. A mark of respect.

Bellatrix bowed her head, swallowing the uncharacteristic lump in her throat. “Thank you, my lord”.

He turned back to Haedus. “You must begin training with her immediately. She is young, yes - but intelligent. King Cobras are fiercely protective, and they respond to structure. She will not need a wand or a spell to kill, little speaker. Only your will”.

“I understand” Haedus said solemnly, standing a bit straighter as the snake coiled up his arm and settled herself around his neck, like a living mantle, “I won’t let her - or you - down, my lord”.

Tom’s gaze softened just slightly. “… I know”.

He paused then, taking one long, last look at the boy - at the quiet strength he radiated, the odd blend of innocence and danger. He would go far, he knew. The Dark Lord had never regretted saving him from his unjust fate all those years before, and that lack of regret only grew with every passing year. He was even, dare he admit it, excited to see what Haedus would achieve next. 

Tom’s gaze lingered on the boy for a final moment, that rare flicker of something like affection - or perhaps simply possession - curling in his eyes. He gave a single nod to both Bellatrix and Rodolphus and offered Haedus a small smile - sharp, regal, and dangerous.  

Then, with the rustle of his robes and the echo of footsteps softened by centuries-old rugs, he turned and swept from the room. The wards rippled with magic as he passed, singing low and resonant like a great bell struck at a distance. The door closed itself behind him with a soft click - not loud, but final.  

For a moment, the drawing room was completely still. The fire snapped and hissed, the only sound in a space that now felt impossibly quiet in the absence of the Dark Lord.

Haedus stood near the hearth, bathed in firelight, the cobra coiled comfortably across his shoulders and around his neck like she belonged there. Her tongue flicked lazily toward the air, golden eyes alert but content.  

Bellatrix took a step forward, unable to help herself. Her hands reached up, gently brushing a stray curl from her son's face - his hair the exact same shade of lustrous black as the snake he now owned. Her touch lingered a moment longer than necessary, and he glanced up, giving her a curious look with those death-coloured eyes.

They had paid a truly ridiculous amount of money for a sight-correcting potion for those eyes a few years ago. Rodolphus didn’t ever want his son to be reliant on a pair of glasses that could so easily be taken from him or broken in the middle of a duel. Wearing glasses also had the added side effect of making Haedus look far too similar to James Potter than anyone wanted - and besides, Bellatrix didn’t want anything to obstruct that beautiful shade of Avada Kedavra green anyway.

Haedus made a questioning sound, and she smiled at him, her heart filled with as much hope as it was fear. 

“You are going to change the world someday, mon étoile” she whispered.

He looked back at her, eyes wide, voice soft. “I sure hope so, Maman”.

Tuesday, 20th January

The Lestrange library, like the rest of the manor, was grand in a way that quietly declared its age and power. The high, vaulted ceilings arched above endless shelves of rare books, scrolls, and grimoires. Soft, enchanted light pooled in golden halos over each reading table, and the fire crackled softly in the hearth, lending warmth to the stone walls and velvet-lined chairs.  

Haedus could usually be found there, head buried in a book, outside of his lessons and playdates with his cousin. Today was no different - except, perhaps, for the two-foot-long King Cobra that could now always be found at his side.

It was early afternoon, and the library was quiet but for the occasional rustle of pages turning and the faint hiss of Parseltongue. Haedus lay on his stomach on a thick rug near the fire, surrounded by an ever-growing fortress of open books. Titles like Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Ophidian Magic: A Compendium of Venomous Kin, and Growth and Developmental Cycles of Rare Magical Reptilia were stacked haphazardly around him. His new snake was stretched out beside him, sleek black coils glinting softly in the firelight, her head resting near his elbow as she listened.

He pointed to a diagram in one of the open tomes - a lifelike illustration of a full-grown King Cobra, majestic and menacing, its hood flared in warning.

“Thisss isss what you’ll look like when you’re all grown up” Haedus said excitedly, tracing the length of the painted snake with his fingertip, “At leassst three metersss long. That’sss nearly three timesss asss tall asss me!”

Her tongue flicked out, tasting the air. “I will be big enough to ssswallow the dangerousss onesss whole”.  

Haedus giggled, the sound warm and delighted. “But only if I tell you to! You might get sssick otherwissse... This paragraph sssaysss that the longessst King Cobra the mugglesss ever found wasss over sssix metersss”. He gave her a considering look. “I don’t think you’ll ever get that big, but you’ll definitely be sssmarter than all the other sssnakesss”.  

He flipped the page, revealing close-ups of the shedding process in progress. Layers of old skin peeled away, leaving behind glossy new scales, sharper fangs, and clearer eyes.

“You’ll ssshed every month until you’re three” he explained, tapping the page, “but only four or five timesss a year after that. Your eyesss will go cloudy, and you’ll feel itchy until you find sssomething rough to rub againssst. The peeling might hurt a bit, but once it’sss done, you’ll have new everything - fangsss, teeth, even the tip of your tongue!”

She flicked her tongue again, this time toward his hand. “When is your ssshed time?”

“Humansss don’t change the way sssnakesss do. We ssshed our ssskin in tiny amountsss all the time ssso we don’t have to do it all at once like you” he explained, skimming the page before suddenly frowning, “Thisss book alssso sssaysss that your pattern will change, too. You’ll lossse your yellow chevronsss - the triangle ssstripesss down your back. By the time you’re five or sssix, you’ll be completely black - like my hair!”

He grinned and reached out to gently stroke the back of her hood. She didn’t flinch or pull away.

“I’ve alssso been reading all the conssstellation booksss Maman keepsss over there” he continued, nodding towards the bookcase nearest the door, “It’sss where they found my name, you know, ssso I thought I might be able to find your name in there too”.

She shifted slightly, raising her head to regard him with molten-gold eyes. “You have name for me?”

He nodded, grinning. “Yeah! But only if you like it, of courssse. I think I’ve found one that fitsss you perfectly. A ssstar name like mine. It’sss Ashlesha , but I can call you Asha for ssshort! It’sss a prominent sssign in the Hindu lunar sssyssstem, named after a coiled ssserpent. People born under the Ashlesha Nakshatra are sssaid to be cunning, intelligent, and clever. They navigate difficult sssituationsss like winding riversss - like sssnakes”.

The snake slowly tilted her head, looking back at him thoughtfully.

“It isss a good name” she said at last, “I accept it”.

Haedus beamed. “Asha, it isss! The Dark Lord sssaid you were born on December twenty-firssst - that’sss the Winter SSSolssstice for usss. A powerful day for darknessssss and ssshadow and rebirth, and it fell under the sssign of Ashlesha Nakshatra thisss year too! It’sss alssso the day the Dark Lord firssst ssspoke to me ssso I think it’sss fitting”.

Asha coiled herself tighter, her body curling closer to his side, and Haedus grinned, reaching out to pet her again before turning to the next book in the pile.

And there they remained - boy and serpent - tucked among ancient knowledge and soft firelight. The library, always his sanctuary, had become something more now. A temple, perhaps. Or a nest. A place of whispers, of slow, sacred growth, and of new beginnings.

Saturday, 24th January

A week after the Dark Lord gave him his very own snake, Haedus had another visitor in the very awkward-looking form of Severus Snape.

The man had, admittedly, been expecting the invitation for quite some time now - he knew that the Lestrange’s would’ve been informed of the Vow he’d taken regarding their son. And yet, despite being entirely unsurprised by the owl that had arrived that morning with a stark-black envelope bearing the Lestrange crest, he found himself feeling distinctly unprepared.

The snow fell soft and thick outside Lestrange Manor, blanketing the grounds in a hush of white that made the world feel distant and still - like it was holding its breath. The iron gates hadn’t so much creaked as they had groaned when he'd passed through, and the ancient trees lining the path had bowed beneath the weight of winter, bare limbs like skeletal fingers reaching down from a frozen sky.

Inside, however, the warmth of the drawing room crackled with tension - not loud, not aggressive, but the sort that settled deep in your chest and made you feel like something important was just about to happen.

Severus stood just inside the doorway, stiff and uncertain, dressed in his usual layered black with a charcoal cloak still dusted with snow. His hands were clasped behind his back, expression unreadable but eyes wary, flicking between Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and the small figure curled up on an armchair near the fire, nose buried in a book far too thick for someone his age to be reading.

“He’s been looking forward to this” Bellatrix said quietly, smiling faintly, almost indulgently, “Don’t let him intimidate you”.

Severus gave her a dry look. “He’s seven”.

Rodolphus snorted under his breath. “He’s half-Black, half-Lestrange, and the only child that the Dark Lord can tolerate… Good luck”.

The boy looked up then, as if sensing the shift in energy. He closed the book with a soft thump and tilted his head to the side - not in the mindless curiosity of children, but in sharp, deliberate assessment. Then, with the languid grace of something born to rule rooms far larger than this one, he slid off the armchair and padded forward.

Only then did Severus notice the black-and-yellow snake coiled around the boy’s neck like a silken scarf, its tongue flicking out to taste the air as it surveyed him with equal suspicion.

“Are you Professor Snape?” Haedus asked him, voice bright with curiosity.

He blinked. “Yes, I am”.

The boy stepped forward, eyes gleaming that same impossible shade of green, so familiar, so uncanny, so haunting, that twisted something deep in Severus’s chest. 

“I’ve been wanting to meet you for ages! I’m Haedus”.

“I know” he replied, and then gave a short, formal bow of his head, “It’s… a pleasure”.

The snake flicked her tongue out again and narrowed her eyes at him. Severus’s brows lifted slightly.

“She’s just protective” Haedus said, as if that explained everything - which, in a way, it did, “She doesn’t like strangers, but don’t worry, she’ll only bite you if I tell her to!”

“Charming ” he murmured, unsure whether he meant the boy or the snake. Possibly both.

“Do you want to sit?” Haedus asked, motioning toward an armchair with all the confidence of a tiny ambassador hosting a tea party for dignitaries.

Severus hesitated, then moved to the chair in slow, measured steps. He lowered himself carefully, his cloak pooling around him like black ink.

There was a beat of silence. The fire cracked again.

Haedus studied him. Not in the way children usually stared, but with the unnerving focus of someone already too aware of how much the world notices - and judges - him in turn. Severus bore it with his usual stoicism, though he couldn’t quite suppress the faint itch of being seen. The intensity of the boy’s gaze was… unsettling, to say the least. It reminded him a bit too much of a younger version of himself. 

“Why haven’t you visited before?” Haedus asked abruptly.

Severus blinked. “Pardon?”

“You visit Draco all the time” he continued, not quite whining but clearly bothered by it, “He says you’re his godfather, but my godfather visits him all the time too, but you’ve never come here to see me before... So why not?”

There was a moment’s pause - the kind that stretched, fragile and tense, like glass waiting to crack. Severus looked past him, toward where Bellatrix and Rodolphus still stood, a silent question flickering in his dark eyes. Rodolphus met his gaze, unblinking. Then he gave a slow, deliberate nod.

“We’ve never lied to him” he said simply, “He knows who he is. And where he came from”.

Severus inhaled slowly. His fingers flexed in his lap, then stilled.

“I didn’t know who you really were” he said finally, turning back to the boy, “Not until very recently. I was… lied to”.

Haedus leaned forward, visibly intrigued. “By who?”

“By Lily Potter”.

“... Oh”. The boy tilted his head again. Something in his face shifted - not exactly sympathy, but… understanding. “She told you she hadn’t given me away, then?”

“Yes. She told me that the Dark Lord took you by force. That she had been Stunned trying to protect you and, despite her best efforts, you were kidnapped and most likely killed”.

“And you believed her?”

“I did” Severus admitted, “I wanted to believe her. We had been friends as children - much like how you and Draco are friends now. I thought… I thought I owed her something”.

Haedus was quiet for a moment, watching him. His expression was impossible to read - like he was parsing not just the words but the weight behind them. 

“But you don’t think that anymore?”

“No”. His voice was low and bitter. “I don’t. She wasn’t the person I thought she was… and she doesn’t deserve my loyalty anymore”.

There was another long pause. The snake - some sort of cobra, Severus thought, based on her semi-flared hood - tightened her coiled body briefly around the boy’s neck as if to keep him tethered. Haedus reached up and idly stroked her smooth scales as she shifted, and after another moment, he took a deep breath and then visibly relaxed.

The snake let out a low, contented hiss, coiling more snugly around the boy’s neck - but Severus barely noticed. He was watching Haedus. Properly watching him now, because for the first time since arriving, he felt it - not just the weight of the conversation or the haunting resemblance to another pair of green eyes, but the pressure in the air around the boy that had tripled during his brief moment of intense emotion. 

It wasn’t magic, not exactly - not the kind that flared during duels or pulsed through enchantments. No, this was something older. Something quieter. It shimmered in the edges of Haedus’s movements, in the way the flames in the hearth bent ever so slightly in his direction.

Merlin.

It was no wonder the Dark Lord tolerated him. Protected him, even. The boy radiated potential like a live wire, power woven so tightly into his presence it was hard to tell where the magic ended and the child began.

Severus’s breath came a touch slower now, his posture just a little more guarded - not because he feared the boy, exactly, but because he now understood. He understood why those who didn’t know what they were looking at might mistake it for precociousness or strangeness or arrogance, understood why, whenever the boy had come up in conversation before, many had labelled him as strange, odd, or uncanny.

They were wrong.

This wasn’t just a clever child. This was a storm waiting to happen.

And the Dark Lord clearly knew it, too.

Haedus tilted his head again, not missing the change in Severus’s demeanour. “You’re looking at me differently”.

“I am” he admitted, before he could stop himself.

“Why?”

There was a beat. Severus wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. Not honestly, not without sounding like he was teetering into reverence - or fear. Instead, he studied the boy a moment longer, then carefully replied, “You’re not what I expected”.

“Yeah, I get that a lot” he said with an uncaring shrug, “But what did you expect?”

Severus almost smirked. “A seven-year-old”.

Haedus flashed him a cheeky grin. “But I am seven!”

“Legally, perhaps”.

The boy laughed, bright and free, so incredibly real and here and alive and Severus… understood.

This boy wasn’t dangerous because he was cruel or volatile. He wasn’t dangerous because of his heritage or his name or even his undoubtedly venomous snake. He was dangerous because he understood too much, too easily, too soon.

And because power like that - unshaped, unbound, adored by one of the most dangerous wizards in living memory - was exactly the sort of thing that could shift the world off its axis if it wasn’t tempered - or even worse… if it was.

The snake’s golden eyes flickered up at Severus again, almost knowing, and Haedus reached up to pet her once more as his laughter died down.

“I’m glad you came” he said softly, “I like you. You’re… quiet. But not like the scary quiet. You’re like the… the ‘I know things’ quiet. Like the Dark Lord”.

Severus blinked, genuinely caught off guard for the first time in recent memory. 

“... That may be the most flattering thing anyone has ever said to me”.

Haedus positively beamed. “Great! I also like how you don’t talk to me like I’m a baby”.

“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to” he replied dryly, eyeing him, “Do people often speak to you as though you’re an infant?”

Haedus shrugged, nose wrinkling. “Sometimes. They either think I’m strange or treat me like I’m an idiot, but Maman says that’s what happens when people are afraid of something they don’t understand”.

Severus’s lips twitched. He didn’t smile - not quite - but something softened in his features. “Your mother is not wrong”.

Haedus grinned. “She usually isn’t… Do you want to see my potions set? Papa says I’m not allowed to use it unsupervised, but Maman says you’re really good at potions and I’ve already successfully brewed an Antidote to Common Poisons, and it didn’t even almost explode once!”

Severus looked at the boy for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he nodded. “I... would be honoured”.

Haedus lit up like a Lumos Maxima and then leapt up and dashed off down the hall, the snake holding on with ease as though used to such abrupt motions. Severus watched him go, a strange warmth uncoiling slowly in his chest. Something unfamiliar. Something dangerous. 

“He’s remarkable” he said quietly, almost to himself, a rare gentleness etching itself into the hard lines of his face.

Bellatrix’s voice was softer than usual, warmer. “He’s ours”.

Severus nodded once. Then he rose, brushing off the last flecks of snow from his cloak, and followed Haedus down the corridor.

Though he would never say it aloud - not in that room, not even to himself - he already knew he’d be coming back. Again. And again. Because sometimes, you didn’t get to choose the people you had to protect, but sometimes… you found them worthy of your protection, regardless.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 24th July

The letter arrived just after breakfast, in the talons of a glossy brown owl with white-flecked wings and far too much dramatic flair. Haedus was already at the window before it landed.

“It’s here!” he shouted, practically vibrating with anticipation as he untied the thick envelope. Asha, coiled across the back of a nearby chair, lifted her head and gave a sleepy hiss.

Bellatrix didn’t need to ask. The moment he turned around, parchment clutched like a holy relic, she saw the Hogwarts crest shining in scarlet and gold.

“Well?” Rodolphus asked, even though he clearly already knew.

“I GOT IN!” Haedus beamed, triumph blazing in his eyes like green fire, “I mean, of course I got in - but still! Draco is going to lose his mind! We’ve been planning this for months - our dorm setup, who gets the bed closest to the window, how we’re going to win the House Cup-”

His mother and father exchanged a look. A long, unreadable one. He caught it.

“… What is it?”

Bellatrix gestured for him to sit. “We need to talk to you about something”.

“About Hogwarts?” Haedus asked, reluctantly sitting back down across from them, still cradling the letter to his chest. Asha slithered closer, more awake now, and coiled neatly around the arm of his chair. Her head tilted toward the Lestranges, eyes narrowing.

Rodolphus exhaled. “Yes. We’re… not sure Hogwarts is the best place for you right now”.

The silence cracked like glass.

“What?” Haedus blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Bellatrix’s tone was gentle. “Dumbledore is still the Headmaster, mon étoile, and you know that he would never protect someone like you. He never protected us when we were students, but for you, given who you are, who your parents are... You won’t have us there to keep you safe, Haedus”.

“But I want to go!” he said, his ten-year-old frustration bubbling fast, quicksilver-hot, “It’s Hogwarts! That’s where everyone goes! You went. Papa went. The Dark Lord went! All my friends are going - Draco is going!”

“Haedus” Rodolphus said quietly, “You’re not like other children”.

“I know that!” he snapped, eyes flashing, “I’ve always known that! But I still want to go! I deserve to go!”

Bellatrix leaned forward, brushing his hand. “It’s not about what you deserve, mon étoile. It’s about what’s safe. And right now-”

“I’m not scared of Dumbledore!” he shouted, standing up so fast his chair scraped the floor, “He’s just a manipulative old man who hasn’t been able to cause trouble for us for years now! And I don’t need you to protect me! I have Asha! And Severus will be there! And I can protect myself! I’m powerful; you know I am!”

“You are” Rodolphus said, firmly, “Which is exactly why we don’t want to put you in a castle full of people who would kill to use that power for themselves!”

Haedus’s breath came fast, shallow. His hands curled into fists.

“This isn’t fair!” he snapped, “You’ve always said I should choose my own path! That I’m free to do whatever I want!”

“And you are” Bellatrix said softly, “But freedom doesn’t always mean doing whatever you want, Haedus. Sometimes it means surviving long enough to make the right kind of choices”.

It was too much. It was all too much. Haedus turned, heart pounding, and scooped up Asha into his arms before stalking from the room. He stormed into his bedroom, slammed the door behind him, and dropped to the floor beside the bed. 

Asha slithered up around his shoulders, cool scales a balm against the heat of his fury. She was three years old now, and almost eight feet in length, but she’d retained her skinniness, so Haedus was still thankfully able to carry her weight.

“They don’t trussst me” he hissed.

“They do” Asha whispered back, “You are theirsss. They fear what othersss will do, not what you will not do”.

“It’sss the sssame thing!”

“It isss not”. Her head rested beneath his chin. “You are ssstill young. SSStill sssmall. They do not know how sssharp your fangsss already are”.

He pressed his face to his knees and groaned loudly. He knew she was right, knew that his parents wanted nothing but the best for him - but that didn’t mean he liked their decisions.

“I hate thisss!”

Thursday, 25th July

Haedus had barely dressed the following morning when a soft knock echoed from the door.

“Downstairs” his father said simply.

Still simmering with hurt, Haedus dragged himself down the stairs with reluctant steps. But the moment he entered the drawing room-

He stopped.

The world tilted.

Standing by the fireplace, black-robed yet brighter than any flame, was the Dark Lord.

The man turned as he entered, and smiled - that rare, razor-edged smile that always made Haedus feel both terribly powerful and terribly seen.

“My lord” he breathed, eyes going wide, “You’re here”.

Tom chuckled, low and pleased. “I am. It seems you’ve had… exciting news?”

Haedus nodded quickly, hope blooming like wildfire. “My Hogwarts letter. I got in! But Maman and Papa said I shouldn’t go. They said it’s too dangerous for me ‘cause of Dumbledore”.

Tom looked toward the Lestranges, slow and deliberate, but neither of them flinched.

“We’re worried, my lord” Bellatrix explained, “Dumbledore is still Headmaster. If Haedus goes - alone - he’ll be exposed. Vulnerable”.

The Dark Lord was quiet for a moment, his eyes narrowed slightly, before-

“I disagree”.

Everyone blinked, surprised, but Tom was already turning his dark gaze back to Haedus.

“You are not a child to be hidden, little speaker. You are a force to be reckoned with. And Hogwarts is as good a place as any to begin gathering those who already know it”.

Haedus’s heart soared. “You really think I should go?”

“I think” he began slowly, “that if anyone can walk through fire and teach it to bow, it is you. And you won’t be alone. Asha will remain with you, and you’ll have more allies in Hogwarts than you might expect. Your name is not unknown. And even those who do not admire it now… well. I’m sure, in time, you will teach them the error of their ways”.

Rodolphus looked between them, clearly still unsure. “We… We didn’t think you’d want him so exposed, my lord. The dangers that Hogwarts poses…”

“You’re not wrong” Tom admitted, “But he will be exposed to danger sooner or later, regardless - better it be on our terms… I believe that he is ready”.

A long silence followed. Then Bellatrix stepped forward and knelt before her son, taking hold of his hands and staring into his very soul with a terrified gaze.

“Promise me you will be careful”.

“I promise” Haedus whispered, eyes shining.

“And promise me that you will write?”

“Every single day, if I can, Maman”.

“And you will go to Severus if Albus bloody Dumbledore so much as glances at you wrong?!”

“I will, I promise!” he insisted, hope flaring back to life in his chest, “I have Asha and Draco and Theo and Blaise and- and everyone else in Slytherin already knows who I am and a few Ravenclaws too so- so I’ll be fine!” 

Tom watched the boy - this fierce, burning child with his too-bright eyes and untamed, unrelenting will - and felt something twist low in his chest. Not quite pain. Not quite pride. But something close to both.

Haedus was vibrating with energy, still clutching Bellatrix’s hands like an oath made real, and Tom could feel the power radiating off of him like heat from a wildfire. It had always been there, from the moment he’d first looked into those green eyes and seen a reflection - no, a remnant - of himself staring back.

There was so much of him in this boy. The ambition, the brilliance, the strange, magnetic gravity that made others follow without quite knowing why. But there was softness too. A dangerous softness. The kind Tom had carved out of himself long ago.

And Salazar save him, it was that softness he couldn’t help indulging.

“I’ll be safe, Maman, I promise!” Haedus insisted, chest puffed up, glowing with pride and excitement.

Tom’s lips curled into a rare smile - not the cruel, calculated sort he used with others, but something quieter. Something real.

He remembered standing in this exact drawing room almost ten years before, watching Bellatrix cradle a baby against her chest like he was the most precious thing in the world. He hadn’t expected to care. Hadn’t expected the boy to matter - but year after year, Haedus had kept proving him wrong. Year after year, the boy made it impossible to look away.

“You will do more than keep yourself safe” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the air like velvet-draped steel, “You will thrive”.

Haedus looked up at him, eyes wide. Reverent. The Dark Lord rarely allowed himself sentiment, but when Haedus looked at him like that - with awe and affection, yes, but also with understanding - he almost believed it was worth the risk.

“You are not like the others, little speaker” he continued, taking a step forward, “Not even among those who call you friend. You walk among them, but you are not one of them. Remember that. You don’t need to belong to be respected”.

Haedus tilted his head, snake-like. Curious. “But… I want to belong too”.

There it was again - that humanity, that softness clinging to him like stardust. Tom’s jaw tensed, but he forced his tone to remain even. 

“You may find something like belonging, yes, but never forget who you are. That is what gives you strength. Not their acceptance”.

A pause.

Haedus’s voice was barely a whisper. “Is that what you found, my lord? When you were there?”

The room stilled.

Tom stared at him, caught off guard by the question - by the innocence of it. Bellatrix glanced up sharply, eyes wide, but he held up a hand to keep her silent. No one else would’ve dared ask. Not Lucius. Not Severus. Not even Bellatrix, for all her devotion. But Haedus… Haedus was different. 

The boy was, perhaps, the only person in the world who could get away with so much with him. The Dark Lord had saved him as a mere babe for a reason - he had the power, the potential, to be as great as him someday, and didn’t that make him someone worth listening to, despite his age? Tom knew that he indulged the boy far more than he should, but he couldn’t help it - Haedus reminded him of himself at that age, and hadn’t he always desperately wished that someone had listened to him?

“… I found power” he finally replied, “And knowledge. I found the tools I needed to reshape the world”.

I found a home, he silently added, a small, tiny, infinitesimal part of him, hoping that this strange, powerful boy in front of him would find a home in Hogwarts too, despite already having one.

Bellatrix rose to her feet and moved to stand beside her son, and Rodolphus followed suit. Both of them looked solemn now, tense, but the fight had left their posture. They’d made their decision.

“If you believe it’s the right path, my lord” Bellatrix said, voice barely audible, “then he will go”.

Haedus turned toward her, stunned. “Really?!”

Rodolphus gave a small nod. “We’ll prepare everything, mon soleil. You’ll go on the train with Draco, just like you planned”.

Haedus made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob and threw himself at both of them in a whirlwind of silk and curls and joy.

Tom turned his head away slightly as they embraced - not out of distaste, but something almost like reverence. He had never had this, not even the ghost of it. And perhaps that was why he’d always been drawn to Haedus. Why he kept testing the boy’s strength like the edge of a blade - because Haedus had love and power. Light and darkness. Fire and ice.

And unlike himself, he hadn’t had to sacrifice one to possess the other.

Haedus turned toward him again, cheeks flushed pink and green eyes ablaze.

“I’ll make you proud, my lord” he vowed, voice shaking with conviction, “You’ll see. I’ll be the best wizard Hogwarts has ever had!”

Tom allowed himself one last indulgence: stepping forward and brushing his fingers across the scar on the boy’s forehead in something not quite a blessing, not quite a benediction.

“You already are” he murmured.

And in that moment, the boy smiled at him like the sun rising behind storm clouds, and Tom found himself having to turn away before he let the weight of it show.

Saturday, 27th July

They decided to go buy his school things that Saturday in order to avoid the August crowds that were undoubtedly due to come.

Diagon Alley always felt a bit like stepping into a dream. Haedus had been a few times before, of course - mostly under a heavy Disillusionment charm and even heavier supervision - but this time was different.

This time, he was going as himself.

His name was on the Hogwarts registry. His wand would soon be in his hand. He’d be picking out his own robes and cauldron and textbooks instead of watching others do it for him.

And best of all?

Draco was coming with him.

“I told you we'd get in” the blond announced smugly the moment they Floo-ed to Malfoy Manor and stepped out into an opulent, black-marble drawing room, “Not that there was ever any doubt, of course”.

Haedus grinned and bumped his shoulder against his cousin’s. “You still cried when you got your letter”.

“Did not!”

“You tripped running down the stairs to show it to me”.

“I had slippery socks! Shut up! The point is, we’re both going now so you can just-”

“Tatie Cissa!” Haedus interrupted, catching sight of her entering the room, “You look like a queen”.

Narcissa approached him - all blue silk and cool elegance - and raised a perfectly sculpted brow. 

“You are not wrong” she said smoothly, but her smile softened as she opened her arms, and Haedus darted into them without hesitation.

“Oh, my darling boy” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his curls, “I hear you won the great debate”.

He peeked up at her, smug. “The Dark Lord agreed with me”.

“Well then” she said, brushing invisible lint from his collar, “Who could possibly argue with that?”

Bellatrix arrived through the Floo a heartbeat later, swirling with long robes and elegantly styled hair, looking somehow both lethal and impossibly proud. Rodolphus followed a step behind her, his expression unreadable save for the faint crease between his brows - the one he always got when he was planning seventeen different ways to murder someone who might even look at his son the wrong way.

Together, the group apparated to Diagon Alley.

Haedus drank in the golden light and bustle of early morning magic like it was lifeblood. Every brick and banner shimmered with the kind of possibility he’d only ever read about. The cobbled streets were crowded but not oppressive, the shops all open and humming with magic and excitement. The scent of new parchment, dragonhide, and sugar-dusted pastries lingered in the air.

And this time, nobody looked at him twice. No mask. No Disillusionment charms. No evasive glances from strangers. Just him - dressed in dark grey robes stitched with serpent-green thread, Asha draped lazily around his shoulders like a living stole, her tongue flicking idly at passing scents.

They started with robes, naturally - Madam Malkin’s was bustling with new students and fussy parents. Narcissa dealt with the clerk like she was handling a minor ambassadorial affair, while Bellatrix took up post at the back of the shop like a jaguar in silk, eyes scanning every corner.

Draco kept elbowing Haedus every time he saw a “future rival” walk in.

“That Hufflepuff girl tripped on the carpet - poor balance. She’ll be useless in duels”.

“She has a baby crup in her bag” Haedus pointed out, amused.

“Even worse! She’s too sentimental”.

Next came Flourish and Blotts, which was heaven! Haedus and Draco immediately disappeared into the section on advanced curses and magical theory, despite the fact that neither of them was meant to have those books yet. Bellatrix found them twenty minutes later arguing over which book had the best section on the Dark Arts, and happily offered to buy them both.

“This way, you’ll have twice the ammunition if someone’s foolish enough to test you” she said fondly, eyes gleaming.

They stopped by the apothecary - where Asha flicked her tongue in the direction of powdered fire beetles and gave an enthusiastic hiss - then Eeylops, where they got into a passionate debate about whether Draco’s owl should be dignified or terrifying.

And then finally, as they saw Ollivanders appear in the distance, Haedus grew still. Not because he was nervous. No, not quite, but he felt… expectant. Like something irrevocable was about to happen, like his entire world was about to shift.

Rodolphus put a calming hand on his shoulder and glanced down at him. “Ready?”

He nodded once. “Ready”.

As they approached the store, the cobblestone path narrowed, and the windows of the crooked little shop stared blankly back at them like milky eyes. Haedus slowed, feeling something prickle beneath his skin, but he forced himself to forge on. 

The bell chimed softly as they stepped inside, one after another. Bellatrix swept in last, the door thudding shut behind her like a punctuation mark. Draco lingered near the threshold, lips pursed with curiosity and just a trace of boredom.

The shop was dim and narrow and smelled of varnish, wax, and something stranger - old magic, heavy as velvet. The light here was strange - soft, and dusty. Wands lined every wall, stacked in boxes that stretched higher than even his Papa could reach. The air was thick with wood, wax, and something older. Magic, pure and sharp, like the first breath after lightning.

Asha tightened slightly around Haedus’s shoulders, tongue flicking.

“I don’t like this place” his Maman muttered, eyes sweeping the shadows, “It smells like a graveyard”.

“Show some decorum, Bella” Narcissa murmured, “This place is history”.

“Creepy history” Draco added under his breath.

“Ah…” came a voice, thin and tremulous as a spider's thread. “Mr Lestrange”.

Haedus turned. The wandmaker had appeared like a ghost behind the counter, pale as chalk, with wide, silvery eyes that gleamed like the moon.

“I’ve been expecting you”.

Haedus tilted his head. “You have?”

“Oh yes” Ollivander said, gaze flickering, “You and I were always going to meet. I’ve wondered, more than once, what sort of wand might choose you”.

He turned his gaze to the group behind Haedus, nodding politely. “Mrs Malfoy, Mr Malfoy, Mr Lestrange, and… Mrs Lestrange”.

Bellatrix smiled just a little too widely. “Hello, Ollie”.

Ollivander’s left eye twitched, and Haedus had to fight back a grin at his Maman’s usual effect on people. The old man cleared his throat and quickly began bustling about the shelves with a kind of jerky grace, muttering lengths and woods and cores to himself. A box appeared in front of Haedus without fanfare.

“Let us begin”.

The first wand was beech, eleven and three-quarters inches, with a unicorn hair core. It sparked at his touch, but fizzled the moment he gave it a flick.

“No, no” Ollivander murmured, “It’s too gentle and you are… not”.

Several more followed - an ash wand that quivered nervously in his grip, a blackthorn that hissed once and then audibly cracked, causing Draco to flinch back in shock. A wand of birch actually sparked backwards, launching itself from Haedus’s fingers and knocking over a stack of boxes. 

Bellatrix clapped her hands, looking absolutely delighted. “Now that’s more like it!”

To Haedus’s surprise, Ollivander looked almost giddy too.

“Oh yes” he whispered, “this is going to be very interesting, indeed”.

Haedus sighed and crossed his arms. “Do your customers usually have this much trouble?”

“Only the promising ones” he said, now rummaging deeper, far into the shelves behind the counter, “But you are rather… unique. I felt it when you walked in. There’s something… more to you, Mr Lestrange. In fact, I wonder if… yes… yes, why not? Perhaps…”

He paused. Then slowly, reverently, he pulled a box from the shadows. The moment he laid it on the counter, the air shifted.

Thicker. Heavier. Like thunder in a sealed room. 

Haedus felt Asha tense - not in fear, but in anticipation. Her head rose, watching intently.

“This wand is holly” Ollivander said quietly, “Eleven inches with a… a phoenix feather core”.

Rodolphus inhaled quietly at the word phoenix. Narcissa’s expression shifted, just slightly. Even his Maman’s eyes widened, and although Haedus didn’t quite know why, there was something about the way Ollivander said phoenix feather that sent a thrill down his spine, too. He reached out and closed his fingers around the wand.

There was a jolt.

A flash of heat.

And then - crack.

The wand split clean down the centre in his hand.

A hush fell around the room as a single golden-red feather floated, whole, unburned, out of the broken wood and landed softly in his hands with a faint glow. 

Ollivander paled further, if that was even possible.

“Well” he breathed, “This has… never happened before”.

“Did he break it?!” Draco blurted, getting a reprimanding look from his mother in response.

“No” Ollivander murmured, stepping closer, his tone laced with wonder, “No, he didn’t break it. The phoenix feather chose him... but the wood did not... It rejected itself”.

He stared at Haedus like he was a puzzle with a missing piece - or an answer to a riddle not yet understood. Then he turned sharply and vanished into the back of the shop.

The family stood in silence for a moment.

“Did you see that?” Draco hissed, eyes glittering. “It split itself!”

“A wand rejecting its own form” Narcissa said slowly, “Not even the Dark Lord…”

“His didn’t need to” Rodolphus interrupted, “His wand had already been made. This is… something else”.

Haedus stared down at the warm feather in his hand. The wand had rejected itself. And yet… from between the shards, a single golden-red feather had unfurled, safe and untouched. Magic thrummed through his fingers, through his arms, through his chest. It felt… It felt like coming home.

Asha hissed curiously, but several minutes passed before Ollivander returned, arms full of odd, unlabeled wand boxes. He placed them on the counter and began opening them silently, laying out bare slivers of wood in front of him.

Haedus didn’t look at most of them. His gaze had already landed on one - pale white, smooth-grained, humming faintly as if whispering his name.

Without thinking, he reached out and picked it up.

The moment his fingers closed around the wand, the world stopped. Magic surged through his skin. Not in a flash - but a deep, rolling pulse that started in his spine and spilt outward like a rising tide. It felt right. It felt inevitable. There was no glow, no explosion, no dramatic swell - just a click, like a key locking into place. Like something ancient and essential had recognised itself. The wood didn’t so much as twitch in his grip. It simply was. As though it had been waiting for him.

His family watched with wide eyes. 

“That” Ollivander said softly, “is Elder wood”.

The words settled into the room like falling snow. Asha coiled tighter around Haedus’s shoulders, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw his Papa straighten, his posture tense. Draco stared at the wand like it might bite him. 

“Elder wood?” he echoed, as if he didn’t quite believe it, “I thought that was just… I dunno, a story”.

“Not just a story” Ollivander corrected, his voice filled with something close to awe, “It has chosen him, and that is no small thing. Elder wood is the rarest of all wand woods. The most powerful. The most dangerous. The most… unpredictable. It is not for the faint of heart, Mr Lestrange. It does not yield to weakness. It is not loyal by nature. It does not follow… It leads”.

Haedus’s fingers curled tighter around the pale wand. He could feel it. In his palm. In his blood. 

“Then it is perfect”.

There was no arrogance in the words - only certainty. Fact. Like naming something that had always been true. Ollivander nodded once, as if sealing something ancient. 

“I will have to craft it by hand. Elder wood and phoenix feather… that is a wand that must be forged, not fitted… How curious that this feather should choose you…”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing, as though seeing something more clearly now.

“I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr Lestrange. Every single one. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather will be in your wand gave another feather - just one other”.

Rodolphus’s mouth thinned into a line, and Bellatrix visibly stiffened, but neither of them made any move to stop the wand maker from talking. Ollivander’s gaze drifted, then locked - unblinking - on the jagged scar peeking out beneath the soft fall of Haedus’s black curls. His voice was barely above a whisper now.

“It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand, when its brother… its brother gave you that scar”.

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

“That scar” Ollivander continued, as if entranced, “Yes. Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. A wand made for power… given to a man who used it to carve himself into the world… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr Lestrange. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things… terrible, yes… but great”.

It was as though every breath in the shop had been stolen. Haedus could feel it - every pair of eyes on him. His father, silent but electric. Tatie Cissa, staring at the wand like it was a blade too close to her son. Draco, blinking in disbelief, suddenly unsure where the line between fear and envy lay. And Bellatrix - his Maman - looked… proud. Not the soft, smiling pride of a mother - no, this was wild and bright, burning behind her eyes like madness lit on fire. Her son, chosen by elder wood, paired with the Dark Lord’s own wand, marked by his power. Marked with a legacy.

Haedus felt as though his heart might burst. He knew exactly who had given him his scar, after all, and he cherished knowing that the Dark Lord had left a physical mark on him, no matter how unintentional it had been. And now, to learn that his wand - the wand that had chosen him - had a partner wand that had once chosen the Dark Lord…

“I share a core with his wand?” Haedus breathed, “Really?”

“Yes” Ollivander said slowly, “You do. How… curious… that these feathers should choose such similar souls”.

His grin widened, absolutely delighted at the additional connection that he now shared with such a powerful man. Haedus looked down at the still-glowing feather in his palm, then at the pale sliver of Elder wood. He didn’t feel overwhelmed. Or frightened. He felt… right.

The pieces in his hand didn’t feel like objects. They felt like him. Whole. Waiting. Powerful. 

He thought of the Dark Lord - not with fear, but with awe. Reverence. A great shadow stretched behind him… and Haedus was walking in it. Step by step. Wand by wand.

He’d promised to make the Dark Lord proud.

And now, he finally felt like he would.

Chapter Text

Sunday, 1st September

His first day at Hogwarts somehow seemed to never arrive and arrive all too quickly, all at once.

King’s Cross was a blur of noise and bustle and steam. Children shouted. Owls hooted. A trolley laden with trunks rattled past at an alarming speed. Around the Lestranges, however, there was a noticeable pocket of eerie quiet.

People gave them a wide berth, stepping aside as if by instinct - or fear. Wide, terrified eyes followed Bellatrix’s unmistakable silhouette, her long dark curls catching the light like ink in water, Rodolphus’s imposing frame looming beside her like a shadow with weight. Even now, a full ten years after the end of the war, the name Lestrange made mothers clutch their children closer and made grown wizards shift uneasily.

Haedus stood near the front of the train, admiring its bright scarlet paint, Asha looped loosely around his shoulders like living silk. He wore new robes that hadn’t quite lost their crispness, and his wand rested in a velvet-lined holster on his forearm. Despite the buzz of nerves in the air, he felt remarkably calm. Curious, yes. Excited, even. But not afraid.

Everyone else seemed to be doing enough fearing for him.

He saw the way the other families whispered behind raised hands and paper cups of tea, how their gazes would flicker to his parents - the mad Black and the ruthless Lestrange - and then to him, like waiting for him to start foaming at the mouth or hexing small children. Haedus found it all amusing. No one in this station had even seen his parents curse anyone in over a decade!

… Publicly, at least.

He knew that when his own name was called at the Sorting, he would get the same reaction: startled stares, fearful muttering, space parting around him like he carried the plague. A part of him was irritated by the scrutiny - the assumptions, the whispers, the way people would always see his parents before they saw him, would always hear his last name instead of his first. But another part of him relished in it. Relished knowing that his name held power. Relished knowing that someday, he would elevate his family legacy to even greater heights.

Rodolphus had started pacing, which was saying something for a man whose version of "pacing" was a slow, tightly measured circle around his son like a lion watching for cracks in his cage. He kept eyeing the other students like they might attack at any moment - which was, ironically, exactly how they were looking at him, too - and his hand twitched every time someone brushed too close.

“Repeat the incantations for the most effective yet still legal non-lethal Dark curses I taught you” his Papa said, again, for the third time.

Haedus sighed. "The Tongue-Tying curse, Mimblewimble; the Full Body-Bind curse, Petrificus Totalus; and the Leg-Locking curse, Locomotor Mortis”.

“And how do you cast them?”

“With a quick draw and a sharp slash”. 

“And?”

“And you focus through the spine, not the wrist” Haedus recited with a long-suffering sigh, “I know, Papa!”

Rodolphus nodded once, proud and reluctant all at once. Beside him, Bellatrix crouched down to her son's level, fingers cool where they cupped his cheeks.

“If anyone lays a finger on you, you do not wait, do you understand?” she whispered, dark curls framing her sharp, fierce grin, “No hesitation. You curse first and ask questions never!”

“I know, Maman-”

“No, no, no, look at me, mon étoile” she said, her voice as soft as a blade, “You remember who you are. You are a Black. You are a Lestrange. You do not start fights, but you sure as hell finish them!”

Haedus smiled at her, reaching up to put his hands over hers. “I will, Maman, I promise”.

“You turn them into ferrets if you must, you hear me?”

“Maman!”

“Okay, okay fine!” she interrupted, with a dramatic sigh, “You can turn them into rats, instead, if you must be dull about it”.

Behind his mother, Haedus saw his aunt and uncle arrive with a visibly excited Draco, who was clearly trying - and failing - not to bounce on the balls of his feet.

“Let the poor boy go, Bella” Narcissa said,  her voice dry as ever, “Before you scare him half to death”.

“My son? Scared?” Bellatrix countered with a smirk, straightening up, “Never! Because what does fear do, mon étoile?”

“It makes you freeze and make stupid decisions” he dutifully replied, “Fear is for the foolish and the weak-willed”.

“Exactly!”

Draco came up to stand next to him, dragging his trunk. “We’ll miss the train at this rate”.

As if on cue, they heard the warning whistle blow, and students began quickly spilling onto the train, searching for their friends or an empty carriage.

Bellatrix turned back to her son, pulling him in for one last hug, somehow managing to make the action look as graceful as she always was. Stepping back, Rodolophus took her place, reaching out to fix Haedus’s collar, then the cuffs of his sleeves, and then giving him a brief, tight embrace that had Asha grumbling in discomfort. 

“Write to us if you need anything, mon soleil” he ordered.

“And don’t eat anyone’s sweets unless you’ve tested them first - even if they get them in Honeydukes!” Bellatrix added.

“Maman, it’s Hogsmeade, not Knockturn!” Haedus said with a laugh.

“Even so! I shall be horribly disappointed in you if you allow yourself to be poisoned!”

With one last look, one last subtle touch - a nod from Rodolphus, a wink from Bellatrix - they let him go, and the crowd parted for him as he turned, like he walked in a pocket of shadow the light refused to touch.

Haedus joined Draco as they boarded the train, the weight of his family’s expectations balanced by the thrum of excitement in his chest. They found a compartment near the back with their friends and settled in quickly. 

Blaise sprawled with elegance, Theo curled into a corner with a book already open, and Draco kicked his feet up on the opposite bench like he owned the train. Haedus sat by the window, Asha tucked beneath his robes, and pulled out his own book to read.

They hadn’t been riding long when the door slid open with a sharp clack.

“Sorry” said a girl, leaning half into the compartment, “Have any of you got a first aid kit? Someone in my carriage got badly bitten by an owl”.

The girl had a halo of frizzy brown hair that seemed to crackle with static, but despite her no-nonsense tone, she was scarcely older than them.

“A first aid kit?” Draco asked, wrinkling his nose, “What in Merlin’s name is that?”

“What do you mean what’s a-” She stopped, and then frowned. “Oh. You’re a pure-blood, aren’t you?”

“As opposed to-?” he drawled, “The name’s Malfoy. Draco Malfoy”.

Across from him, Blaise barely held back a snort at the blond’s posh tone.

“I’m Hermione Granger” she replied, her brown gaze sweeping across the compartment, before landing on the book that Haedus had almost finished.

“You’re reading Magical Theory?” she asked, surprised.

Haedus turned a page. “Is that not allowed?”

“No! I mean- yes! I mean-” Granger flushed and awkwardly cleared her throat. “I just didn’t expect anyone else to have already read it, that’s all”.

He looked up at her properly then, eyes sharp and oddly amused. “It’s not difficult. You just have to understand the principles of energy transfer”.

She brightened a little, stepping further into the compartment. “Exactly! That’s what I said! I was trying to explain it to this boy in the other carriage, and he looked at me like I was speaking Chinese! But it’s not even that difficult - it’s just layered knowledge!”

“Not everyone has the patience for layered” Blaise drawled, “Which makes it difficult”.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s not important!” she insisted.

“It means it’s theoretical” he replied with a shrug, “And most people want results. Not theory”.

She looked slightly flustered then, as if unsure whether to keep arguing or just move on. Her fingers tightened around the doorframe, a stubborn set to her jaw.

“Well, I think it’s vital to understand the ‘why’ and not just the ‘how’!”

“Some would argue that the ‘why’ doesn’t matter, as long as the spell works for you” Theo added quietly.

“Of course it matters!” she protested, “You have to know why you must cast or chant in a certain way! It doesn’t make any sense otherwise!”

This was getting them nowhere. Haedus sighed, closed his book, and tilted his head at her. “I think you’re very clever, Granger”.

She blinked at him and then blushed. “Oh… uh… Thank you”.

“But” he added, “I also think that you might breathe easier at Hogwarts if you stop needing to prove it every two seconds”.

She baulked as Draco started to snicker. “I wasn’t trying to- I’m not- I only-”

He held up a hand. “It’s alright. It’s not an insult. I’m just saying - you’re already smart. You don’t have to announce it every time you open your mouth”.

“Not everyone likes theory” Blaise repeated with a lazy grin, “And not everyone likes smart, either. People tolerate it, mostly”.

“Well, that’s just rude!” she snapped, then immediately seemed to regret how sharp she sounded. 

His grin only widened. “Accurate, though”.

“You’ve got a lot to prove, I suppose” Haedus said thoughtfully, “Muggle-born, aren’t you?”

The air in the compartment dipped for a moment, almost imperceptibly - like a slight chill threading its way through warm air. Draco glanced up sharply. Theo went very still.

Granger straightened her shoulders. “Yes. I am”.

Haedus nodded slowly. “Then you’ll probably have to work harder than the rest of us put together”.

She blinked again, unsure if that was meant to be a compliment or a warning.

He smiled. “I meant that kindly”.

“Oh” she said, and then, “Thank you… I think… But how did you know I was a muggle-born?”

“Your name” Draco drawled.

“Your clothes” Blaise added.

“Your speech” Theo said.

“And the fact that you asked us for a first-aid kit” Haedus finished, “Are you a witch, or aren’t you?”

There was a beat of silence, save for the gentle rumble of the train beneath them. It seemed to take Granger a moment to realise what he meant, but when she did finally put two and two together, she flushed, this time in embarrassment.

“I can just use magic” she said, “Right… It’s a rather bad bite, so do you know what-”

“Episkey” Haedus said, “Move your wand in a circle when you cast it”.

“Right” she repeated, “Thanks”.

“You’re welcome”.

Granger stood there for another moment, looking like she didn’t quite know what to make of them. “Well… I suppose I’ll see you at the welcoming feast”.

“You will” Haedus said smoothly.

She hesitated in the doorway one last time, like she wanted to say more - to ask who exactly they were, perhaps - but in the end, she simply nodded, stepped back, and pulled the door shut behind her.

“She’s bold” Theo murmured, turning a page.

“Loud” Blaise corrected.

“Smart” Haedus said, reopening his textbook, “And smart is always interesting”.

Draco snorted and shook his head at them. “She’s a muggle-born! Did you hear her? 'I’m Hermione Granger' as if that name means anything!”

“She’s got a good memory” Blaise said, noncommittal, “Bit intense, though”.

“She shouldn’t even be here!” he shot back, “None of them should!”

“You don’t think muggle-borns should be allowed at Hogwarts?” Haedus asked, raising a brow.

Draco crossed his arms. “Of course not. It’s a wizarding school! We shouldn’t have to learn next to people who didn’t even know we existed last year! They bring their own holidays and traditions and- and they don’t even celebrate the solstice! They want to turn it into Christmas, instead!”

Haedus leaned back, thoughtful.

“But that’s not the muggle-borns’ fault” he said, “They’re eleven. No one teaches them anything before they come here. They get a letter, a visit from a professor, and that’s it. I think… I think they should be allowed here, but they should have to take some sort of course first”.

Draco frowned. “A course?”

“About our culture” Haedus explained, “Our traditions, holidays, etiquette. Our real history, not just what’s in the books taught at Hogwarts. If they’re going to be here, they should understand the world they’re entering - but we’re the ones who have to give them that chance”.

Theo raised an eyebrow. “That’s… actually not such a terrible idea”.

“They’ll still be different!” Draco muttered petulantly.

“Everyone’s different” Haedus replied calmly, “Even you”.

He pouted and folded his arms across his chest. “You never agree with me, Hades!”

“I agree with you when you’re right” he replied with a smirk.

Draco huffed, turning to look out the window instead. “I’m always right!”

“Not about this” he said, “And I don’t remember you complaining about Christmas last year when you got thirty-eight presents from your parents. Sometimes, muggle-borns have good ideas”.

Across from them, Blaise snorted, and even Theo gave a small smile.

“... Fine!” Draco finally grumbled, still not looking at him, “I’ll think about it”.

The chill of the night settled around them like breath on glass, cool and whispering against their cheeks. The sun had dipped low on the horizon by the time the train screeched to a halt, casting long golden reflections across the black water. The students were herded along the platform toward a lantern held high by a voice that bellowed across the evening air:

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!”

The figure was mountainous, with a wild mane of dark hair and a beard to match - clearly, this was the half-giant Hagrid, Haedus thought, watching with polite curiosity as the man guided them to the edge of the water.

“No more’n four to a boat!”

Haedus, Draco, Blaise, and Theo clambered into one of the boats near the front. Still hidden beneath his robes, Asha grumbled unhappily at the sudden rocking motion. The water swished gently beneath them, cool and inky, the boat smooth and silent as it began to glide across the glasslike surface, entirely of its own accord.

Then, just as the boats passed around a bend in the cliffside, Hogwarts revealed itself.

The castle rose up out of the rock like it had been summoned by magic itself: towers and turrets gleaming in the moonlight, warm windows flickering like stars fallen to earth. Its reflection shimmered across the lake like a dream.

Haedus felt his breath catch.

It was beautiful.

Majestic, timeless, carved with power and purpose. The kind of place that meant something. The kind of place where the walls remembered. He could see, now, why the Dark Lord had loved it so much. Not just as a tool. Not just as a prize. But for what it represented: a citadel of magic. A fortress of legacy. A living, breathing monument to the power of wizardkind.

“I take it back” Blaise murmured, “Being here is worth learning all the theory in the world”.

Draco grinned, visibly awed despite himself. “We’re going to rule this place”.

Haedus said nothing. Just stared up at the castle with a quiet smile, a strange feeling humming through his ribs - like he was standing on the edge of a great beginning.

They docked at the far shore, and the first years filed out, many chattering nervously, some quiet with awe. The half-giant knocked once on the towering oak doors, and they creaked open to reveal a tall witch in emerald-green robes with a severe expression on her face.

“That’s Professor McGonagall” Theo whispered to them.

Haedus had only seen her before in old photographs. She was even more formidable in person - poised like a blade, every inch of her sharp with control and precision. It was, admittedly, rather impressive.

“This way, please” she said, leading them through the grand entrance hall. They followed, their steps echoing off the stone, as she explained to them about the four Houses that they could be Sorted into. They were led to a small, empty chamber off the hall and crowded in.

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting” McGonagall said, her eyes lingering for a moment on a redheaded boy with a large smudge on his nose, “I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly”. 

She left the chamber, and whispers immediately started to rise about how they would be Sorted. The same red-haired boy was loudly telling anyone who’d listen that they’d have to fight a troll. Haedus knew that wasn’t true - his Maman had already forewarned him about what to expect - but a part of him almost wished that it was - he’d always wanted to fight a troll, but his Papa had expressly forbidden it until he turned fourteen, at least.

There was a sudden scream from behind him, and Haedus spun around, wand already drawn, to see-

About twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they glided across the room, talking to one another and hardly glancing at the first years. Haedus wondered, idly, if the Bloody Baron could speak Parseltongue. Tonton Baz had told him some crazy rumours about the ghost of Slytherin, but he wasn’t sure just how many of them were true. Maybe he could find out, and then report back to Rabastan at Christmas.

“Move along now” said a sharp voice, “The Sorting Ceremony’s about to start”. 

Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall. 

“Now, form a line” she told the first years, “and follow me”.

They walked out of the chamber, back across the entrance, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall. Haedus had never even imagined such a strange and splendid place. It was lit by thousands and thousands of candles that were floating in midair over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. At the top of the hall was another long table where the teachers sat. Professor McGonagall led the first years up here, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. 

Above them was a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. He heard Granger from somewhere behind him whisper, “It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts, A History” but Haedus barely listened. Instead, he looked at the staff table. Instead, he looked at him.

Albus Dumbledore sat like the eye of a storm - calm, twinkling, the very image of a kindly grandfather with his half-moon glasses and long silver beard. His robes were deep blue with embroidered stars that shimmered faintly in the candlelight, and Haedus suddenly understood.

Understood why so many people followed him, loved him, trusted him. Because Dumbledore looked like everything you wanted to believe in - kindness and wisdom and safety all woven into one soft-spoken old man… but power lurked behind those spectacles. Haedus could see it.

He’s not soft, he thought, he just wants you to think he is.

A whisper of movement caught his eye - and there, farther down the table, sat Professor Snape. Sallow skin, dark robes, and eyes sharp as obsidian. They met Haedus’s for just a moment, and the boy smiled - a quiet, amused, knowing smile.

Severus’s expression didn’t change - he didn’t frown or scowl - but there was a distinct look, the barest raise of a brow that said: Don’t you dare! It was exactly the kind of look that a parent gave when they were absolutely convinced that their kid was about to set the curtains on fire.

Haedus only grinned wider - Sev thought that he’d somehow successfully manage to cause trouble within his first five minutes at Hogwarts. How flattering.

He turned back toward the Sorting Hat, who had started to sing, his pulse steady. He was excited, yes, and curious, definitely - but he wasn’t afraid. Never afraid. Because fear was for the foolish and the weak-willed, and Haedus was determined to be anything but.

After the Hat’s song, Professor McGonagall stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be Sorted” she said, “Abbott, Hannah!” 

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moment’s pause - “HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat. The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table. 

“Bones, Susan!” 

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next to Hannah. 

“Boot, Terry!”

“RAVENCLAW!” 

The table second from the left clapped this time; several Ravenclaws stood up to shake hands with Terry as he joined them. “Brocklehurst, Mandy” went to Ravenclaw too, but “Brown, Lavender” became the first new Gryffindor, and the table on the far left exploded with cheers. “Bulstrode, Millicent” then became a Slytherin, and on and on they went, down through the list of names until-

“Lestr-” 

McGonagall froze.

Haedus secretly revelled in the pure and utter terror that briefly flashed over her face - he would have to show the memory of it to his Maman sometime. Swallowing thickly, the woman gave the Headmaster a quick, unreadable look before turning back to the parchment in her hands.

“... Lestrange, Haedus”.

The entire hall seemed to freeze.

His name dropped like a guillotine blade, slicing through every whisper, every breath. Even the candles seemed to stop flickering, their flames curiously still, as if even the enchanted fire was waiting to see what would happen next.

Haedus didn’t move immediately. He let the silence bloom - let it soak into the stone walls, into the skin and bones and marrow of the watchers, into the trembling, unspoken recognition behind every wide pair of eyes. He let them feel it.

And then, he stepped forward.

Graceful. Unhurried. The soles of his shoes made barely a sound on the stone, yet each step echoed like a drumbeat in the hush. His head was held high, shoulders back, spine straight - not arrogant, not smug. Just… steady. Secure. A boy who belonged. A boy who knew he belonged.

And oh, he looked the part.

The same wild, windswept curls as Bellatrix Black, tumbling dark and fierce around his face. The same olive skin as Rodolphus Lestrange, smooth and unblemished, warm like candlelight over old parchment. And his eyes - eyes that burned like emeralds banked in silk. Cool, sharp, and watchful.

As he walked towards the stool, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

“Lestrange, did she say?!”

“But that’s impossible-” 

“Since when do they have a kid?!” 

“He does look just like-” 

“Aren’t they the ones who-?”

“I heard they only escaped Azkaban by the skin of their teeth-” 

“They sent him here?!” 

“Oh Merlin, we’re all going to die!”

Haedus allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch with barely restrained amusement, but his gaze never wavered. He didn’t rush, didn’t flinch, didn’t look at the whispering mouths or the narrowed eyes - he didn’t need to. He channelled his Maman’s grace, drew from his Papa’s quiet self-confidence, and carried himself with poise. With Power. A practised calm that came from growing up in rooms where silence was a weapon and history bled from the walls.

Halfway to the stool, he turned his sharp gaze to Dumbledore and gave him a look.

Cool. Indifferent. Unbothered.

He watched with clinical interest as realisation lit up behind those pale blue eyes like a struck match. The old man abruptly stood, startled into motion. The gasps from the students were instant.

Haedus smirked, a slow, deliberate curl of his lips, and turned to McGonagall, who was staring back at him in horror, her knuckles white around the scroll. Then his gaze slid past her to the far end of the table. Severus met his eyes easily and promptly rolled his own in exasperation the moment he saw Haedus looking. Haedus almost laughed - of course, he wasn’t surprised. He turned back to Dumbledore, letting his expression harden into a challenge, daring him to say something, daring him to stop this, to stop him.

But Dumbledore didn’t.

He couldn’t.

If the Headmaster of Hogwarts didn’t let this Sorting happen simply because of who Haedus was, it would be as good as a declaration of war - and Dumbledore knew that. Haedus saw the moment it clicked - the fury behind the twinkle, the resignation in the set of the jaw. Dumbledore’s lips thinned. And then, slowly, like it had been his intention all along, he raised his hands and mildly said:

“Silence, if you please”.

The noise dimmed. The hall fell quiet again, but this time it wasn’t shock holding them still - it was fear. Confusion. Anticipation. These students might not remember the war, but they sure as hell had heard the horror stories from it. Dumbledore sat back down slowly, though his expression was mutinous, because at the end of the day, Headmaster or not, Hogwarts was a sentient castle. A sovereign force. And it was Hogwarts who decided which witches and wizards could walk its halls. Not the Ministry. Not Wizengamot. Not even Albus bloody Dumbledore.

And if the Dark Lord himself had been accepted within its hallowed walls, then there was no way in hell the next generation of Lestrange-Black would be turned away.

Haedus reached the stool.

He didn’t pause. 

He didn’t hesitate. 

He simply sat down and placed the Hat upon his head as if it were a crown.

Chapter Text

Sunday, 1st September

The moment the Sorting Hat touched his head, the world shifted.

“Ahhh…” came a voice, ancient and amused, right inside his mind, “Now this is a type of mind I haven’t been through in quite some time”.

The Hat’s voice was low and textured, like old velvet rubbed against stone, steeped in more years than even Haedus could truly comprehend.

“You’re clever, yes… cunning too, of course. Ambition drips off you like candle wax. A hunger for knowledge, certainly, but more than that… a hunger for legacy. You want to matter. Not just for who you are - but for what you’ll do... You’re an obvious shoe-in for Slytherin, Mr Lestrange”.

“Yeah, I thought you might say that” Haedus replied easily, “But before you announce it to the rest of the Hall, can I ask you a few questions?”

There was a moment of surprised silence, and then the Hat made an odd creaking fabric sound as it started to laugh, loud and full and wheezing.

“You wish to ask me a few questions? Oh, I like you. Bold as brass, you are”.

Haedus smirked beneath the brim.

“That makes two of us, then. You said you’ve seen minds like mine before. Who?”

A beat passed. The Hat hummed, as if poking around the edges of old memories.

“You remind me of a boy I Sorted over fifty years ago. Another Slytherin, polished and perfect, all charm on the surface and shadows underneath. Oh, he was bright... Brighter than most... Painfully polite, too, but goodness, the rage in him… the vengeance… It made my threads itch... He went by the name Tom Riddle back then".

Haedus’s heart gave a pleased flutter. “I was hoping you’d say that”.

“I imagine you were”. The Hat sounded like it was grinning. “You’re not identical, mind you. He wore his darkness like perfume - subtle but choking. You wear yours like velvet. Quiet. Soft. But thick enough to smother”.

Haedus snorted. “Did he bombard you with questions, too?”

“Oh, of course”. The Hat sighed dramatically. “He tried to command me, at first. Demanded Slytherin like it was his birthright! It was, of course, although I only found that out later… But he didn’t need to push. I knew where he belonged the moment he touched my brim... Much like you, in fact”.

“Then why not just announce it?” Haedus asked, curious, “Why humour me? Humour us?”

“Because you’re interesting, Mr Lestrange. It’s been far too long since I had a proper conversation in here. Most students these days are barely forming coherent thoughts when I sit on their heads - but you? You came here prepared with questions”.

“Like the Dark Lord?” Haedus leaned deeper into the folds of the Hat’s voice, fascinated. “What else did he ask you?”

The Hat sighed. “He asked me how I knew what I knew. If I could see everything. Then, when I told him I could see enough, he tried to hide things from me. Push certain thoughts to the back. Funny thing, though… the more you try to hide parts of your mind from me, the easier it is for me to find them”.

“Did he ever tell you what he was planning?”

“Not outright. But I felt it. He had that same... hunger as you do. The sense that the world is clay and you’re simply readying yourself to shape it. The difference is… you seem to enjoy the game a little more than he did”.

Haedus grinned. “Of course I do. What’s the point of having all this power if you can’t play with it?”

The Hat sounded oddly fond when it replied, “That’s what makes you dangerous, Mr Lestrange. You’re not just clever. You’re deliberate”.

“Is that really such a bad thing?”

“Not at all. I like a mind that knows itself” the Hat countered, “And you do know yourself, don’t you? Or, at least, you think you do”.

Haedus tilted his head ever so slightly beneath the brim. “That sounds suspiciously like an accusation, Hat”.

“Not an accusation” it replied, “just an observation. You know your ambition, your talent, your hunger. You know your lineage and what it means. You even know the role you want to play... But do you know what you’re not? What you won’t become?”

“I know I’ll be worthy” Haedus said, simply, “Worthy of him, worthy of the future he’s going to create”.

“Ah… And there it is”. The Hat exhaled, long and slow, as if it were watching the shape of a storm forming in the distance. “You want to be his equal. Not his servant, not his shadow. His equal. In name, in deed, in power. And maybe - just maybe - you could be. You’re just as determined. Just as cunning. Just as ambitious. And perhaps… even more intelligent”.

That made Haedus blink. “More intelligent? Than the Dark Lord?!”

“Oh yes. You were raised in magic, Mr Lestrange, swaddled in its politics, suckled on its power structures. You know the game - but he had to learn it as he went along, cobbling together scraps of old magic and hidden dynamics. You, on the other hand, have been taught by those who already know. You have the benefit of preparation, of legacy, of whispered truths passed down over tea and firelight. He was self-made. But you… you are bespoke”.

Haedus smiled, slow and satisfied. “Good”.

“But” the Hat added, and the word came sharp as a snap of fingers, “don’t let that blind you”.

The pause that followed was heavy.

“... Blind me to what?” he finally asked.

“To yourself” the Hat replied, “To who you are. You may want to be his equal, but if you try too hard to become him, you’ll forget what makes you different. And that difference, Mr Lestrange, is not a weakness”.

Haedus hesitated, not liking what the Hat was implying, but at the same time… 

“What difference?”

“You have kindness in you” the Hat said, and its voice was no longer amused, but quiet and almost… mournful, “Empathy. Sympathy. A strange, flickering warmth that Tom Riddle never had - not once. It wasn’t his fault, of course, not with the upbringing he had, but… You feel for others, even when you pretend not to. You care, even if it’s in your own strange, strategic way. I see it. You don’t want to rule the world just to burn it down. You want to rule it to preserve its beauty”.

Haedus didn’t answer right away. The truth of it, the accuracy of it, sat heavy in his chest. Was it really such a bad thing to know love?

“I can’t be soft” he said at last, quietly, “Not in the circles I move in. They’d eat me alive”.

“Oh, I’m not telling you to be soft” the Hat said, almost fond again, “I’m telling you not to forget the shape of your soul. Kindness is not weakness. Compassion is not a flaw. If anything, they make you more dangerous. Because a man who can understand pain, and still chooses to cause it? He is far more terrifying than someone who simply doesn’t know any better”.

There was a long pause as Haedus slowly digested those words.

“Two things can still be equal, even if they’re different” the Hat went on, “Tom Riddle carved his name into the stone through fear. But you… you could carve yours through kindness. Through choice. Your humanity will be what gives you strength, Mr Lestrange... Don't lose it”.

For the first time in a long time, Haedus didn’t have a ready response. He sat with it - let the Hat’s words settle and coil and root somewhere deep in the hollows of his chest. Beneath his robes, he felt Asha’s body tighten around him as she no doubt sensed his discomfort. After a moment, the Hat heaved a great mental sigh.

“I see that I have given you a lot to think about, and although I would love to continue our little chat, I’m afraid that the show must go on. I can’t have the staff thinking I’ve finally come undone, can I?”

“Haven’t you?” he replied, his snark on autopilot, “You have been only talking to children for a thousand years”.

“A fair point”. The Hat’s voice was dry. “Still, my decision hasn’t changed, of course. You, more than anyone else, belong in SLYTHERIN!”

The Great Hall erupted into noise, although Haedus seriously doubted that anyone was surprised.

He pulled the Hat off slowly and stood with effortless grace. The Slytherin table was clapping, some politely, others with enthusiasm. From the remaining first years, he caught Blaise's grin, Theo’s raised brow, and Draco’s pointed smirk. Haedus handed the Hat back to a still shell-shocked McGonagall with a polite nod, and turned-

Dumbledore was watching him.

There was no twinkle now - but no fury either. Just… quiet calculation. The sharp glint of a sharp mind running too many variables, too quickly. And for a flicker of a moment, Haedus wondered - did the old man think he’d been a Hatstall?

He’d certainly been chatting with the Hat for long enough, so did Dumbledore genuinely believe that the Hat had hesitated in placing him in Slytherin? That it had, perhaps, considered putting him in Gryffindor instead? That somewhere, deep in the marrow of this Lestrange-Black child, there was some heroic ember of Potter waiting to be kindled? That he could be redeemed?!

Haedus very nearly laughed out loud.

He was half-tempted to whisper to Asha, to ask her to raise her head out from underneath his robes and give the man a fright, but he curbed the impulse almost immediately. It would do him no good to show all his cards too early, after all. So instead, he simply flashed Dumbledore a cheerful, innocent grin as he made his way to the Slytherin table, every inch the picture of elegance and poise.

Let the old man wonder.

Let him hope.

Because hope was such a lovely thing - and it would make the inevitable fall all the more devastating.

The feast was just as delicious as his parents told him it would be and ended with the expected level of fanfare - floating candles flickering against the high-arched ceiling, golden plates cleaned of all but crumbs, and the buzz of conversation. 

It was a shame Dumbledore had to ruin it all by speaking, Haedus thought, only half-listening as the man as he went on and on about how magic wasn’t permitted in the hallways - boring - and the Forbidden Forest was firmly off-limits - lame - and how the third-floor corridor was “out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death” - which was… interesting.

Haedus remained seated at the Slytherin table, sipping the last of his pumpkin juice with the posture of someone entirely at ease. Draco, Theo, and Blaise had, of course, joined him in Slytherin, and although he would never admit it out loud, he was glad to have friendly faces surrounding him.

It was only when the other first-years had begun to rise, whispering and giggling amongst themselves as the fifth-year prefects called for their attention, that Haedus finally put down his goblet. As he did so, he saw the familiar swish of deep-purple robes stand as well. The Great Hall seemed to quieten, just slightly, as Dumbledore descended from his golden throne and approached him.

“Mr… Lestrange” the Headmaster said with a grandfatherly smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Might I borrow a moment of your time? There is something I would like to discuss with you in my office”.

Draco - seated to his right - instantly stiffened. Underneath the table, Haedus felt the sharp, nervous grip of the boy’s hand closing around his own. Haedus didn’t glance at him. He didn’t have to. His thumb ran a soothing stroke across Draco’s knuckles before he stood with deliberate care, turning his calm gaze to Dumbledore.

“Of course, Headmaster” he said politely, “I’d be happy to join you - as long as my Head of House can come too”.

Dumbledore’s smile faltered, just a little. “There’s really no need to trouble Professor Snape, dear boy. This won’t take long”.

“Oh, I don’t think it’ll be any trouble, sir” Haedus replied, widening his eyes with childish innocence, “Professor Snape is a family friend. I’m sure he won’t mind a brief conversation. And of course, if he does, then he can always say no when we ask him”.

There was a flicker in Dumbledore’s expression - something caught between reluctance and calculation.

“I assure you, I have only your best interest at heart, my boy” the Headmaster tried, eyes now subtly sharper, but Haedus merely smiled in response. “That’s very kind of you, sir, but as I’m sure you know, the Hogwarts bylaws entitle any student to request their Head of House for meetings with faculty, especially those held privately - it says so on chapter twelve, section three... Surely you wouldn't wish to violate school policy , sir”.

From behind him, he heard Blaise poorly cover up a snort into his goblet, but Haedus kept his expression carefully polite, eyes wide with faux innocence. The moment stretched, and then-

“Is there a problem, Headmaster?” came a familiar, silken voice from behind.

Dumbledore turned, slowly, as Professor Snape approached from the shadows of the hall. His expression was unreadable, his eyes already scanning Haedus with something like quiet wariness… or perhaps something far more protective.

“Ah” Haedus said, his voice light, “speak of the devil. Professor Snape, I’ve just been invited for a private meeting with the Headmaster, and I requested your presence as my Head of House - I hope that’s alright”.

Snape’s gaze flicked between the two of them.

“Naturally” he said at once, his tone perfectly even but unmistakably firm, “If my student would feel more comfortable with me present, then I shall accompany him”.

Dumbledore clearly wanted to argue, but they all knew that he couldn’t. The table around them was tense, silent. Haedus knew that the Dark Lord had been right - as usual - when he’d said that he’d have the alliance of his entire House. Should the Headmaster press this issue, and somehow succeed at getting Haedus alone, then the boy was under no illusion that his parents wouldn’t hear about it within the hour.

“... Very well” Dumbledore finally said, “Follow me”.

As they walked, Haedus remained a step behind Dumbledore, matching Snape’s pace instead. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t need to, either - he could feel the tension radiating off the old man’s back like heat. Dumbledore was worried. That much was clear.

Good, Haedus thought, a little viciously, let him be.

In the echoing steps that carried them through the torchlit corridors, he could feel it - that flicker of unease in the air. Chances were, Dumbledore didn’t even believe that Haedus knew who he used to be - or that he knew exactly how he’d ended up as Haedus Lestrange - but he did know. He knew what his name used to be, he knew that his mother had looked the Dark Lord in the eye and offered up her only child to be slaughtered, he knew that the Dark Lord had tried and failed to kill him because of a half-heard prophecy he soon dismissed.

Haedus knew that the man had then decided to save him, he knew that his mother - his real mother - had wept when the Dark Lord had gifted her with him, and he knew that his father had named him and called him his son soon after. Haedus knew who his real parents were, and he knew that Albus bloody Dumbledore would do everything in his power to take him away from them. But what the old man didn’t know was that he would sooner kill than allow that to happen.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he would smile, and listen, and learn what the Headmaster wanted, because knowledge was power - and Haedus had been born for power.

The spiralling stairs of the Headmaster’s office carried them upward with an almost metallic groan, the silence between the three of them stretching taut as wire. Haedus kept his eyes forward, expression childlike and curious, but he could feel the way Dumbledore’s gaze flicked back toward him every few moments - searching, probing, calculating - like a chess master eyeing a particularly promising piece.

He didn’t speak until the gargoyle slid closed behind them, and they were standing amid the odd, whirring instruments and gentle ticking of the office’s many devices.

“Please” Dumbledore gestured to the two chairs set before his great desk, “Sit”.

Haedus did so gracefully, back straight, hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair. He felt Severus sit beside him, quiet as ever, with that same inscrutable stillness that Haedus had watched since childhood - not warmth, but not hostility either. Simply… presence - but in this case, that was more than enough.

Dumbledore lowered himself into his chair across from them, lacing his fingers atop the polished wood. His expression was carefully composed, lips curved in something like grandfatherly warmth - but his blue eyes had the sharpness of a dagger’s edge.

“Now, Mr Lestrange” he began, “You must forgive the formality of all of this. I simply wished to ensure that your transition to Hogwarts has been... smooth. This evening marks a significant milestone, after all”.

Haedus tilted his head slightly, brow arching in polite amusement. “Is that why we’re here, Professor? To discuss my ‘transition’?”

Dumbledore’s smile remained fixed. “In part, but also to understand something very... important about your background. Something that may not have yet come to light”.

Haedus blinked, slowly - the picture of innocent confusion. “My background? I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir. Is this about my family?”

There was a brief pause, that gleam in the old man’s eye calculating, running the odds, deciding on whether or not it was a risk worth taking before-

“Some knowledge” Dumbledore said, very, very carefully “can be kept from us for a long time. Even things about ourselves. Sometimes… especially those”.

Haedus tilted his head again, brows furrowed in childish confusion. “Like a secret?”

“Yes, my boy. Exactly like a secret… And I fear that a very important secret has been kept from you for quite some time now”.

Snape’s posture shifted beside him - just enough that Haedus could sense his tension. He kept his expression open, even slightly bewildered, like a boy uncertain of where the conversation was going but willing to listen.

Dumbledore leaned forward. “You may not know the full truth, my boy, and that is not your fault. But the choices made by others - long ago - they may have… affected the path you were placed on”.

Yeah, Haedus thought rather bitterly, the path that you didn’t want me placed on.

Outwardly, he gave a careless shrug. “My parents have always been honest with me, sir. I know I was adopted. I know that my name used to be something else”.

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened. “Do you?”

Haedus hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Yes, sir. My name used to be Harry Potter”.

The words landed like stones in water - heavy, loud, rippling with consequences. Dumbledore looked startled - it was clearly not the response he had expected. Had he not anticipated that the Dark Lord would never lie to Haedus? Or had he thought that, if Haedus did find out the truth, he would run away from the only people who had ever shown him love?

“I see” the Headmaster finally replied, “And… how do you feel about that?”

Haedus kept his voice soft. “I think it’s strange, mostly. Knowing I used to be someone else. But… I don’t remember that life. It doesn’t feel like mine. My real life began when I was given my name. Haedus Lestrange”.

He didn’t speak with anger. He didn’t lash out. He didn’t even mention the Dark Lord or Lily Potter. That was the key - letting Dumbledore think the fire had never been lit, letting him think that he could still be moulded into the Headmaster’s perfect weapon, free and open-minded and ignorant just enough to be manipulated.

There was another pause.

“... I only wish to help you, my boy” Dumbledore said after a pause. “To understand you, if you’ll let me. To… teach you when I can”.

Haedus smiled - bright and soft, like a boy too clever for his age but still willing to be led. “I like learning, sir! That’s why I came to Hogwarts!”

“Is it? I noticed that the Sorting Hat took its time this evening - you were very nearly a Hatstall, Mr… Lestrange”. The old man’s eyes were twinkling again, indulgent but in a sickeningly false sort of way. “Did it, perhaps, also consider you for Ravenclaw?”

Haedus blushed and lowered his gaze to his hands, which were neatly folded in his hands, looking for all the world like a mischievous child who had just been caught out.

“Yes sir” he admitted, “And Gryffindor, too. The Hat said I had plenty of courage and- and talent, as well, but I know that Maman and Papa would be happier if I were in Slytherin, so I asked the Hat to put me there instead”.

The Headmaster, rather predictably, looked beyond relieved with this piece of information, and Haedus felt Severus tense next to him again as the man no doubt tried to contain his mirth.

“Well then, it would seem that you have your fair share of traits from every House” he replied, blue eyes twinkling, “But your… family name no doubt influenced the Hat’s decision in the end”.

Or, in other words, if Haedus hadn’t been raised by a Black and a Lestrange, then he would’ve gone straight into good and proper Gryffindor. The boy only barely refrained from snorting. Yeah, right.

“Yes sir” he replied dutifully, “But I can’t wait to meet my classmates! I want to make friends in every House, if I can!”

Add a light sprinkling of Hufflepuff, and…

“I’m sure you will, my boy”. Dumbledore was looking remarkably more relaxed. “And I won’t keep you any longer; you’ll have a busy day tomorrow. Perhaps we can chat again some other time?”

“I’d like that!” he replied brightly, standing up, “Goodnight, sir!”

“Goodnight, my boy”.

Severus stood with him, a quiet shadow at his side. As the door of the Headmaster’s office swung open in front of them, Haedus cast one last glance over his shoulder. There was no fear in his gaze - only the quiet satisfaction of someone who’d just checkmated an opponent without them even realising it.

The soft click of the door closing behind them echoed down the quiet corridor. The silence between Haedus and Severus stretched as they walked, the older wizard’s robes whispering with each measured step, his face impassive as ever.

They turned down a darker hallway leading toward the dungeons, footsteps tapping softly on ancient stone, but it wasn’t until they’d passed beyond the hearing range of the lingering portraits - down a turn where even the torches flickered more dimly - that Snape spoke.

“You’ve been at Hogwarts for less than one day” he said dryly, “and you’ve already caused havoc with your very existence, had a private audience with the Headmaster, and backed him into a corner without him even realising”.

Haedus grinned, a flash of teeth in the low light. “Admit it, Sev - you’re impressed”.

“I’m incensed” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real heat, “There is a distinct difference”.

The boy arched a brow, unconvinced. “Is there?”

Snape stopped and turned to face him fully, arms folding over his chest in a movement that spoke more of tired resignation than reprimand.

“You are not here to make yourself a target, Haedus. That man has been manipulating both children and adults alike since before even I was born. You do not win a game like this in the opening move”.

“I didn’t intend to win” Haedus replied in protest, “I just wanted him to underestimate me in the right way. Let him believe I’m clever, but not dangerous. Let him think I might be… persuaded”.

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And if he tries to persuade you?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Then I'll listen. And I'll learn something. Information is always useful. Even lies can reveal things about your opponent - you're the one who taught me that”.

Severus stared at him a moment longer, and then - as if deciding something - turned away again with a huff of air that might’ve been approval if it weren’t so grudging.

“You missed your prefect’s orientation thanks to your little detour” he said curtly as they resumed walking, “So allow me to fill in the gaps. In Slytherin, ambition is not optional, and foolishness is not tolerated. House unity is paramount. You will protect your own - and in turn, you will be protected. Every word you speak reflects on your House. Do not make enemies for sport. Make allies out of necessity”.

“Understood” Haedus said, his tone dipping into the respectful - though not meek - register that always seemed to please Snape most.

“As your Head of House, I will tolerate many things” Snape continued smoothly, “but bringing unnecessary scrutiny to Slytherin is not among them. If the Headmaster wishes to test the waters with you, you will oblige him only so far as it benefits you - and no further”.

Haedus inclined his head. “Yes, sir”.

Snape didn’t respond at first. Then, just before they reached the entrance to the common room, he paused.

“You held your ground well, Haedus” he said quietly, “But don’t grow arrogant. Albus Dumbledore did not become Headmaster by losing his pieces in the first game. He will make another move”.

“I know” Haedus said, gaze level, “I’m counting on it”.

With a murmur of “Mandrake Root”, Snape stepped aside as the stone wall slid open, revealing the cool green glow of the Slytherin common room beyond. He didn’t follow Haedus inside - just nodded once, curt and unreadable, before the wall closed behind him and Haedus turned to meet the rest of his House.

Chapter Text

Sunday, 1st September

Haedus stepped into the heart of Slytherin territory and immediately felt the shift. It was quieter than the Great Hall, but charged in a different way - not with noise, but with awareness.

The room was dim and elegant, emerald light shimmering on the walls from the water of the lake refracting through glass. There were button-tufted leather sofas and black armchairs, and dark brown wooden side tables. Everything was black or green and accented with shimmering silver or warm orange from the flickering fireplace across from him.

Students were gathered in groups around the room, standing or sitting beneath tapestries bearing the serpentine crest, but as Haedus entered, conversation stalled. All eyes turned to him - not with confusion or surprise, but with recognition and respect. He was expected.

Draco broke away from the group of first years and crossed the room with uncharacteristic haste, his pale face drawn with tension. “Thank Merlin, you’re still alive!”

Haedus smirked. “Of course I’m still alive! What, you thought Dumbledore was going to eat me?”

“I thought he might try to kidnap you!” Draco shot back, lowering his voice, “You didn’t see his face while you were being Sorted, Hades. He looked like he was staring at a bloody ghost!”

“Wasn’t far off” he said airily, brushing past him and heading towards the fire, “Ghosts don’t have legal documentation, though”.

Draco scowled. “You’re enjoying this too much”.

His grin widened. “Of course I am. He expected to find a confused little boy, but instead, he found me”.

A few older students stood as he approached the far side of the room, not out of fear, but something quieter. Something more genuine. Deference, perhaps. He recognised them. Flint. Montague. Carrow. The older generation of Slytherins, whose parents had once fought alongside his. One of the fifth-years - a sharp-eyed girl with a prefect’s badge and the unmistakable bearing of someone raised in a pure-blood circle - stepped forward and offered him a smile.

“Welcome to Slytherin” she greeted, “I’m Gemma Farley, one of your prefects this year. You missed my grand speech, I’m afraid, but I’m sure your classmates will fill you in”.

Haedus inclined his head in return, the gesture subtle but confident - a mirror of her own. "A pleasure, Miss Farley. I’m sorry to have missed it, but I was, uh… otherwise detained”.

“So I heard”. There was a flicker of amusement across her face. “No need to apologise, Mr Lestrange, your… circumstances were unavoidable, given who you are. Nevertheless, should you have any questions, then feel free to ask me at any time”.

“Thank you” he replied with a respectful nod. There was another flicker of approval from her - and more importantly, a glance shared between the other older years behind her. Quiet, subtle, genuine. Acceptance granted, at least for now.

Draco remained at his side, a little stiff with all the attention Haedus was receiving, but the undercurrent of relief hadn't fully faded. He hovered half a step behind, as though uncertain whether to play the part of friend or shield.

“Come on” Blaise called over, tilting his head toward the fireplace where he and the rest of the first-years had gathered, “We saved you a seat before the gossip vultures could pick them clean”.

Haedus smiled and moved to join them, whispering to Asha that it was safe for her to come out now as he did so. As he passed the older students, more than a few nodded in acknowledgement. One or two murmured greetings - not loud enough for anyone but him to hear - and everywhere, he saw the same thing on everyone’s faces: recognition.

Not just because of the name Lestrange, though that would have been enough. Not just because of the whispers about his knowledge, about his power despite his young age, though that would have almost been enough too. No, they were looking at him because they knew.

The Dark Lord’s interest in Haedus was no idle curiosity, no passing faze. It was a tether. A warning. A promise.

He belongs with us.

By the time Haedus reached the fireside sofa, the rest of the Slytherin first-years were watching him - and Asha - with wide eyes. Some with awe. Some with wariness. But none of them were foolish enough to dismiss him off-hand.

He took his seat, stretching out like a prince who had returned to his court, and looked up as Blaise passed him a Chocolate Frog. Theo sat nearby, cross-legged and unreadable as always, but his gaze lingered a beat longer than it should have.

“What?” Haedus asked, raising a brow.

Theo just shook his head. “Nothing. Just… that was surprisingly quick. I half-expected the Headmaster to keep you in his office all night”.

Haedus shrugged. “You underestimated me”.

Draco snorted. “Everyone underestimates you. That’s your whole thing”.

“It’s a good thing” Blaise chimed in, “Makes it easier when you eventually gut them”.

Haedus snorted in amusement and let the warmth of the fire soak into his skin, reaching up to pat Asha, who had raised her head from beneath his collar and was now surveying their new surroundings curiously. The tension from the meeting had mostly bled away, replaced with the cool, glassy-smooth calm that came after victory.

His eyes scanned the room once more, noting who watched him and who didn’t, who seemed wary and who seemed intrigued. He was determined to remember every name, every posture, every word - both spoken and unspoken. The foundations were already being laid. Not just for this year, but for something bigger. This was how it began. Not with fanfare or battles - but with conversations in front of fires, with alliances formed beneath ancient stone arches.

Haedus took another bite of chocolate, then glanced over at Draco.

“So” he said casually, “Are you going to worry every time someone talks to me, or just when it’s the second most powerful wizard in the country?”

Draco scowled. “It’s not worrying, Hades, it’s called being realistic! You know that you can’t trust the Headmaster, and the fact that he wanted to meet you so soon means nothing good!”

“Which is why I brought Severus” Haedus replied calmly, “And Asha - and besides, Dumbledore’s playing the long game. He wants to figure me out, see how best to control me. It’ll take time”.

“And you think you can play along?”

“I don’t think” Haedus corrected, lips curling faintly, “I know”.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got a plan already, don’t you?”

His smile slowly widened. “Of course I do”.

Theo leaned back into the cushions with a sigh. “Let’s just hope it works. If it doesn’t, we’re all going to get caught in the fallout”.

The room quieted just a little around him, and in the flickering green light of the lake-lit common room, the shadows danced behind his shoulders like cloaks.

Yes, Haedus decided, glancing around, this is how it begins.

And whatever Hogwarts had been before… once he was through with it, it would never be the same again.

The portraits on the walls were still, watching in eerie silence as the flames in the hearth danced low, casting long shadows across the room. Fawkes dozed quietly on his perch, head tucked beneath one scarlet wing. The desk, usually tidy and grand, was now cluttered with scrolls, sweet wrappers, and three different cups of untouched tea.

The Floo whooshed to life.

Sirius Black stepped through first, not bothering with formalities as he strode straight towards one of the chairs in front of his desk, jaw clenched. Behind him came Remus, tired-eyed but steady. He nodded once to Dumbledore, saying nothing. Then Minerva, entering from the office door, stoic and tense, her lips set in a grim line. Severus swept in with his usual ghost-like glide, robes billowing behind him. Lily came through the Floo as well, her hood drawn low over her face, and then, finally, Mad-Eye Moody stumped in with his characteristic clunk, shutting the door with a wandless motion. His magical eye rolled in its socket, scanning the room. 

“Well?” he grunted, “What’s the emergency, Albus?”

Dumbledore, seated behind his desk, steepled his fingers, blue eyes grave behind his spectacles. “Harry Potter has been found”.

Everyone froze.

The very air seemed to still.

Sirius’s voice was the first to crack through the silence. “What?”

Remus had turned sharply toward the headmaster. “Where?!”

Dumbledore held up a hand. “Let me explain”.

“You’d better explain!” Sirius snapped, “Where is he? When did you find out?! Why didn’t you call me immediately-”

“Sirius” Dumbledore interrupted gently but firmly, “I only confirmed it myself less than an hour ago. I called you as soon as I could”.

Remus sat down heavily in the chair beside his partner, face pale. “Dear Merlin… Where is he, Albus?”

“He’s here” Dumbledore said quietly, “At Hogwarts. He was just sorted into Slytherin as… as a Lestrange”.

Another beat of silence passed.

“... As a Lestrange?” Sirius whispered, “What do you mean, as a Lestrange?!”

“That night at Godric’s Hollow, Harry was kidnapped” the Headmaster replied, “From what I can gather, the boy was given by Voldemort to Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange to be raised as their son… He just started Hogwarts this evening”.

Sirius’s hands clenched into fists as he abruptly leapt to his feet. “I’m going down there”.

“No!” Dumbledore said sharply, “You cannot!”

“I cannot? I cannot?! He’s my godson, Albus! I’ve been searching for him for ten years! You think I’m just going to sit here while Bellatrix fucking Lestrange raises him like some twisted-”

“We all want to see him” Dumbledore cut in, “But you cannot rush in and confront the boy! He’s been… conditioned. If we corner him, accuse him, reveal the truth too fast, we risk scaring him off - or worse".

Sirius looked like he wanted to argue, badly, but then Remus put a calming hand on his arm and gave him a look - one that said they would find a way to talk to Harry together, as soon as they were safely out of the Headmaster’s office. Slowly, reluctantly, Sirius retook his seat.

Across the room, standing by the window, Mad-Eye snorted. “It’d be a waste of time, anyway. He’s a Lestrange. Raised by Bellatrix Black, for Merlin’s sake! What’re the odds he hasn’t got the Dark Mark already?”

“He’s eleven years old, Alastor!” Minerva said, aghast.

“Eleven and brainwashed”. Moody growled. “We’ve seen it before, Albus. Kids turned by the time they’re twelve. I say keep your wand on him and don’t turn your back".

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Lily snapped, “He’s my son!"

“Oh, so now he’s your son?” Severus said silkily.

Her head whipped toward him, familiar green eyes flashing in fury. “And you! You knew, didn’t you?! You knew all along where he was!”

“No, I did not” he replied firmly.

“Oh, please, don’t give me that! You had to know he was alive!” Lily hissed, “You’ve been inside the Lestrange household dozens of times! Don’t tell me you didn’t see him!”

“See what, Lily?” Severus snapped, rising to meet her anger, “What was I meant to see? A boy who looked like the perfect combination of Bellatrix and Rodolphus? A child that they were clearly over-protective of and therefore had no reason to bring out in public?! A boy who did not act like nor completely look like a dead baby from ten years ago?! I never had any suspicion that he wasn’t theirs! You were the one who told us Harry Potter was dead, so forgive me if I didn’t dig up their family trees to cross-check eye colours!”

Lily’s face flushed. “You still should have told us! You should have asked questions!”

“And you” he said, low and venomous, “should have fought for him when you had the chance!”

“That’s enough!” Dumbledore snapped, voice thunderous, slamming a hand on the desk.

The room fell silent again.

“We are not enemies here” he said firmly, gaze passing over each of them, “And we will not allow Harry’s fate to be decided by fury or guilt or grief. We must move carefully".

He turned toward the fire, his voice quieter now. “I will speak with the boy. Discreetly. Over time. I will find a way to reach him, to get through to him... To help him understand the truth... If there is any part of Harry Potter still inside him… I’ll find it".

“And what do you want us to do?” Remus asked.

“I want you to be ready” Dumbledore replied, “but I want you to be careful. We can’t reveal our plans too soon… You must also keep an eye on him, Severus. If he begins showing signs of… troubling tendencies, you will tell me. At once".

Severus stiffened. “You want me to spy on him?"

“I want you to protect him”. 

“From whom?” he asked coldly, “His enemies - or his family?”

The line between them was now starting to blur, after all.

Dumbledore didn’t answer, just looked back at him beseechingly. Severus knew he didn’t have a choice, not really, but even if he did… wouldn’t it be better to go along with the old fool’s plans anyway? To be kept on the inside, kept in his confidences? Kept close, so that he could use all he learned to protect Haedus?

“Fine” he said shortly, “I’ll keep an eye on him”.

Lily rose again, her voice soft but urgent. “I want to talk to him".

“No, my dear” Dumbledore said at once, “Not yet".

“He’s my son-“

“You had your chance” Sirius cut in coldly, and she turned toward him, appearing wounded, but it didn’t abate his anger one bit, “You gave him to Voldemort! You don’t deserve to see him! Not now! Not ever!”

“Enough, Sirius” Dumbledore said again, rubbing his temples, “We don’t have the luxury of reopening old wounds tonight".

He looked at the faces around him - weathered, bitter, scarred.

“This is not the end” he said quietly, “This is a beginning. A new chance… A new war… And Harry… Harry may be our only hope of ending it. We must gain his trust".

No one replied. The fire crackled. And somewhere far below, in the dungeons of the castle, a boy with dark curls and green eyes was dreaming of blood.

Monday, 2nd September

“There, look!”

“Where?” 

“Next to the kid with blond hair!”

Whispers followed Haedus from the moment he left his dormitory the next day. People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoes to get a look at him, or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. Groups parted like the Red Sea as he approached, murmurs and accusations unfurling like mist around him.

“Is it true that he’s a Lestrange?”

“That’s Bellatrix Black’s son!”

“What’re they thinking, allowing him in here?!”

Haedus paid them no mind. He moved with quiet precision - spine straight, chin lifted, every motion sharpened by etiquette lessons he’d endured since infancy. His uniform was immaculate, his tie knotted with Slytherin pride, his shoes polished to a cold, clean shine.

“They say he learned the Cruciatus before he could walk!”

“I heard that You-Know-Who gave him a wand made from human bone!”

“My parents told me that the reason he’s never been let out before is ‘cause he tries to kill everyone he sees!”

Haedus had to admit, he was glad that his parents had told him what to expect with Hogwart’s moving staircases and talking portraits, because, with all of the attention now suddenly on him, he wasn’t sure if he’d have been able to concentrate on finding his way to classes on top of everything else. Perhaps he should let Asha snap at the next person whose pointed finger got a little bit too close…

Thankfully, he’d managed to get two of Hogwarts’ permanent residents on his side already: Peeves - a troublesome Poltergeist, who Haedus bribed not to throw bits of chalk at him by promising to warn him whenever Filch was on his way to put an end to his mischief - and Argus Filch himself - whom Haedus had heard all about from his family. 

The caretaker was a squib, by all accounts, who hated children, hated mess, and hated life in general. The only two things Maman had told Haedus that Filch cared about were his cat, Mrs Norris, and "the old ways" of disciplining students. 

It was almost too easy to get on his good side.

All Haedus had to do was wait until he knew the man was just around the corner, and then loudly lament to Draco how it was “such a shame” that Dumbledore had outlawed corporal punishment, and “wouldn’t it be fantastic” if troublemakers could be disciplined “the right way”. And then, when Filch stepped out in front of them, Haedus apologised for almost bumping into “sir” and promptly complimented “sir’s cat” on her “beautiful eyes”. He’d even brought some cat treats from home to seal the deal, and just like that, Argus Filch began to eye him with something almost akin to respect.

Two down, only the rest of the staff to go - or, well, three down, really, Haedus mused, given that Sev was most definitely on his side already. Unfortunately, however, it would appear that the rest of his professors were just as wary around him as his fellow students were.

The first years had double Charms Monday morning, and when Professor Flitwick had reached Haedus’s name, he’d given a frightened little squeak and toppled out of sight off his chair. Haedus didn’t take it to heart - he’d already begged Barty to give him a crash course on how to get on his old Head of House’s good side, and he felt secure in the knowledge he’d memorised. All going well, Dumbledore would tell Flitwick at some point that Haedus had almost been Sorted into Ravenclaw, and between that and his determination to stay top of his class, the professor should warm up to him soon enough.

After a quick break, they made their way down through the castle grounds to the greenhouses for their first Herbology lesson with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout. Haedus knew less about her - apparently, there weren’t many Hufflepuffs in the Dark Lord’s Inner Circle, and he was loath to bring in an outsider in case they gave the game away. But Haedus knew the traits that Hufflepuffs valued, and he hoped that with enough hard work and patience, Sprout would like him too. 

Astronomy was a complete joke, but at least it was taught by another Slytherin, so as much as it pained Haedus to pay attention, he forced himself to do so, if for no other reason than House loyalty. After lunch, they had Transfiguration, and Haedus had been quite right to think that McGonagal wasn’t a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class. 

“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts” she said, “Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned”.

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. Haedus could see that the Gryffindors they shared the class with were all very impressed, but personally, he didn’t see what the big deal was. If McGonagall had truly wanted to dazzle him, then she should’ve turned one of his classmates into a pig instead - Haedus had once watched his Papa do something very similar to a man who had spilled some of the Dark Lord’s secrets, except in that case, Rodolphus had transfigured the traitor into a rabbit and then set the dogs on him. Now that had been worth watching!

After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each given a match and started trying to turn it into a needle - again, rather dull, and hardly worth his time. The spell was rudimentary, one he’d learned at home from a private tutor when he was eight, and Haedus managed to complete the transfiguration in seconds.

McGonagall, who had been walking up and down the aisles, checking on everyone’s progress, blinked when she saw it, and Haedus felt a dark curl of satisfaction at catching the supposedly unflappable woman off guard.

“… Excellent, Mr Lestrange” she eventually said, “Very precise. Take ten points for… Slytherin”.

He inclined his head, flashing her a winning smile. “Thank you, Professor”.

She paused for another moment, before moving on, but not before he saw the faint crease in her brow - worry, perhaps? Or guilt? Maman had told him that she was a member of Dumbledore’s Order - what little remained of it, anyway - so she likely knew who Haedus had used to be. Regardless, she was still one of the very, very few who hadn’t flinched at the sight of him this morning, and Papa had warned him that she could be a formidable opponent when she wanted to be, so Haedus decided not to write her off just yet.

The class everyone had really been looking forward to was Defence Against the Dark Arts. It was, after all, the subject. The one that every wizarding child looked forward to before arriving at Hogwarts. The one that separated the bold from the cautious, the capable from the cowardly.

The Gryffindors were already waiting outside the door when they arrived, clustered into awkward groups of gawking, whispering children. As usual, their conversation dimmed into a hush the moment Haedus appeared. He didn’t so much as glance in their direction.

Draco muttered darkly under his breath, “Honestly, they’ve got the brains of flobberworms. Do they think we can’t hear them?”

Haedus smiled serenely. “Let them talk. If we’re lucky, they’ll dig themselves into a hole they can’t easily get back out of”.

Before Draco could answer, the door creaked open, and their professor emerged.

Igor Karkaroff was tall and pale, his goatee neatly trimmed, his expression just a fraction too forced. His eyes glittered like shards of ice, and his long, foreign-accented vowels drew the attention of the whole hallway at once.

“Come in, come in” he said silkily, gesturing them forward, “Take your seats, children, and let us begin!”

As they filed inside, Haedus felt the subtle pressure of Karkaroff’s gaze linger on him longer than anyone else. Not assessing him like the others, not wary or cautious, but… expectant. He knew exactly who Haedus was, after all - just like how Haedus knew exactly who he was, too.

After the war, the Dark Lord had slowly yet surely forced his influence into Hogwarts, despite the castle remaining under Dumbledore’s control. He’d added new classes and updated the curriculum of others, and one of the changes he’d made was appointing a new DADA professor.

Tonton Baz had told him that the Dark Lord had tried appointing the Carrow twins to the Defence position and the newly formed Dark Arts class, but the Headmaster had dug his heels in on the matter. Instead, they had compromised on Igor Karkaroff - a man who, at least, according to the public, had very little connection to the Death Eaters. In reality, the professor was just as Dark as the Carrows were, so Haedus was excited to see what he would teach them.

The moment everyone had settled, Karkaroff glided toward the front of the room. “Defence Against the Dark Arts is a subject that requires more than just knowledge. It requires instinct. Discipline. Control".

His gaze slid slowly across the room like a blade.

“Some of you may think you know what lies in the shadows. You do not. Some of you may believe that bravery will save you. It will not. The only thing that keeps a wizard alive in true darkness… is power".

He turned back to the chalkboard and, with a flick of his wand, wrote his name: Professor Karkaroff.

“Now, today we begin simple. We will discuss the classification of Dark Magic. By the end of this week, you will understand the difference between a nuisance and a threat. And by the end of term…” His lips curled into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Well. Those of you who have talent will begin to understand what it means to fight darkness with more than just good intentions".

There was a nervous rustle from the Gryffindor side of the room. Haedus, seated near the front beside Blaise, simply steepled his fingers and watched.

Karkaroff gestured to the board again. “Now. Who can tell me the difference between a jinx, a hex, and a curse?”

Only one hand went up - Hermione Granger, who was nearly vibrating with eagerness. Karkaroff’s eyes skimmed past her as though she didn’t even exist and landed, instead, on Haedus.

“Mr Lestrange” he said smoothly, “Why don’t you enlighten us?”

There was a pause in the room.

Haedus met his gaze without hesitation. “A jinx is meant to irritate. A hex is meant to harm. And a curse is meant to maim".

Karkaroff’s smile widened. 

“Very good". He turned to the rest of the class. “A perfect answer. Precise. Efficient. Remember it".

The rest of the lesson passed quickly. They were given notes to copy - half of which Haedus had already learned at home - and then paired off for basic wand movement drills. Karkaroff circulated like a ghost, never raising his voice, always hovering behind students just long enough to unsettle them. When he passed Haedus’s desk, he paused.

“Mr Lestrange” he said quietly, under the buzz of student chatter, “Your aptitude in Defence is already… uniquely evident".

Haedus didn’t look up, instead continuing to take down notes from the blackboard. “Thank you, sir".

A pause. Then, in a voice just loud enough for him alone: “Should you ever find the lessons here too… tame… I may have recommendations for… extracurricular study".

Haedus finally met his eyes, Killing curse green on liquid ice, and kept his tone perfectly even. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir”.

Karkaroff moved on without another word, but the invitation lingered like smoke. What the man didn’t know, of course, was that Rabastan had told Haedus far more than just where his loyalties lay - he’d also told him just how fickle Karkaroff’s loyalties were. Based on what he’d just said - and offered - it was clear that the professor was trying to recruit Haedus, trying to bribe him to his cause, to his way of thinking, to his side. The Dark Lord most certainly hadn’t given him any orders to do so, which was… curious, to say the least.

Was he trying to win Haedus’s favour? Or trying to get an in with the Lestrange’s? Tonton Baz was almost always a happy and easy-going person, so the fact that he had so many terrible things to say about Karkaroff was a sure sign that Haedus’s parents didn’t like the man either. Or did he hope that, by making Haedus indebted to him, he’d get back on the Dark Lord’s good side? He’d heard more than one rumour that Karkaroff being posted at Hogwarts was a punishment for some unknown slight, and it was no secret within certain circles that the Dark Lord paid attention to Haedus.

He sighed and redipped his quill into his inkwell.

Only one day in, and the politics of it all were already making his head hurt!

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 3rd September

Haedus wrote a letter to his family during their free period after Herbology the following morning. 

He told them all about his first day - how he’d been Sorted into Slytherin, as expected, how Dumbledore had requested a “private meeting” with him, also expected, and how he was already excelling in most of his classes, which was again, expected. He didn’t tell them how most of his professors were suspicious of him, or how the other students whispered and stared, or even how Karkaroff had offered him private lessons that very obviously would have strings attached.

Haedus wanted to see how it’d all play out first.

Walking up to the owlery, he used a nondescript school owl to send his envelope. He didn’t really believe that the Headmaster or journalists or anyone else, for that matter, would try to intercept his letters to his family, but that same family had raised Haedus with the firm belief that only the paranoid survived, and it never hurt to be extra cautious whenever he could. 

Having seen it safely off, he happily returned to the dungeons for their first Potions class of the year. Unfortunately, Sev had already warned Haedus that he wouldn’t treat him any differently just because they were friends - or, well, what the man had actually said was “friends with your parents” but Haedus liked to think that he was just being his usual grumpy self and that he was friends with Severus too. Either way, the man had never lied to him before - something which pleased Haedus greatly - so he knew not to expect anything more familiar than "Head of house/Professor" and "student" while in his class.

He met Draco at the door, heroically survived the boy's tongue lashing for going off alone, and then graciously offered to sit with him as soon as the bell rang. 

Severus, like Flitwick, started the class by taking roll call, but unlike Flitwick, he didn’t pause when he reached Haedus’s name. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word - like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. After taking attendance, they received the dramatic yet admittedly rather impressive speech that Haedus had expected from the man, and then came The Test, which he felt deserved to be capitalised as it was delivered with Sev’s usual level of flair. 

“Lestrange!” Snape said suddenly, “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” 

Haedus briefly narrowed his eyes at him, just to make sure his irritation at being put on the spot was known, before answering. 

“The Draught of Living Death, sir”.

“Two points to Slytherin… Weasley! Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

A red-haired Gryffindor frowned and shook his head. “I… I dunno”.

Haedus was amused to see that Hermione Granger, sitting one row in front of the boy, was almost falling off her chair, her hand was raised so high. 

“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming?” Severus asked slyly, “Malfoy?”

“A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, sir” Draco promptly replied. 

 “Very good. Take another two points… Longbottom! What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” 

The blond boy sitting next to Weasley frowned too, but answered with a hesitant, “There… There is no difference, sir. Monkshood, wolfsbane, and- and aconite are all the same plant”.

Snape… paused and then gave Longbottom a thoroughly disgruntled look as if to say how dare you give me the correct answer! before he replied, with extreme reluctance, “Two... points... to... Gryffindor… Well? Why aren’t you all copying this down?!”

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment as everyone frantically tried to remember what had just been said. Haedus could only smirk as he reached for his emerald green inkwell - it turned out Severus was just as dramatic at Hogwarts as he was everywhere else. 

Right before lunch, they had their first History of Magic class, although Haedus didn’t hold much hope for it going very well. When he’d first found out a few years ago that it was the only Hogwarts subject taught by a ghost, he’d been excited… right up until Barty had told him just how mind-numbingly dull a professor that Binns was. 

He’d already been as old as Dumbledore when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. When Haedus asked Barty why the Dark Lord hadn’t done anything about him yet, he’d been told that only the Headmaster of Hogwarts had the power to fire Binns, and until he did, it wouldn’t be possible to replace him.

It was yet another point against Albus bloody Dumbledore.

As predicted, Binns droned on and on while they scribbled down names and dates, and got Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball mixed up for an entire hour until the bell rang and they were finally free to go to lunch, after which, they had Muggle Studies.

“Seats. Quickly now”.

Professor Quirrell’s voice was reedy, tight around the edges, like a violin string stretched too close to snapping. The students shuffled in. Haedus chose a seat with Draco and Blaise in the middle of the room. Granger, predictably, took the front row - although given that she had grown up in the muggle world, Haedus didn’t know what she expected to learn up there.

Once everyone was seated, Quirrell tapped the board with his wand. Words appeared in immaculate script: Unit One: Threats to the Magical World from Non-Magical Civilisations

There was a beat of silence, and then Granger raised her hand.

“Yes?” Quirrell asked, tone clipped.

“Sir, I thought that Muggle Studies was about understanding muggles and learning about their daily lives without magic”.

“We’ll get to that” he replied, “But first, it’s important that everyone in this room learns the truth about muggles. They are not foolish or antiquated. They are dangerous - and they have the potential to be far more dangerous as well”.

“... Oh”. 

Poor Granger looked confused. Next to him, Draco poorly hid his snort of amusement. Haedus didn’t smile. He sat, utterly still, as Quirrell continued.

“You will not be learning about electricity today. You will not be learning about cars or radios or light bulbs. You will, however, be learning about the death and destruction that muggles can bring and the current network of muggle surveillance states whose technologies pose direct risk to our very existence".

Well then. There was no gentle easing into this class, Haedus mused.

“Muggle-born students may excuse themselves from portions of the lectures if needed, per Ministry guidelines, though I advise you to stay” Quirrell continued, glancing around the room almost distastefully, “If you intend to live in this world, you should understand the threats your other world has bred”.

Several muggle-borns shifted uncomfortably. Granger’s hand twitched as though she wanted to argue but didn’t know how. Haedus watched it all with mild interest. It was elegant. Precise. And far more effective than propaganda posters or blood-purity slogans. This was no snarling Death Eater ideology - this was policy. Sanitized. Systematized. Just another part of their education.

“How many of you know what the term technocracy means?” Quirrell asked.

No hands went up - not even Granger’s.

“It’s the developing theory of how advanced muggle technologies might one day pierce the Statute of Secrecy itself” he said softly, “Because you see, the muggles are learning. Slowly. Unintentionally. But they are… watching. Always”.

Haedus felt a shiver run through him.

“Magic is powerful” Quirrell finished, voice low and crisp, “But muggles do not need a wand to destroy us. They only need to see us. Study us. Categorise us. Strip away our myth and cage us, use our magic to advance their own world… until there is nothing left of ours”.

He left the words settle, let the weight of them hang in the air like thick smoke. Haedus could feel the tension in the room. The fear. The moral confusion. It was masterful.

Finally, Quirrell said, “You will be tested at the end of term on Unit One, including the full timeline of the Non-Magical Threat Progression Chart. There will be no extra credit for defending muggle scientific achievement. This is not a debate class. It is history… And history is written by the survivors”.

Wednesday, 4th September

Haedus left the Defence classroom in a huff.

They only had a fifteen-minute break before their next block of classes, but Karkaroff had held him back at the end to ask him if he’d given any more thought about learning “extra” DADA. The man was clearly determined to get on his good side - and consequently, on the good side of the Black’s, Lestrange’s, and the Dark Lord’s, but Haedus didn’t have time for him right now and he’d been half-tempted to return to his dorm to retrieve Asha and have her bite the irritating man.

His friends had gone on ahead, and he strode through the corridors to try and catch up with them before Charms started. He moved quickly but without drawing attention, sticking to the back corridors and unused passageways that Tonton Baz and Barty had told him about over the years. Not quite breaking rules - just bending them a little.

As he made his way through the West Tower, he paused just before a sharp corner as he heard voices up ahead - Dumbledore’s was most definitely one, but he didn’t recognise the other low, rumbling tone.

Haedus crept closer, staying well out of view.

“-jus’ don’t see ‘ow it’s safe, Professor” the second man was saying, “If you think You-Know-Who wants to get his hands on it then-”

“Calm yourself, Hagrid” Dumbledore said, his voice level and grave and tinged with that maddening trace of amusement, as though he found everything in life vaguely humorous, “The object is still in my possession. It is still safe”.

“You sure keepin’ it at the school’s wise, though? It’s not jus’ anythin’ we’re talkin’ about here - maybe I should’ve left the package in Gringotts”.

There was a brief pause, during which Haedus inched even closer to the corner, before Dumbledore replied.

“You know why that was unwise, Hagrid, and soon, the final enchantments will be in place” he said, “The third-floor corridor will be sealed properly, and the protections layered over it will be quite... effective. Until then, the item is safe under my watch”.

The third-floor corridor. Haedus stilled completely, eyes narrowing. That was the one Dumbledore had warned everyone away from during the Welcoming Feast. What was it that he had said? Something about it being out of bounds to anyone who didn’t want to die painfully? At the time, he’d thought nothing of it, putting it down as yet another of the old man’s eccentricities that he used to make people believe him harmless. Now, however…

“Well… you know best, Professor” Hagrid finished, “Jus’ as long as it’s kept safe”.

Just as long as what is kept safe? What was Dumbledore hiding? And why was he hiding it here, instead of keeping it at Gringotts? Or burying it somewhere unmarked and forgotten? Why bring it into the one place packed full of curious children and then make a point of telling them how forbidden its hiding place was?

Haedus didn’t know what the object was, not yet. But he knew power when he heard it - and secrecy too. And Dumbledore was rarely so explicit about either.

There was movement around the other side of the corner, and Haedus took that as his cue. Swiftly and silently, he backed away, retreating into the shadows of the upper hallway and ducking behind a suit of armour just before the two figures came around the corner.

Hagrid appeared first, massive shoulders hunched and brow furrowed, still muttering to himself. Dumbledore followed a moment later, serene as ever, gaze seemingly unfocused as he walked with Hagrid down the corridor.

Haedus waited until they were definitely gone, and then slipped away in the other direction, disappearing down the staircase with the same quiet speed he’d used to arrive, just as the bell rang signalling the start of their next class.

Except his mind was no longer on Karkaroff’s insistent invitations or catching up with his friends or even staying on Flitwick’s good side. No, his mind was now on the third-floor corridor, the package from Gringotts, and whatever the bloody hell Albus Dumbledore was trying to hide.

Later that day, as they studied the night skies through their telescopes and learned the names of different stars and the movements of the planets in Astronomy, Haedus told his friends what he’d overheard.

“I’m telling you, something’s off” he murmured, keeping his tone casual enough not to draw the attention of Professor Sinistra, who was drifting between groups of students behind them, “Hagrid said it used to be in Gringotts, but then Dumbledore decided to move it here. And not even somewhere secure, like a- a secret vault or whatever beneath the castle! He chose to keep it on the third floor and then announced to the entire school that it was forbidden to go there”.

The air was crisp and clear atop the Astronomy Tower, stars burning sharp and bright above them as parchment rustled and quills scratched in the dark. 

“He said that something in the corridor would kill anyone who went near it” Haedus continued, “So naturally, half the school is now desperate to sneak down there and find out what’s being kept hidden!”

Draco, who’d been idly twiddling with the eyepiece on his telescope, snorted. “You sound as paranoid as Auntie Bella, Hades - next you’ll be drawing protection runes in blood! It’s probably just some dusty ancient artefact - one of those cursed goblets or weird relics that old wizards like Dumbledore collect. Expensive, rare, and completely and utterly boring”.

Haedus didn’t answer immediately. He stared up at the stars instead, jaw tight. Beneath the vast constellations above them, dancing across the sky in glittering arcs, the world felt oddly small.

“No” he finally replied, “If it were just something rare or valuable, it wouldn’t matter to Hagrid. And it wouldn’t matter to the Dark Lord either”.

Blaise glanced over with a faint frown, while Theo started to look distinctly troubled. Draco, however, only sighed and rolled his eyes. “You don’t know that he meant the Dark Lord”.

“Yes, I do! He said "You-Know-Who" and we all know what that’s code for!” he shot back, before leaning forward slightly, voice dropping further, “Think about it. Dumbledore moves some mysterious object from a Gringotts vault right before term starts. Then he locks it in a corridor in the one place filled with hundreds of under-supervised, curious kids, and advertises how dangerous it is. And now there’s talk of the Dark Lord wanting to steal it? It’s not paranoia if there’s a pattern, Draco!”

He gave a little shrug, unconvinced. “Or he just doesn’t trust the goblins anymore. Or maybe it’s too dangerous to keep in Gringotts”.

“Then why not destroy it?” Haedus countered sharply, “If it’s that dangerous, why keep it anywhere at all? Why risk so many lives moving it here? Why risk it being taken or stolen?”

There was silence for a few moments as the group considered that.

“You think it’s a trap” Theo said quietly, ever the tactician.

“I don’t know” Haedus admitted. “But whatever it is, it’s important. To Dumbledore. To Hagrid. Maybe even to the Dark Lord. And if Dumbledore’s setting a trap, then he’s willing to use the entire student body as bait”.

Blaise tilted his head to the side, warm brown eyes considering. “That sounds… reckless. Even for him”.

They fell quiet again, the only sound the wind whistling around the battlements and Sinistra’s faint voice in the distance discussing Jupiter’s moons. A shooting star traced a silver arc across the sky, but Haedus didn’t bother pointing it out. His mind was no longer on Astronomy.

He wasn’t sure what was on the third floor. He didn’t know what Dumbledore was hiding - or why it mattered. But if it was important enough to move from Gringotts, and dangerous enough to warn students away from, then it wasn’t just some ancient dusty relic.

It was something powerful.

And if Dumbledore thought he could dangle it in front of the world and no one would notice… he’d underestimated the wrong Slytherin.

Haedus said nothing more that night, but as he packed up his telescope, he silently vowed to keep his ears open. If there was something hidden in Hogwarts - something Dumbledore didn’t want anyone to find - then it was only a matter of time before someone tried stealing it.

And Haedus intended to make sure he knew everything by the time they did.

Saturday, 7th September

Their first weekend at Hogwarts was overcast and cool, a pale mist drifting just beyond the windows of the library like the castle itself was breathing.

“Honestly” Blaise muttered, flipping a page of Magical Theory with the enthusiasm of a sleeping flobberworm, “First Saturday here and we’re buried in books. I thought Hogwarts was supposed to be fun?”

“You’re the one who wants to be an Auror” Theo said without looking up, “Try having a Defence career without top marks in Defence. See how far that gets you”.

“Not to mention, some of us actually plan to stay top of the year” Haedus added, reaching into his bag and withdrawing two envelopes, “Preferably with enough margin that no one can question it”.

Draco groaned theatrically. “You’re both mad! Why weren’t you Sorted into Ravenclaw again?”

“Because the Hat knew you’d bring shame to Slytherin House if he didn’t Sort us there too to remind you to do your Transfiguration essay” he replied smoothly, flipping over the letters.

They had arrived this morning during breakfast. Both had been written on heavy parchment and had been sealed with blood-red wax bearing his family’s crest - a raven mid-flight. One was from his parents, the other from Tonton Baz, and both had some interesting things to say. Haedus opened his parents’ first.

We’re proud of you, mon étoile, naturally. Make friends where you can, but trust no one. And don't let them shape you - shape them. The old fool will be watching you closely from now on. Send word if he starts asking questions he shouldn’t.

He refolded the letter, wondering if he should tell his parents about what he’d overheard Dumbledore say about the third-floor corridor. He decided to wait a while first - maybe Draco was right and he really was just being paranoid about the whole thing. Shaking his head, Haedus reread the second letter. 

Keep your head down and learn everything you can. This world is changing faster than we’d like. Your father may pretend he doesn’t worry, but I know the look in his eyes, mon petit serpent. He’s expecting something to happen, and soon - we all are. Watch the teachers. Watch the students more. And watch Albus Dumbledore the most.

It was… unusual for Rabastan to be so serious about something. His uncle had always been a happy and mischievous man who had refused to settle down, much to grand-péré’s chagrin, so for him to sound so formal in his letter was… concerning.

Before Haedus could think too much about it, he heard a quiet, polite cough from his right.

He turned.

Hermione Granger stood there, clutching a stack of books so tightly her knuckles were white. She looked torn between her natural instinct to blurt out facts and the deep discomfort of standing near four Slytherins.

“I… sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt” she started awkwardly, “But… could I, uh, maybe… maybe ask you something?”

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got to be joking”.

Draco scoffed audibly. “If you’ve got a question, then go find a prefect, Granger!”

Theo didn’t even bother looking up from his notes.

Haedus didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he studied her. She’d been at the library already when they’d arrived, but hadn’t glanced over when they entered - deliberately, he’d thought at the time. But now she looked… nervous. Not afraid, not exactly, but… uncertain. It was an unusual look for her.

“... Have a seat” he said at least, ignoring Draco’s immediate squawking protests.

“Thanks”. Granger flashed him a quick, small smile, dropped her books on the table next to theirs and pulled out the chair directly next to him. Her eyes darted to the two letters in front of Haedus, then back to his face.

“I was just wondering…” she began, “About what Professor Quirrell said in Muggle Studies this week and… well… since you’re from a, uh… a very… traditional pure-blood wizarding family, I thought you’d be the best person to ask”.

There was a pause. Even Theo had looked up by now.

She took a deep breath, and then her words all rushed out of her at once. “Do wizards really believe all that? That muggles are dangerous?! I thought that was all prejudice. I mean, my parents are muggles - they’re dentists. They don’t have satellites watching people or weapons that could hurt a wizard! Is that really what people in the wizarding world think?!”

Haedus considered her for another moment before replying. She didn’t seem angry or hostile about it - she looked genuinely curious to hear his answer. That meant she was willing to listen to him then, rather than discount everything he said because it didn’t come from a textbook.

“Some do” he said calmly, “Some don’t. But it’s not really about belief, Granger. It’s about precedent”.

She blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“Historically, muggles have killed everything they couldn’t understand” Haedus continued, “Even each other. Do you really think they’d make an exception for us if they knew we existed? I mean, look at what happened during the Salem witch trials!”

“But that was hundreds of years ago-”

“They still have nuclear bombs” Theo interrupted quietly, eyes cool. “And weapons. And cameras and surveillance networks that see more than our Ministry ever could”.

“That doesn’t mean they’d use them!” she protested.

“No” Haedus agreed slowly, “Not immediately. But what happens when a muggle government finds a way to capture magic? To weaponise it? Do you think the Statute of Secrecy was invented just to keep muggles safe from us?”

She was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, “But if they got to know us - if we taught them - they might understand. Isn’t hiding just making things worse?”

“It’s not hiding. It’s containment”. He leaned forward slightly. “If I gave you a dragon egg and told you it was harmless - that it was cute and misunderstood and should be raised in your house - would you believe me?”

Hermione’s warm brown eyes narrowed. “That’s hardly the same thing!”

“Isn’t it?” he challenged, “We can do things muggles can’t even imagine. Bend reality. Break it. Travel through time… If the situation were reversed, if you weren’t a witch, but a muggle and one day you discovered a secret magical society with the power to rewrite the laws of nature… would you immediately trust it?”

Hermione didn’t answer right away, and when she replied, her voice was very quiet. “I… I don’t know”. 

Haedus sat back. “Then maybe the question isn’t whether we think muggles are dangerous. Maybe it’s whether they would decide that we are”.

She looked down at her books - which, he belatedly realised, were all Muggle Studies related - and then back up at him. There was something stormy in her expression now - not fear, but thought. Consideration. She clearly wasn’t happy with his answer - he had no doubt that it hadn’t been what she’d expected or wanted to hear - but she at least recognised and understood that it was the truth, whether she liked it or not.

“Thank you” she said stiffly, “For answering my question”.

“Anytime” Haedus replied, and he meant it too.

She stood up, picked up her stack of books, and turned to walk back to her own table.

“We’ll be here next Saturday too” he said suddenly, somewhat impulsively, “If you… have any more questions”.

Hermione gave him a surprised look, but she also looked somewhat pleased, so he didn’t think he’d upset her too much. After a moment, she nodded, gave him another brief smile - this one warmer than the last - and then returned to her work.

“What was that?!” Draco hissed at him, as soon as she was out of earshot, “She’s a muggle-born!”

“And you’re a pure-blooded prat” he replied mildly, “What of it?”

The blond huffed at him in disbelief and then spun back around to scowl down at his Transfiguration essay in indignation. Blaise gave Haedus a narrow-eyed, suspicious look as if expecting him to be plotting something - but, to be fair, he usually was. Theo merely looked curious.

Haedus leaned back in his chair, watching Hermione return to her table and sink down behind her stack of books, clearly trying to return to her studying but with a new stiffness to her shoulders. She was really thinking about what he’d said, then. Good.

Papa had taught him to consider every single angle of every single situation he found himself in. Never dismiss something just because it was inconvenient. Never trust a truth that couldn’t withstand scrutiny. Never treat someone poorly until they prove themselves unworthy of his respect. That was the mark of a proper strategist, of someone who deserved to lead, not just follow. He glanced down again at Tonton Baz’s letter.

Watch the teachers. Watch the students more.

Well, Hermione Granger was a student. And not just any student - a muggle-born, one of the top three in every class already, and more importantly, someone who wanted to understand. And that… that made her useful.

Haedus didn’t believe in wasting potential - especially since the only reason the Dark Lord had spared him was because of his own potential. And he didn’t believe in choosing a side before he knew what or why he was choosing it either. That was a fatal flaw with many of the old families - they were too eager to stamp out anything that didn’t immediately look like them, like their history, or like their version of “power”.

But Haedus didn’t want to rule what was left of the wizarding world after some grand ideological cull - he wanted to rule a world strong enough to survive what came next. And to do that… he had to understand the enemy. Except - and this was something he had never said out loud - he wasn’t so sure that muggles were the enemy.

Maybe his family was right, and maybe they were... but maybe they were just something else rather than something useless - a variable no one had studied properly. Even the Dark Lord didn’t want them destroyed, not really. He wanted separation. Total, permanent seclusion. Two worlds, locked apart.

Haedus tapped a finger against the table, thoughtful.

If that was ever going to work, he reasoned, then someone would have to decide what to do with people like Granger. Born to one world, called into another. And if they were forced to choose, to really choose between magic and muggles, then their opinion had to be considered. 

Hermione Granger knew things none of them did - things that even he didn’t. Not just about muggles, but about how they thought. About how they feared. About how they reacted. If Haedus could learn that from her, if he could understand what made the muggle world tick, what kept them obedient and what made them violent, then he could make a real decision regarding their fate. 

Not one inherited from the Blacks or the Lestranges or even the Potters. It would be a decision of his own - and that would make all the difference.

Chapter Text

Thursday, 12th September

At three-thirty that afternoon, Haedus, Draco, and the other Slytherins hurried down the front steps onto the grounds for their first Flying lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as they marched down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn upon which twenty broomsticks were lying in neat lines. 

He’d had to leave Asha in their dormitory - or, at least, he chose to leave her there. He didn’t have to, a fact which she had pointed out multiple times during their argument, but at the end of the day, Haedus wasn’t going to risk Asha falling or making him fall while they were soaring thirty feet in the air. 

“Well, what are you all waiting for?!” Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. “Everyone, stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up”.

Haedus raised a solitary eyebrow and shared a look with Draco. She certainly wasn’t in a very jolly mood today, now was she?

“Stick out your right hand over your broom” Hooch called at the front, “and say ‘Up!’”

That was wrong too - they shouldn’t use their right hands, they should be using their dominant hand. Regardless, Haedus did as told and was pleased when his broom jumped into his hand at once. Papa had taught him how to use a broom safely, but it had been Maman who had taught him how to really fly. She had been a beater on the Slytherin Quidditch team six years straight and had instilled her love of the game in him, too.

Tracey Davis, three places to his left, had a noticeable tremor in her voice when she said “Up!” which caused her broom to stay exactly where it was. Blaise caught his second try. Granger’s had simply rolled over on the ground. Across the row, Draco’s broom flew up, and he caught it with a smug smirk.

“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard” Hooch said, “Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle! Three- two-”

But Davis, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch’s lips.

“Wait- No!”

The spindly broom shuddered violently beneath her, rocketing upwards as she tried to dismount, throwing her off-balance.

“Come back, girl!” Hooch shouted, but Davis was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle - twelve feet - twenty feet. Tracey let out a panicked cry as the broom began to tilt dangerously.

“I said, come down at once!” Hooch shouted again, causing Haedus to stare at her in disbelief. Did she honestly think that Davis was just playing around? That she had any control whatsoever over this situation? Why wasn’t she doing anything to save her?!

He saw Tracey’s terrified, pale face look down at the ground as she started to slip sideways off the broom and-

Haedus didn’t think.

He just moved.

He kicked off the ground and shot into the air, his broom slicing upward like an arrow, the world narrowing to a single point of focus. One hand clutched the handle; the other shot out, fingers extended. He could feel the air whip past his face, feel the broom hum under his knees.

Tracey’s scream was cut short by a solid whump as Haedus’s arm caught her around the waist.

They descended fast but smooth, skidding slightly across the grass before landing hard on damp earth. Davis was pale and shaken and trembling against him - but at least she was still alive.

Madame Hooch was storming towards them across the lawn.

“Mister Lestrange! What in Merlin’s name was that?! What were you doing-”

“What were you doing?!” he demanded, cutting across her, green eyes blazing, “You just stood there shouting at her! Why didn’t you do anything to help?!”

“I told her to come down!”

“She was clearly terrified and couldn’t control her broom! You could have slowed her or caught her or levitated her - anything! But instead, you just stood there and watched!”

“Taking off after another student is not permitted! It is not your job to meddle with other students' flying!”

“You’re right - it’s your job! One that you weren’t doing!”

The class was silent, staring at him with wide eyes and pale faces. Even the wind seemed to hold itself still. Madame Hooch’s jaw tightened. She yanked a roll of parchment from her robes, scribbled something furiously, and thrust it into Haedus’s hand.

“Take this to your Head of House. Now”.

Haedus didn’t flinch. “Gladly!”

He turned on his heel. The parchment crackled in his grip. He didn’t need to read it to know what it said - but he also knew Severus Snape, and more importantly, he knew exactly whose side the man would take in this situation once he’d heard the full story.

Haedus allowed himself the smallest flicker of a smirk as he stalked up toward the castle, leaving the stunned silence of the lawn behind him.

The door to Severus Snape’s office slammed open with a bang so loud that it almost sent a stack of essays fluttering to the floor.

“Hello to you too” he said dryly, not looking up from the dark green potion he was siphoning into a labelled vial, “Is knocking suddenly considered déclassé in your new social circle, Mr Lestrange?”

Haedus stormed in, jaw tense, eyes burning, and slapped the rolled-up parchment onto Snape’s desk with all the finality of a declaration of war.

“I’ve been told to give you this” he said tightly, “By Madam Hooch”.

Snape arched an eyebrow. “How fortunate. I was just thinking how long it’s been since you’ve made my life difficult”.

He finished corking the vial, laid it down with surgical precision, and finally picked up the parchment. His eyes skimmed the contents. His expression didn’t change - not at first. But then his brow creased slightly, and his gaze lifted to Haedus with narrowed interest.

“Insubordination... Reckless behaviour... Defying direct instruction” Severus read aloud, “You’ve certainly covered the full Gryffindor trifecta”.

Haedus bristled. “I wasn’t being reckless!”

“That” Snape said, rolling the parchment back up, “is what makes this so intriguing. You’re many things, Haedus, but you are never foolish. Start talking”.

He inhaled once, sharply, magic sparking hot under his skin, bitter with adrenaline, righteous fury still curling through his veins.

“She let Tracey Davis fall” he said, “A half-blood, raised in the muggle world, who has never been on a broom before! She told her to go up and hover - without any safety precautions! - and Tracey panicked and shot thirty feet into the air on one of those ancient school brooms”.

Severus’s expression darkened. “And then?”

“And then she did nothing!” Haedus snapped, “Hooch just stood there shouting at her to come down like Tracey had any control over what was happening! I watched her start to fall and I- I didn’t even think. I just… I flew up and caught her”.

Snape leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

“She was falling” Haedus said again, quieter now, “She could have died, Sev! And Hooch just stood there like a bloody statue! Why didn’t she take out her wand?! Why didn’t she slow her down or- or cast a Cushioning charm?! She just yelled at Tracey and then yelled at me when I caught her so- so I yelled back and she sent me to you”.

Severus took a slow, deep breath and then exhaled. “The reason why Madam Hooch did not use her wand, Haedus, is because Madam Hooch is a squib”.

He blinked, startled. “She’s what?”

“A squib” he repeated blithely, “She’s incapable of performing magic, which is why, I presume, she did nothing but stand and watch”.

“She’s a- But she- It’s- She could have flown!” he countered hotly, “She has to be a good flier if she’s the Flying professor despite having no magic! She still could’ve taken off after Tracey like I did! And why the bloody hell is she even a professor if she doesn’t have magic?! She can’t even catch students if they do fall! She shouldn’t be in charge of a dangerous class if she can’t do anything to counteract that danger!”

“I agree” Snape replied calmly, “But she’s not here because she’s competent. She’s here because Dumbledore believes in second chances and inclusion and in giving those who’ve been denied magic a place in our world”.

“And the rest of us just have to live with his sentimentality?” Haedus spat, “If he wants to give squibs a place here, then fine! But he can’t give them jobs that put our lives at risk! First Binns, now Hooch - how many more bloody professors are going to impact our learning just because the Headmaster feels sorry for them?!”

Severus sighed, glancing at the parchment again before setting it down like it offended him. Then he pulled out a blank scroll of paper, summoned a quill, and wrote a no doubt terse reply.

“You won’t be punished” he said quietly, “And if she dares write you up again, she’ll find my response considerably less polite”.

Haedus felt the tight coil of tension in his chest loosen - just a little.

“Thank you” he said, although it came out somewhat stiff as he struggled to settle his anger, “She could have gotten Tracey killed!”

“I’m aware”.

There was a beat of silence, thick and taut.

“You did the right thing” Severus said finally, in that rare, soft tone that held no sarcasm, no irony, just truth, “You usually do”.

Haedus turned away, swallowing down the tightness in his throat. “... Do I still have to go back to class?”

“Yes” he said shortly, holding out the parchment, “But be sure to give this to Madam Hooch when you do. I’ll report the incident to the Headmaster - I doubt anything valuable will actually come from doing so, but… one can only live in hope”.

“But can’t the Dark Lord just-”

“As powerful and far-reaching as the Dark Lord is, Haedus, even he cannot control everything” Severus interrupted, “Changing the careless whims of Albus Dumbledore being one such example… We are fortunate that he was even able to change what little parts of Hogwarts that he did, but firing the professors of minor subjects is a task that still falls solely to the Headmaster of this school”.

Haedus reluctantly nodded - he’d expected as much. Reaching out to take the note, he gave the man a small smile. “Thanks, Sev”.

“That’s Professor Snape to you, brat” he scolded lightly, raising an eyebrow, “Now go - if you hurry, you shouldn’t miss too much of your lesson”.

The boy nodded again and left his office. Severus watched him go, feeling both proud that Haedus had protected a fellow Slytherin and furious at Madam Hooch that he even had to. He’d been right, after all - squib or not, the woman still could have flown to Davis’s rescue, but instead, she had not.

Still, though - catching another eleven-year-old thirty feet above the ground after making a split-second decision and landing them both safely was, admittedly, rather impressive.

Severus slowly reached out and pulled another piece of parchment towards him.

This one, he addressed to the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team.

The sun was beginning to set in the sky, streaking the castle walls with soft gold and violet shadows as the students filtered in through the main entrance of Hogwarts on their way to dinner. The clatter of footsteps and soft murmur of conversation filled the Entrance Hall, punctuated by the occasional loud laugh or shouted greeting as friends reunited after the day’s classes.

Haedus had just reached the grand oak doors, the day’s weight finally beginning to slide off his shoulders, when he heard a voice call out across the crowd.

“Oi! Lestrange!”

He turned, frowning slightly, only to see Marcus Flint - tall, stocky, and broad - shouldering his way through the crowd like a troll through undergrowth. Once he got past them, however, the path was clear to make his way over to Haedus - even after two weeks at Hogwarts, his fellow students were still giving him a wide berth, as if even just being in the general vicinity of him would make them drop dead.

“Flint” Haedus greeted, “What can I do for you?”

“Professor Snape sent me a rather interesting note today” the boy replied, “Apparently, you pulled off a clean mid-air catch to stop a girl falling off her broom from about thirty feet… That true?”

“Yes” he said simply, “Although she had already fallen off her broom at that point - I just caught her as she fell. Why?”

Flint let out a low whistle. “Well, bloody hell. Didn’t know we had anyone who could do that in first year”.

“I learned how to fly young”. He gave a modest shrug. “My mother was a beater and my uncle was a chaser for Slytherin back when they were students here. I’ve been flying all my life”.

“Now that’s what I like to hear”. Flint leaned in slightly, voice dropping just low enough to avoid being overheard by the passing Hufflepuffs. “We’ve been needing a proper seeker for a while now. Higgs is decent, but he’s better as a chaser - too heavy in the air to take off after the snitch properly. You, on the other hand…”

Haedus blinked. “You want me to be your seeker?”

Flint nodded, expression serious now. “I’m not promising you the position yet - I want to see how you fly myself first - but I want you to come to our first practice next Tuesday, after dinner”.

“But first-years aren’t allowed on the House teams” he said cautiously, though his pulse had already quickened, “It’s against school rules”.

“Usually, yeah. But exceptions can be made in, uh… extenuating circumstances” Flint said, flashing him a brief, mischievous grin, “Snape already signed off on it. Said he’d personally override the rule if I thought you were good enough”.

That took Haedus aback. “He really said that?”

“Yep… Or, well, what he actually said was ‘Lestranage is competent and adequately cautious, which is more than I can say for the rest of your team’... So. You in?”

There was no hesitation. “Of course I’m in!”

“Good”. Flint clapped him hard on the shoulder, almost buckling his knees. “We train every Tuesday and Thursday evening. Don’t be late. I’ll see if Higgs or Bletchley can bring a spare practice broom for you - unless you’ve got your own?”

“I do” Haedus replied quickly, “Papa had one custom-made for me when I turned ten - it’s as good as the Nimbus Two Thousand, if not faster”.

Flint gave an approving grunt. “Well, you just keep sounding better and better. Don’t make me regret this, yeah?”

“You won’t” he replied, allowing the smallest smirk to touch his lips, “I only ever play to win”.

With one last pat, Flint turned and started back toward the Great Hall. Haedus stood for a moment, letting the news settle in his chest like wildfire. 

Seeker. 

He’d dreamed of flying for Slytherin ever since his mother had first told him about her Quidditch years. And now, before the team was even a fortnight old, before he himself had even been at Hogwarts two weeks, he might just get that chance.

“Why do you look so suspiciously pleased with yourself?”

Haedus turned to find Draco sauntering toward him, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between curiosity and wariness. 

Haedus felt his grin widen, but he kept his voice low. “I might be playing for the House team”.

Draco blinked. “What, like… Quidditch?”

“No, Gobstones” he replied dryly. “Yes, Quidditch! After I told Sev what happened, he went and told Flint, and now they want me to come to practice next week to try out for seeker!”

“You’re joking” Draco said, a little too quickly, but Haedus only shook his head. 

“Well... Good for you” he said stiffly, then, after a beat, added, “Although it’s a bit rich, isn’t it? First-years aren’t supposed to play. That’s against the rules”.

He gave him a sharp look. “Now you’re starting to sound like Granger”.

Draco made a face at that, then shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I’m just saying. It’s… unusual, is all… I’m happy for you”.

But Haedus saw the tightness in his jaw, the way he glanced briefly down at the ground before lifting his chin again. Of course, he was annoyed - Draco had been bragging about Quidditch since the train ride. No doubt he’d expected to be offered a place the moment his feet hit the pitch.

Haedus was about to say something else when they were interrupted by an unfamiliar voice braying across the hall.

“There he is! Flying freak of the hour!”

Ron Weasley shoved his way past a group of second-years, flanked by Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas. He pointed a finger at Haedus like he’d just unmasked a dark wizard.

“You are so getting expelled for what you did today” he announced triumphantly, “Enjoy your last dinner at Hogwarts, Lestrange”.

Haedus didn’t so much as blink. “Is that what you think?”

“I know it!” he said, eyes flashing, “You disobeyed a teacher, went flying off like some big hero, and made her look stupid in front of the entire class. You’ll be on the train home by morning”.

“Strange” he replied coldly, “Madam Hooch never said anything about expulsion - she just gave me a note. And she didn’t look stupid - she looked incompetent. There’s a difference”.

“Oi!” He flushed scarlet. “You can’t talk about a professor like that!”

“I can when she lets students fall from the sky and does nothing about it”.

Draco, predictably, had gotten fed up with being ignored. “Why don’t you shut your mouth, Weasley, before you embarrass yourself even more than usual?”

The redhead rounded on him. “I wasn’t talking to you, Malfoy!”

“Well, I’m talking to you!” Draco snapped, stepping up beside Haedus, chin high, “So unless you’re going to hex me, I suggest you back off”.

Weasley’s ears turned an even deeper shade of red. “Fine! You want to settle this? Then I challenge you to a Wizard’s duel. Wands only - no contact. If you’ve got the guts”.

Haedus blinked once, unimpressed. “You can’t be serious”.

Draco, however, seized the moment with relish. “Oh, he’s serious. I accept”.

“I do not” Haedus muttered under his breath.

“Haedus is my second” Draco added grandly, “Who’s yours?”

Weasley looked at Dean and Seamus, sizing them up.

“Dean” he said, “Midnight alright? We’ll meet you in the trophy room; my brothers say that’s always unlocked”.

“Fine! But be prepared to lose”.

Weasley glared at them one last time before spinning on his heel and stalking into the Great Hall, dragging his supposed friends behind him. Once they were gone, Haedus turned sharply on his cousin.

“What the bloody hell was that?!”

Draco scoffed. “What? He was asking for it”.

“I never agreed to a duel, Draco! It’s idiotic! You have to know that it’s just a set-up to get us caught out of bed!”

The blond started to look ever so slowly unsure. “So… So we just- just hex them first and leave. Simple as that”.

Haedus folded his arms. “I’m not getting detention because of your Gryffindor-ish impulse control. And I’m definitely not explaining to Severus why we lost half our House points because you couldn’t handle being goaded by a Weasley!”

Draco’s jaw clenched, a petulant scowl on his face. “Fine! Then don’t go!”

“And leave you without a second?” he challenged, “Chances are, Weasley is going to bring more than one. Do you really want to be cornered and alone by a group of Gryffindors? Because of your own stupid pride?! What in Salazar’s name would your mother think?!”

The boy’s scowl deepened, but Haedus knew that he’d gotten through to him when those grey eyes finally left his and lowered to the floor.

“Then- Then I won’t go either” he finally decided, “Neither of us will go! Hah! Imagine the look on Weasley’s face when he realises we’re not coming!”

Haedus could only shake his head at his cousin's antics. Draco had always been more hot-headed than him - Tonton Lucius’s influence, Maman had whispered mischievously to him once - and he was already far too arrogant for his own good. Why couldn’t the boy realise that by reacting emotionally and arguing back, he was giving people like Weasley exactly what they wanted? 

Papa had always told Haedus to keep a cool and level head no matter what, because as soon as he lost control of his emotions, he lost control of the fight. Now, if only he could find some way of drilling that lesson into his cousin’s thick skull…

“Come on” he said at last, turning towards the Great Hall, “Let’s get dinner and tell the others just how much of an idiot you’ve been”.

“Hey!” Draco immediately protested, but followed him towards their table anyway.

With any luck, once Haedus told Blaise and Theo about his chance to play on the Slytherin Quidditch team, all thoughts of wizard duels and Ron Weasley would be driven from the blond’s mind, and they could have a fun and relaxed dinner without any more drama.

Friday, 13th September

The corridors were still dim when Haedus made his way down into the cool stone of the dungeons. Severus had sent him a brief note while he’d been at breakfast that morning, asking him to go to their double Potions class ten minutes early.

One glance at the House’s hourglasses in the Entrance Hall had told Haedus all he needed to know regarding why - apparently, someone had lost Gryffindor quite a number of House points last night.

When he reached the classroom, he didn’t bother knocking, instead pushing open the heavy door and stepping inside. Severus was sitting behind his desk, a steaming cup of coffee next to him as he scribbled something down on a piece of parchment.

“Sit”.

Haedus obeyed, sliding into the wooden chair opposite the desk. There was a moment of silence as Severus finished whatever notation he was making, capped his ink, and finally looked up.

“I received a rather entertaining report from Professor McGonagall this morning” he began, voice perfectly even, “It seems that three Gryffindor boys - Weasley, Finnigan, and Thomas - were caught out of bed after curfew last night”.

Haedus arched one eyebrow, but said nothing. Apparently, he’d given them too much credit in assuming it was a set-up - the three fools had actually turned up.

“They lost their House a rather damaging amount of points and received two weeks' worth of detention” Snape continued, “A satisfying outcome, you might think, but unfortunately, when questioned, the three claimed they had only been there because you and Mr Malfoy had lured them into a trap”.

Haedus blinked slowly, then leaned back in his chair. “Lured them”.

Severus nodded once. “That is what they claim. They insisted that you and Draco tricked them and set them up to get caught, so they believe that you should be punished just as much as themselves”.

The corner of Haedus’s mouth twitched upward. “Sounds like their egos hurt more than getting detention”.

“Minerva asked me to question both of you, but frankly, I thought it best to ask you alone. Draco has his father’s talent for… dramatics”. He exhaled, shook his head, and folded his hands in front of him. “So, tell me exactly what happened”.

“Weasley challenged Draco to a duel” Haedus explained, “In the Entrance Hall yesterday evening before dinner. Said to meet in the trophy room at midnight. Draco accepted. I didn’t. I told him it was a trap and that we’d lose House points and get caught”.

“You would. Go on”.

“I told him he was being stupid and that going would only serve Gryffindor’s agenda. After I pointed out that he’d be alone and cornered if Weasley brought others, he agreed not to go. We didn’t leave the dormitory all night”.

Severus studied him for a long moment, sharp eyes seeming to assess the truth of every word. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair. “That is exactly what I suspected - and not at all what your year mates claimed to have happened”.

“I imagine McGonagall didn’t believe them either” Haedus said, tone dry.

“She didn’t, but she has to take care of her House, and she wanted to be thorough before dismissing the accusation entirely”.

He shrugged. “They got themselves caught. We did nothing except refuse to be idiots”.

Snape’s expression, faint though it was, bordered on amused. “You’d be surprised how rare a quality that is in a first-year”.

“Papa always said Gryffindors pride themselves on being brave, but bravery without cunning is just another word for stupidity”.

At that, Severus gave a small, brief smile - one that might, in a more generous man, have been called impressed.

“He’s not wrong... I’ll inform Minerva that your account matches my expectations - and your cousin will be spared the interrogation, much to everyone’s relief”.

Haedus smirked slightly. “You’re welcome”.

“Don’t get smug” Severus warned, though there was no real bite to it, “You handled this well, Haedus. I meant what I said yesterday - you usually do the right thing, so don’t let yourself be pulled into petty, childish theatrics - and that includes responding to any Gryffindor idiocy with your fists or your wand”.

“I don’t start fights, sir” he replied coolly, “I just finish them”.

“You are your mother’s son”. Snape sighed and stood, reaching for a stack of vials beside his coffee cup. “There are only a few minutes left before class. You might as well stay and help me prepare ingredients until the others arrive. I need half a pound of ground nettles”.

Haedus grimaced. “But I hate grinding nettles!”

“Good” he said with a thin smile, “That means you’ll do it carefully”.

As Haedus rose and stepped toward the workbench, sleeves already rolled up, Snape watched him a moment longer. 

It was clear the boy had inherited his father’s focus and his mother’s fire - and somewhere in between, perhaps, just enough of his own coolness to survive the games being played around him. And that, Severus thought, might be more important than any potion he taught.

Chapter Text

Saturday, 14th September

The library was cloaked in the soft hush of turning pages and quiet concentration, sunlight slanting through high windows and pooling across tables stacked with parchment, inkwells, and the occasional half-eaten biscuit snuck in beneath Madam Pince’s nose.

Haedus sat at one such table, brow furrowed over his Potions notes, while Theo flipped absently through One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. Blaise was reviewing a Charms essay with his usual effortless calm, and Draco - predictably - had his books open but had spent the last ten minutes doodling serpents in the margins of his Transfiguration homework.

It was shaping up to be a relatively peaceful morning.

Until.

“Uh… hi”.

All four boys looked up. Hermione Granger stood hesitantly a few paces away - much like she had the previous week - a thick book clutched to her chest, her expression unreadable save for the wary determination behind her eyes.

Haedus straightened. “Granger”.

“I… I still have a few questions I wanted to ask you” she said carefully, eyes flicking from him to Draco, who was already scowling, “If that’s alright”.

Theo blinked. Blaise arched an eyebrow. Draco scoffed audibly. But Haedus just gestured to the empty seat across from him. “Alright. Have a seat”.

Draco jerked upright in his chair. “What? You’re inviting her to join us? Again?! She’s a muggle-born Gryffindor!”

“And you’re a pure-blooded Slytherin allergic to common sense” Haedus shot back coolly, “You could do with being forced to keep an open mind about things. Besides - I don’t see the harm. She’s clearly more focused on her studies than half our year. We might learn something”.

Hermione flushed slightly at the indirect praise, but nodded and sat. Draco gave her a sour look but remained silent. Blaise, who always seemed amused by conflicts he didn’t have to participate in, leaned forward. 

“So, Granger, if you don’t mind my asking - why aren’t you in Ravenclaw? You’re the only Gryffindor I’ve seen so far spending their weekend with their head buried in a book”.

Hermione, to her credit, didn’t lose her nerve under his sudden scrutiny. “I could just as easily ask why you aren’t in Ravenclaw. You’re studying here too, after all”.

Blaise’s smirk widened. “Touché... But come on, you can’t tell me that the Hat didn’t consider you for a different House!”

“The Sorting Hat said I’d do well in either House” she admitted, “It was torn between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, but in the end, it said I had the kind of courage it admired, so it chose Gryffindor”.

Haedus redipped his quill into his inkwell. “Do you regret it?”

She shook her head. “Not really. I love learning, but I don’t like how snobby the Ravenclaws are. And besides, I’ve earned Gryffindor a lot of points already - it’s just a shame some people can’t help but lose them again”.

Theo tilted his head. “Let me guess. Weasley?”

Hermione sighed heavily. “Weasley, Finnigan, and Thomas. They got caught out of bed the other night. Mr Filch said they were trying to get into the third-floor corridor! Can you imagine? After the Headmaster explicitly told us not to go there!”

Haedus’s hand stilled over his parchment. 

“... The third-floor corridor?” he repeated, careful to keep his tone light, “That’s where they were found?”

She nodded, looking exasperated. “Yeah. Honestly, I don’t know what they were thinking. That corridor’s obviously off-limits - Professor Dumbledore made a point of saying so at the feast. They deny it, of course, said they were just ‘going for a walk’. At midnight. I swear, between the three of them, Gryffindor will never earn its points back!”

Haedus let out a low hum, eyes unfocusing as his thoughts turned inward. That was the third time someone had mentioned the third floor… What in Merlin’s name was Dumbledore hiding up there? He tapped his quill slowly against his notes. There would be protections around it, of that he was certain. A restricted corridor meant danger, and danger meant something worth protecting. But, theoretically, if he were able to get through those charms… what would he find?

He filed the thought away for later.

“Anyway” Hermione added briskly, pulling a scroll from her bag, “I’ve nearly finished Professor Quirrell’s essay, but I wanted to talk to you about how wizards view-”

Tuesday, 17th September

Bellatrix and Rabastan had been delighted when Haedus told them about being made seeker for the Slytherin Quidditch team and had given his broom to Severus to pass on to the boy himself. Only a very select few people knew about the “special circumstances” that would allow a first-year to play for his House, and both Snape and Flint were determined to keep it that way until their first match.

That evening at seven o’clock, Haedus left the castle and set off in the dusk toward the Quidditch field. He’d never been inside the stadium before, but he’d heard more than one story from his Maman about it and found that it did not disappoint. 

Hundreds of seats were raised in stands around the field so that the spectators were high enough to see what was going on. At either end of the field were three golden poles with hoops on the ends where goals would be scored. In the middle of the pitch, the rest of the team were already waiting beside a large wooden crate, clad in green and silver practice robes. They looked up as he approached.

Flint gave him a nod. “'Bout time you showed up, Lestrange”.

Haedus inclined his head coolly. “Well, if I were early, I would’ve risked looking too eager”.

Standing beside Flint, Miles Bletchley snorted. “Yeah, you’ll fit in here alright”.

On the captain’s other side stood the other two chasers: Adrian Pucey, tall and lean with a perpetually sceptical expression; and Terence Higgs, who thankfully didn’t look too annoyed to be playing a different position this year. Lucian Bole and Peregrine Derrick, the two beaters, leaned on their clubs with the air of boys just waiting for an excuse to hit something.

Haedus stopped in front of them, planting his broom on the ground. It was a magnificent piece of work - polished ebony wood with sleek, streamlined bristles and a narrow handle that fitted his grip perfectly. He could tell that the other boys were at least a little impressed with it, but Pucey merely gave the broom a disparaging once-over, then turned his critical gaze on Haedus.

“Seriously?” he asked Flint, “A first-year? We’re actually going to let a kid join the team?”

Flint didn’t even glance at him. “He’s not just a kid, Pucey, as you very well know”.

“Oh, so it’s favouritism then, is that it?” he shot back, folding his arms, “I just don’t see how a first-year has the reaction time or awareness to spot the snitch, let alone beat Ravenclaw or Gryffindor to it”.

“Oh, give it a rest, Pucey” Bletchley drawled, “You said the same thing about Higgs last year, and he was a fourth-year!”

“And I was right - he lost the snitch in the last ten minutes to Hufflepuff!”

Higgs rolled his eyes. “Which is why I’m now switching to chaser - although I was still a better seeker than you could ever be”.

“Enough!” Flint cut in, voice firm, “We’re not here to argue. We’re here to train. If Lestrange doesn’t impress, then we keep Higgs on as seeker and run try-outs for the empty position. Agreed?”

Haedus raised his eyebrows. “Fair enough… How many snitches have you got in that crate?”

“About a dozen”.

“Excellent”. Haedus swung a leg over his broom, heart beginning to thud in a rhythm he liked. Excitement. Focus. The sort of wild energy that begged to be directed. “Then let’s begin”.

Half an hour later, every single snitch had been caught.

They hadn’t released all twelve at once - Flint wasn’t an idiot - but over the course of several high-speed tests, Haedus had shown not only sharp reflexes and steady flying, but a predator’s focus. His movements were smooth and fast, never wasted, and he tracked the golden blur with unnerving precision. When he dived, it was with total commitment - no hesitation. He owned the air.

By the time the last Snitch’s fluttering wings were clamped between his fingers, even Pucey was silent.

Haedus drifted back down to the pitch and dismounted, brushing wind-swept hair out of his eyes. He handed the last snitch back to Flint, who was grinning so broadly it looked like it hurt.

“Well?” Flint asked the rest of the team. “All in favour of Lestrange as our new Seeker, raise your hand”.

Bletchley’s went up first. Then Higgs. Derrick, Bole. Even Pucey, after a long pause, raised his arm with a scowl like he’d swallowed something sour.

Flint nodded, satisfied. “Unanimous. Welcome to the team, Lestrange”.

He grinned back. “Glad to be here”.

Pucey was already turning away, but Haedus clocked the tightness in his jaw, the twitch of frustration around his eyes. He might’ve raised his hand, but he didn’t like it.

“That Quidditch Cup’ll have our name on it this year” Bletchley said happily, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you turn out better than Charlie Weasley. Gryffindor or not, he could’ve played for England if he hadn’t gone off chasing dragons”.

Haedus allowed himself a small, satisfied smile as the team began heading off the pitch. The cool evening breeze tugged at his practice robes, and the hum of energy still buzzed beneath his skin like static. This - this - was the kind of moment he lived for. Not the applause. Not the praise. But earning it. Proving people wrong. Watching them choke down their doubt like a bad potion.

As the others laughed and talked among themselves, Haedus fell into step beside Bletchley, who was still talking animatedly about past Slytherin matches.

“You ever hear about that game against Gryffindor in ’89?” Miles was saying, “Flint’s cousin nearly flattened Wood with a Bludger from ten feet. I swear the impact echoed”.

He snorted, eyes flicking toward Pucey up ahead, walking in stiff silence ahead of them. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t loosened. If anything, it had grown tighter.

Bletchley noticed where Haedus was looking and gave him a sideways glance. “Don’t mind him. Pucey just doesn’t enjoy being proven wrong”.

“I noticed” he replied dryly.

“He’ll come round eventually. He respects talent, even if he resents it”.

“I’m not particularly fussed whether he respects it or not” he said coolly, “So long as he doesn’t try anything stupid”.

Bletchley let out a low whistle. “You’re pretty vicious for a firstie. Remind me not to get on your bad side”.

By the time they reached the castle, the sky had dimmed into a wash of lavender and steel-blue, stars starting to prick through the dusk. The team split off toward the dungeons, boots echoing against the stone as they descended the staircase.

In the Slytherin common room, the atmosphere was unusually lively. The fire crackled in the hearth, and a few older students looked up as the team came in, eyebrows raising when they saw the new face among them holding his own broom.

“He make the cut?” Montague asked from an armchair, lowering a copy of Potions Obscurus.

Flint nodded. “He’s our new seeker”.

There was a short beat of silence - then a ripple of impressed murmurs followed.

“A first-year? Bloody hell”.

“Even for a Lestrange, that’s a bit much”.

“I didn’t think Dumbledore would agree to this”.

Haedus didn’t miss the sidelong glances. But he stood tall, gaze calm, arms crossed with calculated nonchalance. Let them talk. Let them speculate. He knew what mattered: he had the spot and he’d earned it.

Later that night, Haedus sat cross-legged on his bed in the first-years’ dormitory. His uniform had been neatly folded away. His broom rested by the side of his trunk like a prized weapon, but he was no longer thinking about Quidditch.

The third-floor corridor.

His mind kept returning to it, looping like a whisper he couldn’t shake. Gryffindors sneaking around at night. Dumbledore’s strange warning. The way Hagrid’s voice had taken on a fearful note as he spoke of the Dark Lord stealing it…

Haedus’s brows furrowed in thought.

They were guarding something, and whatever it was, it wasn’t meant to be found. Which meant it was important.

He’d need a map of the castle. A schedule of Filch’s patrols. Possibly help - someone to create a distraction, if it came to it.

He cast his eyes sideways to Theo’s bed, where his friend was already dozing, breathing steady. Then over to Blaise, who was scribbling in a journal by candlelight. And Draco, muttering to himself as he organised the books in his school bag again for the fourth time that night.

He couldn’t bring all of them. Not yet. But he didn’t need to bring them all - just one or two, at the right time, with the right leverage.

Haedus closed his eyes, mind sharpening to a single point of certainty.

He would get into that third-floor corridor.

He would find out what was being hidden.

And if it was something worth protecting… then it was something worth taking.

Friday, 20th September

The castle was quiet, just as Haedus had predicted.

Most students were still in class, their voices muffled behind ancient walls - only the first years had free afternoons on Fridays, making it the perfect time to investigate without getting caught. The air in the corridor was cool, thick with the scent of old stone and polished wood, and as they ascended the marble staircase towards the third floor, Draco walked half a pace behind, arms folded tightly across his chest.

“This is mental” he muttered for the twenty-third time, “Absolutely mental! We’re going to get detention. Or expelled. Or worse - killed!”

Haedus didn’t reply; his gaze was fixed ahead. His curiosity had been simmering all week, quietly fed by Granger’s accidental tip-off and the quiet conviction that something important - very important - was being hidden right under their noses.

When he’d told his cousin what he planned on doing, the boy had been furious, and then annoyed, and then scared, and then annoyed again when Haedus pointed out that he owed him one for stopping Draco being ambushed by Gryffindors last week. Eventually, he'd managed to convince the blond to go with him, both as punishment for him being so foolish as to accept a wizard’s duel just because Weasley taunted him into it, and also as back-up since it’d be even more foolish for Haedus to jump head-first into potential danger alone.

“It’s just a corridor” he finally replied, though even he didn’t believe it, “A corridor Dumbledore specifically told students to avoid. If that doesn’t scream ‘something valuable is hidden here’, I don’t know what does, and I’m going to find out what”.

Draco groaned. “You sound just like Auntie Bella does when she’s about to do something insane!”

“Keep your whining up and I’ll tell her you said that”.

“You wouldn’t dare! Hades. Hades, you wouldn’t- you can’t-”

“Oh look, we’re here”.

They had turned the corner, and the entrance to the infamous third-floor corridor loomed ahead of them. At first glance, it was entirely unremarkable - just more stone walls, a worn wooden door, and an old iron lock, but underneath all that was something… else.

Haedus slowly came to a stop in front of the door. “Keep an eye out”.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, tuning in. The air here… hummed. Like static under the skin. Layers of magic hung in the air around him - old, potent charms woven into the fabric of the corridor. Not defensive in nature, though. No wards to repel intruders. Just a sense of… containment. As if the magic was not keeping people out, but keeping something in.

He exhaled slowly and reopened his eyes. “Whatever’s behind that door… it’s not meant to be disturbed”.

“Then don’t disturb it!” Draco hissed, but Haedus was already raising his wand. “Alohomora!”

The lock clicked open with surprising ease, and Draco flinched.

“That’s not a good sign, Hades” he whispered, “A powerful secret hidden behind an easily unlocked door? That’s gotta be a trick!”

“Maybe” Haedus murmured, pressing a hand against the wood. It certainly felt like a trick - something easy, too easy, something that a first year could bypass. Just what was Dumbledore hoping for here?

He slowly pushed the door open.

It creaked ominously, revealing darkness inside - deep and still.

The two boys carefully stepped over the threshold.

And then they heard it.

A low, guttural growl - so deep it rumbled through the floor itself. Then, as if summoned by the scent of strangers, it emerged from the shadows. 

A massive, three-headed dog, black as night, with yellow eyes gleaming like lanterns and fangs the size of small knives. Each head snarled independently, but all three were fixed on them with unified, ravenous intent.

“Merlin’s bloody beard” Draco breathed. 

Haedus didn’t move. His breath had caught in his throat, his heart thudding with a mixture of adrenaline and awe - what a gorgeous, murderous beast it was! His gaze flicked down - and there, beneath the cerberus’s colossal paws, was a thick wooden trapdoor.

Bingo.

“Do you see that?” he whispered urgently, “The trapdoor - it has to be guarding something! There’s something under-”

A furious bark nearly deafened them, and all three heads lunged forward.

“Out!” Draco hissed, yanking at Haedus’s robes and pulling him bodily back through the doorway, “Out, out, out!” 

The door slammed shut behind them, and they both staggered back into the corridor, panting. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Draco straightened and jabbed a finger at him. “That’s it! I’m done! You want to get yourself killed, fine - but don’t expect me to come along next time. I am not going back in there! Not for anything!”

Haedus blinked at him. “You’re really that scared of dogs?”

“Dogs, no!” Draco snapped, “Monsters that could chew my head off three different ways? Yes! And if you try to make me go back in there, Hades, I swear to Salazar, I’ll owl my mother and Auntie Bella and tell them both you’ve turned suicidal!”

Haedus snorted, brushing off his robes. “Fine. We’re done for today anyway”.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Promise me you’re not going to try anything stupid”.

“I won’t try anything stupid” he replied dutifully, which wasn’t, strictly speaking, a lie. What was stupid about uncovering Dumbledore’s secrets, after all? It could only benefit him, and consequently, benefit the Dark Lord too.

Still, though - going back there alone probably would be stupid unless he had a concrete plan… Perhaps he could ask Granger to accompany him. She was a Gryffindor, so she had to be brave, right?

Either way, he was most certainly going to return to that dark corridor again. He’d just gotten past the first level, after all - and Haedus was determined not to lose the game.

Saturday, 28th September

Somehow, Granger joining them for their Saturday study sessions had become a weekly thing. Today, she hadn’t even pretended to sit at her own table first, and had instead joined them immediately upon arriving at the library.

She dropped into her usual seat across from Haedus, unloading a stack of books so high it nearly toppled over. Her hair was frizzier than usual, and a quill stuck out from behind her ear at an odd angle.

“Morning” she said briskly, “I brought the Daily Prophet and two books on Muggle Studies from the Restricted Section - don’t ask how - and I’ve got a theory about the Statute of Secrecy that I’d like your opinion on”.

Draco let out a noise that was halfway between a groan and a squawk. “You’ve got two books from the Restricted Section?! You’re a first-year! How are you already breaking rules like the bloody Weasley twins?!”

Hermione looked unbothered. “It’s not breaking the rules to borrow something from the Restricted Section if you have a signed note from a professor”.

Theo looked up sharply. “Wait. You got Quirrell to sign a note for you?”

“Well” she said carefully, arranging her parchment, “I may have told him I was researching historical patterns of muggle persecution for extra credit. Which is true! Just… not the whole truth”.

Blaise chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “You’re getting sneaky. I’m impressed”.

“I’m not” Draco muttered, still scowling, “This is exactly how Slytherin loses the House Cup. We’ll be blamed for this somehow, I just know it!”

“She didn’t even break the rules” Theo pointed out dryly.

“That’s never stopped Dumbledore from targeting Slytherins before” Draco huffed, “He’s got it out for us!”

“Is everything alright at home, cousin dear?” Haedus asked idly, not looking up from his parchment, “Your persecution complex is showing”.

That earned a snort from Blaise and a quiet smile from Theo. Hermione bit back a laugh, but her expression sobered quickly.

“I was serious about the theory” she said, tugging a book forward, “I’ve been comparing how wizarding societies went underground across different countries, and I think the British version was particularly paranoid. It wasn’t just fear of muggle violence - it was also internal political control. Think about it: a completely separate society, no exposure to outside ideas, total magical leadership through Ministry regulation…”

“Sounds familiar” Theo murmured, glancing at Haedus, who finally looked up at her, his eyes narrowing with interest, “You're saying the Statute wasn’t just about safety, but consolidation of magical power?”

Hermione nodded, her hands already flipping through the chapters of the book. “Exactly! And that paranoia might still be shaping our education - what we’re allowed to learn, how we’re told to view muggles, and even how certain ‘dangerous’ subjects are off-limits - despite the changes Mr Riddle has since made”.

Draco made a face. “You sound like one of those anti-Ministry pamphlets my father burns”.

“I’d be surprised if your father read anything before burning it” Blaise muttered.

Hermione looked both excited and cautious. “I’m not saying the Ministry is evil! I just… I don’t think it’s healthy to never question why things are the way they are”.

“I agree” Haedus said softly, “‘Never trust a truth that can’t withstand scrutiny’”.

Her brows furrowed. “Who said that?”

“My father” he replied, “One of the few things he says that’s worth remembering”.

There was a pause.

“Alright” Blaise said, “So we’ve got the Ministry’s secrets, a generation of paranoid wizards, and a possible political conspiracy spanning decades. Any other light reading planned for the weekend?”

“Actually-” Hermione began, just as Draco groaned and dropped his head onto the table and groaned. “Of course there’s more!”

“-after you answered my questions last week, I did some research into magical bloodlines”.

Draco let out another groan, louder this time. “Can’t you just knit or something like a normal girl? Why does it always have to be politics and conspiracies with you?!”

Hermione ignored him entirely, flipping open another of her books. “I found a list in Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy and cross-referenced it with modern Magical Theory books, and guess what? There is no concrete evidence that muggle-borns aren't descended from squibs or obscure magical branches - it’s just that most pure-blood families destroyed any records that they didn’t want other people to know about!”

Haedus blinked and tilted his head to the side, consideringly. “You’re saying that the entire idea of muggle-borns truly having non-magical lineage is… what? all just one big lie?”

“Exaggerated at best” Hermione replied, “There was actually a 1967 case in France - documented by Beauxbatons historians - where an entire village of squib descendants suddenly produced three magical children in one generation. But as for the British records? There’s none”.

Theo gave a slow, low whistle. “That would explain a lot. If muggle-borns aren’t actually disconnected from magic… it means the blood purist argument has no real leg to stand on”.

“Exactly!” Hermione looked up, eyes bright. “Which means the only reason the ideology persists is-”

“Power” Haedus finished, “It gives the old families a claim to legitimacy. If they’re not stronger magically, they have to be purer”.

Draco lifted his head slightly, eyes narrowed. “So what? You want us to believe that people like my father are just… insecure about their magic?”

“No” Haedus said before Hermione could answer, “They’re not insecure. They’re terrified. Not of muggles, but of being considered redundant”.

Draco looked torn between offence and unease.

“I mean” Blaise added casually, “If you woke up one day and found out all the things that made your family ‘special’ were just propaganda, you’d be pretty scared too”.

There was a moment of silence. Even the sunlight through the windows seemed to still, as if the library itself were listening. Hermione’s voice was gentler when she spoke again. 

“I’m not trying to insult anyone’s family or heritage, but you’ve given me a lot to think about these past few weeks and… well… if we don’t ask questions about what we’re learning, then we’re just going to end up repeating old mistakes”.

Haedus gave her a long, measured look. “You realise what you’re doing, don’t you? What this is?”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not just studying, Granger, you’re dismantling the foundations of our society one chapter at a time”.

She flushed. “It’s hardly that dramatic! I just want to learn the truth!”

“And that” Haedus said, a curious expression flickering across his face, “is what makes you interesting”.

“Also” Blaise added helpfully, “probably why you’ll get detention before Christmas”.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, though there was no real bite behind it. “Not if I’m careful”.

Theo raised an eyebrow. “You? Careful? You just admitted to tricking a professor and wanting to dismantle blood purity ideals in front of four pure-blooded Slytherins from Dark families”.

“Exactly! I mean, you lot aren’t exactly model citizens” she pointed out, chin lifting, “If you were going to report me, you would’ve done so already”.

Draco huffed. “Don’t tempt me”.

“Oh, please” Blaise said, smirking. “You’d miss her too much. Who else is going to casually drag your worldview through the mud before breakfast?”

Theo grinned. “And with citations, no less”.

Hermione ducked her head, but there was the smallest flicker of pride in her expression. She tucked a curl behind her ear, knocking the quill askew. It fell to the table with a clatter.

“I’m not trying to start a revolution” she said softly, “I just… I don’t want to accept things blindly. And if you’re all willing to argue back, then maybe I’m in the right place after all”.

Draco gave her a suspicious look. “Are you saying you actually like spending time with us?”

“Don’t push it, Malfoy”.

He dropped his head to the table again, muffling something about inevitable doom and bloody Gryffindors. Haedus just snorted, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head. The expression on his face wasn’t quite a smile - but it was close. There was something sharp behind it, something satisfied, as though a puzzle piece had just slid perfectly into place.

“You know what, Granger?” he said, “I think you and I are going to become excellent friends”.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 8th October

The classroom had long since emptied. Dust drifted in the slanted light from the high windows, casting pale beams over the rows of abandoned tables. Haedus stood in front of his desk, arms crossed, his expression blank but not exactly patient. Karkaroff leaned against the edge of his own desk, fingers steepled, his goatee catching the golden light like a slash of ink.

“You’ve continued to impress me, Mr Lestrange” he said, his voice low and silken, “Your control in today's drills was... clinical. Efficient. Far beyond your peers”.

Haedus didn’t respond. He merely inclined his head a fraction, the way his mother had taught him - enough to acknowledge the compliment, but never enough to suggest gratitude.

Karkaroff smiled thinly, clearly annoyed that his praise hadn’t garnered a bigger response.

“I wonder” he said, “if you've reconsidered my offer?”

Haedus stiffened.

This was the sixth time! The sixth time in as many weeks that the man had tried to get him to agree to “private lessons”. He was always polite, always subtle, always pressing just enough to irritate, but never enough to complain about.

This time, Haedus didn’t bother with a pleasant reply.

“I haven’t reconsidered” he said flatly, “And I won’t”.

Karkaroff raised a brow, but said nothing.

“I’ve already had private tutors” Haedus continued, tone sharpening, “My parents ensured I was trained properly before I ever even stepped foot in Hogwarts. I was taught by the best teachers that money can buy”.

Or, in other words, Karkaroff wasn’t good enough to consider buying. There was a pause - brief, but tangible. The man’s generic smile didn’t shift, but something in his eyes did. A flicker of ice cracking under pressure.

“My parents, the Dark Lord’s chosen war generals, also taught me” Haedus continued, pressing the blade in deeper, “So did my uncle Rabastan, so did Severus Snape, and so did Barty Crouch Junior. I’ve learned more Dark Magic in the last three years than most Aurors learn in ten… I’m not lacking in education, sir”.

Karkaroff’s eyes glittered, and he moved from the desk, smooth as oil, and approached him with slow, deliberate steps. “Well, you are, without doubt, remarkably advanced in your… chosen studies. It’s not every eleven-year-old who can successfully cast a Knockback jinx on their first attempt… But you must understand, Mr Lestrange, influence is just as valuable as knowledge. Sometimes even more so”.

Haedus tilted his head slightly. “Are you offering me influence, then? Or are you asking for mine?”

Another pause. Karkaroff smiled, thin and empty, but the boy didn’t miss the brief flash of fury in his eyes.

“I merely wished to help you refine what’s already there… but I can see now that you are already quite… refined”. He stepped back. “You may go”.

Haedus didn’t thank him. He turned and left with calm, unhurried strides, robes billowing behind him like smoke. Karkaroff, he thought rather grimly, was starting to become a problem. 

The sky above the Great Lake was streaked with deep purple and bruised gold as the four boys made their way down the sloping hill toward the Quidditch pitch. The breeze was cool and sharp, rustling the trees and tugging at the hems of their robes.

Practice wasn’t due to start for another ten minutes, but Haedus liked to arrive early - aside from getting a better scope of the area, he didn’t believe in giving anyone a reason to doubt his place on the team.

Theo kicked at a loose stone as they walked, hands stuffed in his pockets. “So he asked again?” 

Haedus nodded. “Same question. Same offer. Still not interested”.

Draco scowled. “You should tell your parents, Hades. This has gone on long enough”.

He raised an eyebrow at him. “And risk my mother overreacting?”

Blaise snorted. “Bellatrix Lestrange? Overreacting? What? No!”

“Exactly” Haedus replied, “She’d make a spectacle and get worried over nothing. And besides, if anyone’s going to hex him, it’s going to be me - maybe then he’ll finally get the message”.

Theo looked thoughtful. “So he’s really trying to recruit you, then?”

“He wants back in” he said with a shrug, “He probably thinks if he can get on my good side, that’ll somehow earn him a second chance with the Dark Lord. He’s using me”.

Draco frowned. “But he’s been stuck here for years! Do you think the teaching job was meant to be… I don’t know, some sort of punishment?”

“I know it is” Blaise said before anyone else could answer, “I overheard my mother talking about it once. She said Karkaroff tried to defect at the end of the war. Was already naming names when the Dark Lord caught him”.

The blond gave him a sharp look. “He was selling us out?!”

Blaise nodded. “Apparently he’d made some sort of deal with the Ministry. Was going to give up a dozen Death Eaters in exchange for immunity. Thankfully, the Dark Lord found out before he could do any real damage”.

“So why is he still breathing?”

Blaise shrugged. “The peace treaty. You know what the terms were. No political executions. No retaliatory assassinations... The Dark Lord had just signed the agreement with the Minister - he couldn’t kill Karkaroff without breaking their deal, and things were already on shaky enough ground as it was”.

Theo gave a low whistle. “Must’ve killed him not to kill him”.

“And now Karkaroff’s stuck teaching kids how to defend themselves against the Dark Arts” Haedus finished, “No wonder he’s trying to claw his way back into the Dark Lord’s good books”.

They passed beneath the looming shadow of the Quidditch stands, their footsteps echoing faintly on the walkway. The glow of the lanterns along the pitch flickered to life as the sun dipped behind the Forbidden Forest. It would start to get cold soon, and Haedus knew that his friends wouldn’t stay to watch his entire training practice - but he was grateful they were even here at all.

Still, his mind spun with what they had said as he broke away from the group and headed for the locker rooms. So what Tonton Baz had told him had been true - not that Haedus ever doubted his uncle’s honesty, but his Papa had always taught him to verify the information he was given with more than one source, and what Blaise had said confirmed it.

Igor Karkaroff was a dirty, rotten traitor who had willingly sacrificed the lives of his comrades to save his own skin. What if the Dark Lord hadn’t gotten to him in time? What if he hadn’t signed the peace treaty? Who would Karkaroff have knowingly sent to Azkaban to protect his own worthless self? Haedus’s parents? His uncle? Severus?

And why in Salazar’s name was Karkaroff still alive?! Haedus understood the Dark Lord not being able to outright murder him so close to the accords being struck, but he’d had ten years since! Ten years of opportunity to make it look like an accident. A slip. A duel gone wrong. A poisoned drink. A vanishing hex. Anything!

But Karkaroff was still alive. Did the Dark Lord have further use for him? Surely he couldn’t be the best Defence Against the Dark Arts that Hogwarts had to offer! Haedus already knew that Severus would love to teach it, and the only reason he couldn’t was because of Dumbledore!

But Karkaroff was still alive... Haedus knew better than to question the Dark Lord’s reasons, but he also knew that the man was many things - intelligent, watchful, charming…

But forgiving?

Never.

There had to be a reason for this.

Saturday, 19th October

The library was quieter than usual, its usual scattered patrons likely deterred by the unseasonably cold wind that had swept in overnight, battering the castle walls and whistling between the cracks in the old window panes.

Haedus sat at their usual table, idly underlining a passage in his Transfiguration textbook. Across from him, Hermione was animatedly lecturing the others on the implications of emotions on spellwork - a highly debated branch of magical theory she had apparently stumbled across two days ago.

“It’s not just about intent” she was saying, pointing her quill for emphasis, “Some spells actually respond differently depending on the caster’s emotional state. You can’t tell me that doesn’t suggest magic itself is partially sentient, or at least reactive!”

Draco rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle he didn’t fall off his chair. “Great. Now, magic has feelings. What’s next, hugging our wands before bed?”

Blaise gave a laugh, one hand lazily turning the page of his Charms reading. “You’d be amazed how many ancient cultures treated magical objects like living beings. Sentience in enchantments isn’t unheard of - I mean, the Sorting Hat hat has a mind of its own, so why not other types of magic?”

Theo looked thoughtful. “It’s not actually that far-fetched. Wandlore is already partially based on the idea that wand cores and woods have preferences. They respond to personality traits. Maybe they respond to emotions too”.

Hermione lit up at that. “Exactly! Thank you! Finally, someone who gets it!”

Haedus hummed faintly in acknowledgement but didn’t immediately reply. His eyes had drifted past his book to the tall window beside their table, where the Forbidden Forest loomed in the distance, its silhouette a tangle of skeletal branches writhing in the wind.

Something moved.

Not the wind. Not the sway of trees. Something darker - lower - gliding smoothly along the forest’s edge. It was too far to make out details, but it moved with speed and elegance, weaving between trunks, watching.

Watching.

Haedus blinked. His reflection stared back at him in the now-empty glass. The trees stood still. The shape was gone.

He frowned slightly, a tight pull between his brows, and leaned back in his chair. He’d had this weird sensation for weeks now, like someone was watching him, following him - always just out of reach. Like there was a presence, almost, keeping track of him. He always chalked it up to nerves, or to the growing unease he felt every time someone mentioned Dumbledore, or the third-floor corridor, or Karkaroff’s increasingly hostile glances during lessons.

But outside… when he was walking across the grounds or heading to Herbology or at Quidditch practice… that’s when the feeling grew sharpest. There were eyes on him, he was sure of it. Not human, he didn’t think. Not magical surveillance either - not the prickle of wards or enchantments - but something… else. An animal, maybe, rather than a person…

He didn’t know if that would be better or worse.

“Haedus?”

Hermione’s voice snapped him back. She was watching him closely, her quill now resting against her lower lip in concern. “You alright?”

He gave a short, dismissive nod. “Just thinking”.

“About the sentient magic thing?” she asked hopefully.

“No” Draco cut in before he could respond, “He was staring into the middle distance like someone in a tragic play. Merlin, Hades, if you’ve got an internal monologue, spare us”.

“I was considering your theory, actually” Haedus said smoothly, “About magic reacting to emotion. It’s not unheard of. In fact, it might even explain why the Unforgivables are so difficult to cast unless the caster truly means them”.

“That’s what I said!” Hermione beamed.

“And why some of the most challenging charms, like the Patronus, fail if you don’t have strong emotions to put behind them” Theo added, intrigued, “Intent plus empathy equals stronger results”.

“But if that’s true” Blaise mused, “then it means magic’s effectiveness isn’t just about skill or knowledge - it’s about being able to force feelings. Which would turn every duel into a contest of psychological strength rather than magical”.

“Which would mean people who act mostly on emotion might have a distinct advantage over someone who just studies magic” Hermione said, “That’s… actually kind of unfair”.

“Unfair?” Draco scoffed, “It’s magic. Not house-elves. It doesn’t owe you anything!”

“Maybe not” Haedus replied calmly, “but it means the way we teach it is deeply flawed. We focus so much on technique and control, but if we’re ignoring the emotional component, then we’re only training half of the equation”.

That gave them all pause.

Outside, the wind howled again, rattling the glass.

Haedus let his eyes drift to the window once more, but saw nothing but the trees.

Still… the hairs on the back of his neck hadn’t quite settled. Something was out there. Something that didn’t want to be seen, but wasn’t quite content to stay hidden from him either.

“Anyway” Hermione said, pushing forward, “if we are teaching magic incorrectly, then that raises a bigger question: who’s deciding the curriculum? And why?”

Draco groaned. “Here we go again. You and your bloody conspiracy theories!”

Blaise smirked. “Let’s not pretend we don’t all enjoy this. It's like duelling, but without hexes”.

Theo tilted his head toward Haedus. “You’re being unusually quiet, Hades. What's your theory?”

He sighed and leaned forward, pushing the lingering thought of the forest firmly from his mind.

“I think it’s one of two things” he said, “Either Dumbledore wants us emotionally stunted and easy to control, or he's worried that we’ll become more powerful than him if we start listening to our instincts”.

Theo blinked. “That’s… alarmingly plausible”.

“Exactly” he replied, “Which means we’re asking the right questions”.

Hermione didn't look too happy with his answer, but didn't argue. Outside, the wind continued to howl. And far beyond the stone walls of Hogwarts, something in the forest waited - silent, secretive, and very much alive.

Thursday, 31st October

On Halloween morning, the dungeons were filled with the warm, spiced scent of baking pumpkin and cinnamon - even Draco had cracked a smile at breakfast, though that might have just been because Haedus asked him to, since Halloween was also his unofficial birthday.

The excitement only grew in Charms, where Professor Flitwick gleefully announced they would begin learning the Levitation charm.

“We’re going to make things fly” Blaise whispered, “Just don’t let Granger make us all look stupid, alright? I’ve got a reputation to maintain”.

Professor Flitwick beamed from his usual perch atop a stack of books. “Let’s pair off, everyone! And remember: swish and flick! Clear pronunciation - we don’t want another Wizard Baruffio incident!”

Haedus ended up paired with Draco while Blaise went with Theo. Hermione, to her clear irritation, was assigned to Ron Weasley. She didn’t complain outloud, but Haedus noticed the way she pressed her lips together and moved stiffly to Ron’s table.

At first, the room was filled with fluttering feathers and the occasional spark. Haedus had already managed to get his to float, and the others were doing decently - their feathers twitched, at least. But at the next table, Wesley was clearly struggling.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” he bellowed, flailing his wand like a club.

“You’re saying it wrong” Hermione said, frowning. “It’s Wing-GAR-dium Levi-O-sa. Try elongating the-”

“If you’re such an expert, why don’t you do it?” Weasley snapped and, with a shared smirk with Draco, Haedus stopped practising to see what would happen.

Hermione didn’t rise to the bait. She rolled up her sleeves, flicked her wand, and said clearly, “Wingardium Leviosa!”

The feather floated upward, graceful as a snowflake.

“Oh, very good, Miss Granger!” Flitwick clapped. “Look here, everyone, a perfect example!”

Weasley sulked for the rest of the lesson, and as they were leaving class, his loud voice cut through the corridor.

“She’s unbearable, isn’t she?” he said to Seamus, “An absolute nightmare who thinks she knows everything and bosses everyone around! No wonder no one actually likes her - I mean, she had to go to Slytherin to find friends!”

Haedus turned in time to see Hermione push past them, her face pale and eyes full of tears. 

Theo watched her leave. “Did she hear that?”

“I think so” he murmured, “That was harsh, even from a Weasley”.

“She’ll shake it off” Blaise said, “She’s not exactly delicate”.

Haedus didn’t fully agree. He knew that Hermione was insecure about her place here, being a muggle-born, and given that the only friends she had were pure-blooded Slytherins from Dark families, she no doubt felt that she knew even less about the wizarding world again. She was always trying to prove herself, and yes, that did result in her sounding bossy sometimes, like Weasley had said, but she only ever had good intentions.

Haedus decided to talk to her after their next class... except Hermione didn’t show up to Transfiguration, or to Muggle Studies that afternoon either. He was tempted to ask one of the Gryffindors if they’d seen her - and even more tempted to curse Weasley into the hospital ward - but Draco talked him out of it, saying that if she still didn’t show up for dinner, then he would happily join him in hexing some Gryffindors. 

When they arrived for the Halloween feast that evening, the Great Hall was awash in flickering candlelight and fluttering bats. Plates filled themselves with roast chicken, pumpkin pasties, and buttered potatoes, but Haedus barely touched his food, instead keeping his attention on the large wooden doors.

Draco nudged him. “You’re brooding. That’s my job”.

“She still hasn’t turned up” he replied quietly.

“So what?” he asked, reaching for the pumpkin juice, “She’s upset, but she’ll get over it, and everything will be back to normal by tomorrow”.

Before Haedus could respond with something scathing and deserved, the doors burst open with a bang. Professor Karkaroff - robes dishevelled, face pale - ran into the hall, past the startled students, and up to the Head table at the front of the room.

“Troll - in the dungeons” he gasped, “Thought you ought to know”.

Panic erupted. Students screamed, professors leapt to their feet, and Dumbledore had to fire purple sparks into the air for silence.

“Prefects” he called, “lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!”

The hall filled with the chaos of scraping benches and rushing footsteps. As the Slytherins were being herded out, however, Haedus grabbed Draco’s sleeve. “Wait - Hermione. She’s still not here!”

Draco blinked. “She’s probably already in her common room-”

“She’s not. I overheard some Gryffindor girls say that she was crying in the bathroom earlier and wanted to be left alone”.

“Then let's leave her alone!”

“She doesn’t know about the troll!”

“So what?!”

Haedus gave him a look, and after a moment, Draco sighed and then shook his head with a curse.

“Ugh! Fine! But if I get killed by a bloody troll, then I’m coming back to haunt you!”

They slipped away from the stream of students, hearts pounding, sprinting for the girls’ bathroom before it was too late. They had just turned the corner when they heard quick footsteps behind them. 

“Fawley!” Draco hissed, pulling Haedus behind a large stone griffin. Peering around it, however, they saw not the Slytherin prefect but Karkaroff. He crossed the corridor and disappeared from view. 

“What’s he doing?” Haedus whispered, “Why isn’t he down in the dungeons with the rest of the teachers?

“Probably too scared” his cousin replied, “I mean, you saw how terrified he looked when he burst into the Hall like that! No wonder the Dark Lord doesn't like him”.

Haedus wasn’t convinced but knew that they didn’t have time to get into it right now. Quietly as possible, they crept along the next corridor after Karkaroff’s fading footsteps. 

And then they heard it - a low grunting, and the shuffling footfalls of gigantic feet. Draco pointed - at the end of a passage to the left, something huge was moving toward them. They shrank into the shadows and watched as it emerged into a patch of moonlight. For a second, Haedus thought that whatever the hell had been watching him these past few weeks had finally come to catch him, except-

The troll stopped next to a doorway and peered inside. It waggled its long ears, making up its tiny mind, then slouched slowly into the room.

“The key’s in the lock” Draco whispered, “We could lock it in”.

“We could” Haedus agreed, “Except for one tiny little problem”.

“What’s that?”

He was answered by a high, petrified scream.

“That’s the girls' bathroom” Haedus finished grimly, “Come on!”

Looking as though it was the absolute last thing that he ever wanted to do, Draco took off after him as they ran towards the door. Inside, Hermione Granger was shrinking against the wall opposite, looking as if she was about to faint. The troll was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off the walls as it went.

“Confuse it!” Haedus ordered, and, seizing a tap, he threw it as hard as he could against the wall.

The troll stopped a few feet from Hermione. It lumbered around, blinking stupidly, to see what had made the noise. Its mean, little eyes saw Haedus. It hesitated, then made for him instead, lifting its club as it went. 

“Oi, pea-brain!” Draco yelled from the other side of the chamber, and he threw a metal pipe at it. The troll didn’t even seem to notice the pipe hitting its shoulder, but it heard the yell and paused again, turning its ugly snout toward him instead, giving Haedus time to run around it. 

“Come on, run, run!” he yelled at Hermione, trying to pull her toward the door, but she couldn’t move; she was still flat against the wall, her mouth open with terror. 

The shouting and the echoes seemed to be driving the troll berserk. It roared again and started toward Draco, who was nearest and had no way to escape. Haedus didn’t really want to hurt the creature, but he wanted his cousin to be brutally murdered even less, so-

“Confringo!”

There was a burst of fiery orange from the end of his wand that struck the troll square in the chest. There was a loud crack, and the creature staggered, roaring in pain, its grey, leathery skin blackening and cracking along the point of impact. It swung its club wildly, smashing a stall into splinters, but Haedus was already moving again.

He shouted another Blasting curse, this one hitting the troll’s knee. It dropped to one side with a pained groan, and the whole floor shuddered beneath the weight of it. Draco ran to Hermione’s side and yanked her back behind a broken sink.

“Haedus!” he shouted, rising up, “What the hell are you-”

“Stay down!” Haedus snapped, his eyes dark, voice sharp and far too calm for the chaos in the room.

The troll, injured but still alive, heaved itself toward him, dragging its massive club behind it. Its eyes were cloudy with pain but filled with rage.

Haedus didn’t hesitate.

“Reducto!”

The spell hit the troll’s club, smashing it in half and sending splinters in every direction, including his own. The creature stumbled again, and that was when Haedus moved in - blocking out the pain, wand gripped tight, eyes narrowed in eerie focus. 

“Incarcerous!” Ropes of black, snake-like magic erupted from his wand and lashed around the creature’s legs. It tripped, crashing to the floor so hard the tiles fractured beneath it.

And then - the final blow.

Haedus raised his wand, voice flat and cold. “Diffindo”.

There was a sickening squelch as the spell carved its way through the troll’s neck. The creature gave a last, pathetic groan - then went still.

Hermione was crying.

Not loud, messy sobs - just silent tears, frozen against her cheeks. Draco looked pale, his hands still clenched around the sleeve of her robe. Haedus just stood there, breathing hard, his wand still raised.

There was blood on the floor. Some of it was on him. Some of it was probably even his own blood.

A few seconds passed in ringing silence.

Then the door slammed open.

“Haedus!” Severus exclaimed, voice sharp with panic. 

McGonagall was right behind him, with a rather nervous-looking Karkaroff bringing up the rear. Snape gave him a quick glance over, taking in his dishevelled clothes and the pale wand clutched tightly in his hand, and then turned to the sluggishly bleeding troll sprawled out on the ground in front of them.

McGonagall was looking at Haedus, who had never seen her look so angry. 

“What on earth were you thinking of?” she said, with cold fury in her voice, “You’re lucky you weren’t killed! Why aren’t you in your dormitory?!”

Haedus finally reholstered his wand, but his defensive expression didn’t change. “We were thinking, ma’am, that our friend was about to be torn apart by a troll!”

Karkaroff stepped forward, clearly ready to lecture. “This was beyond reckless! I expected better from you, Mr Lestrange! You could’ve been killed-”

“Well, I would have been, sir, if they hadn’t come looking for me!” Hermione cut in, her voice still shaky but rising with every word, “No one else came to find me. No one even noticed I was missing! If any teacher had cared enough to check-”

Her voice cracked, but she pushed through it.

“I wasn’t at the feast. I wasn’t in class. I’d been crying in the bathroom since Charms! And nobody noticed! Not the prefects. Not my Head of House. Not even a single person from my own House! Haedus and Draco are the only reason I’m still alive right now!”

McGonagall looked stricken. Karkaroff opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again when he met Hermione’s glare, her eyes fierce through the tears. Haedus blinked. That… was not the Hermione Granger he’d first met on the train. Draco gave her a look that was half admiration, half disbelief. 

“Merlin, Granger” he muttered under his breath, “remind me never to get on your bad side”.

“You already are” she said tightly, but she didn’t pull her arm away when he reached out to steady her again.

McGonagall drew herself up. “Miss Granger, you are… correct. I should have noticed your absence, and that is a failure on my behalf, for which I apologise. But that doesn’t change the fact that three first-years just fought a fully grown mountain troll! I hope you realise that Professor Dumbledore will be informed about this”.

Haedus only barely fought back his wince in time. It was yet another thing that would put him on the Headmaster’s radar - although, with any luck, the old man would see this as being a daring act of Gryffindor courage and would focus on the fact he’d saved the life of his friend, rather than the fact he’d used Dark Magic to do so. He’d have to remember to wipe his wand…

“We will discuss this properly in the morning” Severus said, finally stepping forward, “But for now, all three of you are to report to the hospital wing and then return immediately to your dormitories. Is that clear?”

They all mumbled a quick “yes sir”, and gladly hightailed it out of there. As they left the destroyed bathroom, Haedus glanced over at Hermione, who still looked too pale for comfort.

“You were brave in there”.

She gave him a faint smile. “Not as brave as you… Though I’m not sure what to be more afraid of right now - you, or the troll”.

He snorted. “If it makes you feel better, I’m not entirely sure either”.

“... I didn’t know you could do magic like that” she said softly.

“And I didn’t know that you could tell off professors” he replied, “I guess we’re all learning new things today”.

"Well, I’m already dreading the letter from mother” Draco grumbled, “I hope you’re happy with yourself, Hades, cause I’m going to be blaming everything that happened on you!”

He laughed and pushed open the door to the infirmary, shaking his head at his cousin's antics. Being perfectly honest, he was feeling pretty happy with himself. He’d saved Hermione, showed Karkaroff that he wasn’t someone to mess with, and had even fought a troll! He was sad that the creature had been killed, of course, but overall, Haedus had to admit - this had been his best birthday yet!

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 5th November

As they entered November, the weather turned very cold. The mountains around the school became icy grey, and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning, the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen from the upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskine overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin boots.

Haedus pulled his cloak tighter as he made his way out of the castle, shoes crunching softly over the brittle grass, the pale morning light stretching long shadows across the ground. He’d left breakfast early. Even with Theo and Draco trading sleepy complaints and Blaise stealing rashers from their plates, Haedus hadn’t been able to shake the thoughts gnawing at the edges of his mind.

Karkaroff had been limping yesterday in their Defence class - only slightly, but noticeably. Haedus knew that Severus had noticed it too. He’d seen the way the man’s gaze had lingered, sharp and suspicious, as Karkaroff half-hobbled his way up the Head table that morning. But Haedus also knew that if he asked Severus about it, he wouldn’t be told anything, so it was up to him - as usual - to figure out the truth.

He’d seen him that night on their way to rescue Hermione. Karkaroff had stalked past them, heading for the third floor, far away from the dungeons where every other professor had been going to take down the troll that he had told them was down there. Had he lied about where the troll was? Haedus couldn’t see how doing such a thing could benefit him, so that couldn’t be right. Had the troll simply found its own way to that bathroom, something that Karkaroff hadn’t anticipated, yet had still taken advantage of? That sounded more plausible, but it still didn’t answer the question of what the man had been doing on the third floor. 

He reached the first greenhouse and paused, pretending to examine the frost-speckled glass. His breath puffed in white clouds as he leaned close to peer at the sleeping Venomous Tentacula inside. Haedus didn’t believe in coincidences. His Maman had always warned him not to trust them. So if Karkaroff had sneaked onto the third floor that night and now the same man had injured his leg, then the two events had to be related.

That was when he felt it.

A slow, prickling awareness that crept down his neck and settled between his shoulder blades. The feeling he knew all too well by now - he was being watched.

Haedus didn’t turn.

Instead, he gave a dramatic sigh, faking disinterest, then slowly angled toward the edge of the greenhouses closest to the Forbidden Forest. The trees loomed in the distance, dark and tangled against the soft blue of the morning sky. Birds called faintly from their boughs. The presence behind him followed - silent and sure.

Haedus forced himself to remain calm, forced his breathing to stay steady, forced Papa and Tonton Baz’s numerous defence lessons to play on repeat in his head. Just a few more steps…

Now!

He spun on the spot.

“Stupefy!”

A bolt of red light cracked through the cold air.

There was a startled "whumpf" and the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

Haedus stalked forwards, wand raised, heart hammering, determined to confront whoever the hell had been stalking him for weeks now, except-

Except it wasn’t a person.

It was a… dog.

A massive black dog sprawled awkwardly on its side in the frosted grass, twitching faintly from the Stunning Spell. It had thick, black fur and paws the size of saucers, with a broad head and lean limbs that suggested both strength and speed. It looked almost like-

A grim.

Haedus’s heart skipped a beat. He took a step closer. Was it a grim?

… No. The eyes were wrong - they weren’t glowing or bright yellow like the eyes of grims’ he’d seen in illustrations before. Instead, they were grey - stormy and intelligent and, bizarrely, oddly pleading.

He frowned. “... You’ve been following me”.

The dog didn’t respond - not out loud, anyway - but even stunned, something in its expression seemed to agree. Haedus stared at it for a long moment. Why on earth had a dog been following him? What possible motive could any creature have to stalk him for the past few weeks?! It had been smart enough to keep itself hidden, so surely if it had been planning to attack him, it would’ve done so by now, which meant… what?

“... Alright” he said at last, “I’ll let you go now, but if you try to eat me, I’ll turn you into a quaffle!”

With a flick of his wand, he removed the dog’s invisible binds, and it gave a soft whine as it stretched out its limbs, shaking its great shaggy head once before lowering it and starting to wag its tail instead.

“Just how smart are you?” Haedus murmured, “Can you… I don’t know… sit?”

The dog sat.

“Speak?”

It gave a bark.

“Are you trained, or do you actually understand me?”

The dog tossed its head, as if nodding in agreement.

Haedus slowly reholstered his wand. “Right. Either you’re the smartest dog I’ve ever met, or I’ve gone completely mental”.

The dog stood, cautiously, and then padded over and gently bumped his hand with its head. He hesitated, but then carefully reached down to pet it. Its fur was coarse but warm, and it pressed into his palm with a low sound of contentment.

“You’ve been following me around for weeks” Haedus muttered, more to himself than the dog, “Why? What do you want? Are you someone’s familiar? You don’t have a collar… and there’s no way you’re just a regular dog”.

The dog tilted its head and blinked up at him with almost mournful grey eyes. Before Haedus could continue, the sound of voices drifted across the lawn. He looked up to see the rest of the first-years streaming from the castle, their breath misting in the chilly air, heading toward the greenhouses with laughter and complaints alike.

He turned back to the dog. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a class now”.

The dog whined, its tail still swishing behind it with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump against the frozen ground.

Haedus hesitated. “But… if you’re that desperate to follow me… you don’t have to hide anymore. Not when I’m outside. Just - don’t freak people out, yeah? Or get me expelled. That’d be a pretty poor way to repay me for not hexing you”.

The dog gave a sharp, pleased bark, pushed its wet nose against Haedus’s palm one last time, and trotted backwards toward the trees, disappearing into the shadows in seconds. Haedus shook his head, more bemused than alarmed, and made his way over to the greenhouse just as Draco, Theo and Blaise arrived.

“Where’ve you been?” his cousin asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Admiring nature” he deadpanned, “It’s very restorative”.

He didn’t look convinced, but before he could question him further, Professor Sprout flung open the greenhouse door and ushered them inside with instructions to collect their earmuffs and gloves.

Haedus followed everyone in, glad for the opportunity to block out  his friends' questions, even if Herbology wasn’t his favourite subject. He found himself only half-listening to Sprout, the rest of his thoughts still occupied by Karkaroff, the third-floor corridor, and the far-too-intelligent eyes that he could still feel watching him from the trees.

Saturday, 9th November

Unfortunately, Haedus didn’t get much time over the following week to ponder on the mysteries of his life - the Quidditch season had begun.

The morning of his first match, Slytherin vs. Gryffindor, dawned very bright and cold. By eleven o’clock, the whole school seemed to be out in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Haedus wasn’t feeling nervous, exactly, but he knew that there were still some Slytherins who didn’t believe he deserved to be on the team, and once the rest of the school knew he was playing, there would be a lot more disbelief from them, too. 

This was his one shot to prove to them that he’d earned his place here, and Haedus was determined to take it.

Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the middle of the field, waiting for the two teams, her broom in her hand. 

“Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you” she said, once they were all gathered around her, although Haedus didn’t miss the dirty look she shot him as she said it, “Mount your brooms, please”.

And with a loud blast on her silver whistle, they were off.

“And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor - what an excellent chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too-” 

“JORDAN!” 

“Sorry, Professor”.

Haedus snorted and shook his head even as he glided over them way up above, looking around for some sign of the snitch. This was part of his and Flint’s game plan. 

“Keep out of the way until you catch sight of the snitch” Flint had said, “We don’t want you attacked before you have to be”.

Not that it appeared to be working, however, as Haedus narrowly dodged a bludger that had come pelting his way.

“Alright there, Lestrange?” Lucian Bole had time to yell as he beat the bludger furiously toward Alicia Spinnet. 

“Slytherin in possession” Lee Jordan was saying, “Chaser Pucey ducks two bludgers, two Weasleys, and chaser Bell, and speeds toward the- wait a moment- was that the snitch?” 

A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey dropped the Quaffle, too busy looking over his shoulder at the flash of gold that had passed his left ear. Haedus saw it. In a great rush of excitement, he dived downward after the streak of gold. 

The Gryffindor seeker had seen it, too. 

Neck and neck, they hurtled toward the Snitch - all the chasers seemed to have forgotten what they were supposed to be doing as they hung in midair to watch. Haedus was faster than the Gryffindor - he could see the little round ball, wings fluttering, darting up ahead - he put on an extra spurt of speed - WHAM! 

A roar of outrage echoed from the Slytherins below - Oliver Wood had blocked Haedus on purpose, and his broom spun off course, Haedus holding on for dear life. 

“Foul!” screamed the Slytherins, but Madam Hooch only shook her head and gestured for the game to continue. Furious, Haedus regained control of his broom and soared back into the sky. In all the confusion, of course, the golden snitch had disappeared from sight again - and Gryffindor was still in the lead.

“Johnson back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes - she’s really flying - dodges a speeding bludger - the goal posts are ahead - come on, now, Angelina - keeper Bletchley dives - misses - GRYFFINDORS SCORE!”

It was as Haedus dodged another Bludger, which went spinning dangerously past his head, that it happened. 

His broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch. For a split second, he thought he was going to fall. He gripped the broom tightly with both his hands and knees. He’d never felt anything like that. It happened again. It was as though the broom was trying to buck him off - but this was a custom-made broom he’d had for years! 

Haedus tried to turn back toward the Slytherin goal posts - he had half a mind to ask Flint to call time-out - and then he realised that his broom was completely out of his control. He couldn’t turn it. He couldn’t direct it at all. It was zigzagging through the air, and every now and then, making violent swishing movements that almost unseated him. 

Lee Jordan was still commentating. “Slytherin in possession - Flint with the Quaffle - passes Spinnet - passes Bell - hit hard in the face by a bludger, hope it broke his nose - only joking, Professor - Slytherins score - oh no-”

Suddenly, people were pointing up at Haedus all over the stands. His broom had started to roll over and over, with him only just managing to hold on before-

The whole crowd gasped. His broom had given a wild jerk, and Haedus swung off it. He was now dangling from it, holding on with only one hand. 

What in Salazar’s name was doing this to him?! Haedus knew that brooms didn’t suddenly act up like this - nothing could interfere with a broomstick except powerful Dark magic, which meant it couldn’t be another student!

His broom was vibrating so hard, it was almost impossible for him to hang on much longer. The whole crowd was on its feet, watching, terrified, as Flint and Bletchley flew up to try and pull Haedus safely onto one of their brooms, but it was no good - every time they got near him, the broom would jump higher still. 

His fingers were slipping.

The handle of his broom bucked violently again, throwing his weight sideways, and Haedus gritted his teeth hard enough to hurt. His left arm burned with the effort of holding on - his shoulder screaming, his grip damp with sweat and starting to go numb.

Below, the world twisted. The Quidditch pitch spun wildly, green and gold and red smearing together like spilt paint. The shouting of the crowd became a dull roar in his ears, drowned beneath the rush of wind and the bone-deep thrum of something - some force - crawling through his broom like a curse.

It was a curse.

Haedus knew it. He wasn’t just being jinxed - this was deliberate, powerful, and Dark.

Someone wanted him dead.

But who?! Why now? What did they-

Then the broom jerked so hard he lost his grip. His fingers slipped.

He fell.

Not far - he managed to catch himself, fingers clamping down on the broom's shaft just above the bristles - but now he was only barely hanging by one hand, feet swinging, dangling helplessly in the sky.

“HAEDUS!” he heard someone scream - Draco, probably - but he couldn’t look, couldn't spare the attention. He was using everything he had just to hang on.

Flint and Bletchley were circling below, calling up to him, trying to get close enough to catch him, but his broom twisted violently away each time. It was almost taunting them. Haedus’s jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed. This wasn’t just Dark Magic. This was personal.

And suddenly, something in him flared to life - not panic. Not even fear.

Fury.

He was done being toyed with. First, the troll, then the eyes following him, and now this?

With a snarl, he reached into himself - into that strange, quiet place deep inside where his magic lived - and he pushed.

Not with a spell. Not with words. Just will.

And for a heartbeat, the broom stilled - just long enough.

Haedus moved like lightning, swinging his legs up and around. He hauled himself back into the seat of the broom, his breath ragged and his hands trembling - but he was on. He had control. And he was not going to waste it.

His eyes scanned the pitch automatically and- there! 

A flicker of gold.

Haedus dove.

The wind screamed past his ears, whipping his hair back and making his eyes water, but he didn’t blink. He leaned into the dive, let the air pull him faster, and locked on to that tiny, gleaming ball of gold ahead. The snitch veered, darted sideways - and he matched it, cutting the broom with a sharp jerk.

Something was still tugging faintly at the broom, but Haedus didn’t care. He was faster. He was angrier.

He would not be made a fool of!

The snitch darted again - lower this time, almost to the grass - and Haedus followed it down, the pitch rushing up beneath him. The crowd had gone silent again. And then - his hand shot out - his fingers closed-

He hit the ground hard. The impact jarred his knees, sent a bolt of pain up his spine - but he didn’t let go of the snitch.

He looked down. 

And there it was - fluttering its wings weakly between his fingers.

A gasp went up from the stands.

Slowly, painfully, he stood, staggered slightly, and raised the snitch high in the air for everyone to see.

Chaos erupted.

Cheers and boos roared from every direction as the Slytherins leapt to their feet, screaming his name, while the Gryffindors howled in disbelief. The game ended in utter confusion - everyone still shocked and surprised and bewildered, even as the rest of his team landed next to him and swept him up onto their shoulders, cheering.

They’d won.

Even after being jinxed - even when someone had tried to kill him - he’d still caught the snitch.

And someone in this castle was going to pay for thinking they could make him a victim.

The familiar scent of sandalwood and dried herbs clung to the warm air of Snape’s office. Shadows curled in the corners, flickering with the soft light from the wall sconces, and the stone walls seemed to press close around the occupants. 

Haedus sat curled into one of the high-backed chairs near the fire, a steaming mug of strong black tea warming his hands. His hair was still damp from the shower, and fresh bruises were blooming on his knees - the only visible sign of the fall. He didn’t speak, but his eyes were sharp and wary.

Draco sat cross-legged on the rug in front of him, uncharacteristically subdued, his own tea untouched on the stone fireplace next to him. Marcus Flint leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, his face set in a scowl. Severus, perched on the other armchair with feline stillness, watched all three of them with that unreadable gaze he’d perfected long ago.

“Firstly” he began, voice smooth and low, “you should know I recognised the curse almost immediately”.

Haedus blinked at him, surprised. “You did?”

Severus nodded once. “It’s a very old variant of one often used to sabotage mounted cavalry. I’ve only seen it successfully cast twice. Both times, the caster needed a direct line of sight and near-total concentration... I started the counter-charm the moment I saw your broom begin to buck”.

“I didn’t even notice” Draco muttered, “I was too busy yelling at Wood, thinking he had something to do with it after how he’d blocked Hades earlier in the match”.

“So someone did try to kill me”. Haedus spoke it matter-of-factly, setting his mug down. “That wasn’t some Hufflepuff prank gone wrong”.

Severus gave him a terribly unimpressed look. “No, it was not".

“I didn’t see anyone casting anything” Flint said, running a hand through his still-damp hair, “None of the Gryffindor team were moving their mouths, and I didn’t see anyone in the stands with a wand raised”.

Haedus shook his head. “It wasn’t a student. That spell was Dark - not even a seventh-year would be capable of casting it”.

“Oh, come off it” Draco said, glancing sideways at him, “You’re capable of more Dark Magic than any seventh year!”

Snape snorted. “Yes, well. I believe we can rule out Haedus attempting to murder himself in midair… Unless he’s grown very subtle”.

Haedus’s lips twitched. “Give me till the end of the year”.

“Don’t joke about this!” his cousin snapped.

“I’m not!”

Severus raised a hand, forestalling whatever bickering was about to follow. “Let us return to the matter at hand. If it wasn’t a student and it wasn’t a stranger, we are left, then, with the conclusion that it was a member of staff. Someone with access to the pitch, a concentration strong enough to maintain a very Dark curse, and no fear of killing a first-year in broad daylight”.

There was silence for a beat. 

“Well…” Flint began slowly, “If this spell is as Dark as you say it is, then shouldn’t we look at the Dark Arts professor first?”

Haedus frowned. The Dark Arts was one of the few subjects that the Dark Lord had managed to successfully integrate into Hogwarts. Along with Alchemy and Rituals, it was an optional subject from third year on, taught by professors that both the Dark Lord and Dumbledore had agreed upon.

Maman had once told him that getting those two men to agree on anything had taken longer than the entire peace treaty process had.

“Professor Rowle?” Draco asked, his nose scrunching in confusion, “You think he has it in for Hades?”

But Haedus was already shaking his head. “No, it wasn’t him. I don’t even think he was at the match!”

“He could’ve been under a Disillusionment charm” Flint pointed out, “Or hidden himself underneath the stands”.

“No. It wasn’t him. I mean, I’ve only spoken to the guy a few times - he gave me a duelling lesson once and I’ve seen him after meetings back at home, but…” Haedus frowned as he tried to piece his thoughts together. “He definitely has a sadistic streak, but he respects strength - respects power. He was always friendly during our conversations, and he’s always spoken to me like an adult, instead of a child… I’m almost certain he has no reason to curse me, but even if he did, he wouldn’t have done it like this - he’s a Master Dueller, for Merlin’s sake!”

“Rowle is loyal to the cause” Severus agreed, “And regardless of any possible motives, he wouldn’t risk angering the Dark Lord by acting against one of his own - and certainly not in such a cowardly fashion”.

“But that rules out everyone on our side, then, doesn’t it?” Flint said, “But if it was Dark Magic, then… who are we left with?”

“Could it… Could it have been… Dumbledore?” Draco asked cautiously. 

Severus didn’t react immediately. He reached for his tea instead, taking a long sip before answering.

“… It is not impossible” he said at last, each word carefully measured, “Albus has spent decades cultivating an image of benevolence, but I have known him long enough to say this - he is capable of great power… and he has not always used it wisely”.

“He has dabbled in the Dark Arts” Draco added, glancing toward Haedus, “That’s not just rumour. Father said-”

“I know” Haedus interrupted, brows drawn, “But Dumbledore’s been trying to win me over since I got here. Why curse my broom? Why try to kill me?”

“Maybe” Flint said slowly, “he didn’t want to kill you. Maybe he wanted to save you”.

His frown deepened. “What?”

Flint pushed off the wall and started pacing. “Think about it. He curses your broom, lets it go wild mid-game, waits until everyone has seen what’s happening, and then he steps in and saves you - breaks the curse, carries you off the pitch, whatever! Makes himself look like the hero. You’d be grateful. You’d trust him - in his mind, at least”.

Draco grimaced. “That’s messed up… But it does kind of sound like the kind of stunt he’d pull”.

“Would he really gamble on Sev not noticing, though?” Haedus asked, unconvinced, “On not recognising the curse and countering it? Dumbledore had no way of knowing who’d react first, or that he even would be able to save me if it came down to it. This could’ve ended horribly! Would he seriously have taken that risk?”

“He has taken far greater risks for far less” Severus replied grimly, “I don’t believe it is likely, but it is undoubtedly still a possibility”.

“You’ll have a meeting with him later, right?” Haedus asked, “And the rest of the staff? There has to be some sort of discussion about this!”

Flint snorted. “I think you’re overestimating the Headmaster’s ability to care about Slytherins, Lestrange”.

“Still!” he pressed, “You’ll be able to get a better read of him, right? And see if anyone else is acting weird?”

“I can certainly try” Snape agreed, “Although you are forgetting a rather more pressing matter”.

“What’s that?”

“Your parents”.

Haedus grimaced and sat back in his seat, while Draco paled and actually recoiled in horror. “Oh, Merlin! Your mother…”

Haedus winced, rubbing a hand over his face. “Exactly. Sev, I need you to tell her what happened. Now. Before anyone else does”.

Severus raised an eyebrow. “You believe she would listen to me over the panic in her own mind?”

“You’re the only one she might listen to!” Haedus’s tone was earnest now, laced with the barest hint of desperation. “If she hears about this from anyone else - if someone tells her I fell, or that, even worse, I was cursed - she’ll come straight here, with or without Papa, and she will not care about the peace treaty!”

“And if she does come here, we’re going to have a giant crater where the Great Hall used to be” Draco mumbled, looking more and more queasy by the second.

“They didn’t even want me to come to Hogwarts!” Haedus continued, “They thought it was too dangerous! They only changed their minds after the Dark Lord personally told them that it would be good for me! You have to tell her!”

Snape gave a long-suffering sigh. “You have no idea how many Calming draughts I am going to need for this conversation”.

“I’ll write to them tonight” Haedus added quickly, “I’ll tell them I’m fine, not hurt, that the curse was stopped in time. I’ll downplay everything. Just… please, Sev, stall them for me? You know that if they show up here, it’ll only end in bloodshed, and while normally I am a fan of bloodshed, I don’t want them getting hurt!”

“I can try to stop them storming the castle” he replied, rolling his eyes, “But I cannot promise they won’t seek… other avenues of retribution”.

Flint scoffed. “Quite frankly, I hope they do. Might finally get some headlines around here that don’t read like the Gryffindor Monthly Fan Club. Hogwarts could use a little scrutiny, in my opinion”.

Draco snorted. “Maybe they’ll send an owl to the Prophet and make Hogwarts’ safety issues front page news - then we’ll see the owls roll in! Dumbledore deserves to be buried under a mountain of paperwork”.

“Dumbledore deserves to be buried full stop” Haedus muttered.

With another heavy sigh, Severus drained the last of his tea and then stood up, brushing imaginary lint off his dark sleeves.

“Regardless of how satisfying it would be to see Albus chased into retirement by parchment and paranoia, none of that will matter if your mother arrives here in a rage and blasts her way through the wards. So. You will write that letter now, and I will do what I can in the meantime”.

“You’re the best, Sev ” Haedus said very seriously.

“I am a very tired man, is what I am” he muttered, “who is now tasked with preventing a furious Bellatrix Lestrange from levelling a castle full of children”.

Draco stood as well, grabbing his tea only to realise it had gone cold. “Well, we’ve all had enough trauma for one day. Let’s go write that letter and pretend to do our Transfiguration homework”.

Snape levelled him with a look. “Draco Malfoy, if you fail your Transfiguration class, then the Lestranges will not be the only parents I visit tonight!”

He let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeak and hurried for the door. Haedus rolled his eyes at the blond but obediently followed, with Flint taking up the back of their troop.

With one last jaunty wave, the door closed behind the students with a soft click, and for a long moment, Severus simply stood still in the middle of his office, staring into the fireplace and contemplating the truly monumental task that was ahead of him.

It wasn’t enough to be treated like a chew toy being pulled between two masters, spying on the Order for the Dark and pretending to spy on the Dark for the Order, feeding information to the Dark Lord and lies to Dumbledore, all the while trying to convince the old man that he was on his side but now - now! - he had to somehow convince one of the most powerful, dangerous, and insane witches of all time not to commit an act of war before dawn.

With a sigh, he sat down behind his desk and reached for a pre-emptive Calming draught.

“... Maybe I should just fake my own death”.

Chapter Text

Saturday, 9th November

The fire in Snape’s office flared emerald as he knelt before it, jaw tight, shoulders squared. He tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the flames and spoke clearly: “Lestrange Manor”.

A moment later, the familiar drawing room came into view: tall windows veiled in heavy green drapes, gilt-edged furniture, and the faint glow of candles floating high above. To his immense relief, it was Rodolphus who appeared, striding into view with a half-buttoned jacket and a curious frown.

“Severus?” He stepped closer, kneeling to the hearth. “What’s wrong? Is it Haedus?!”

“He’s fine” Snape replied immediately, “I assure you, he is entirely unharmed. But there was… an incident today, during his Quidditch match, and he wished for me to inform you before anyone else does”.

Concern flickered across Rodolphus’s face. “Then I’ll go get Bella before you start to explain-”

“No!” The word came out sharper than Snape intended. He forced his voice to settle, forced himself to stay calm. “No. There is no need to alarm her unnecessarily. Haedus is safe, he has already written to you, and telling Bella at this stage will serve no purpose except to… complicate matters”.

Rodolphus’s eyes narrowed. “You mean she’ll storm the castle and hex Dumbledore into an early grave?”

“... Perhaps”.

“Then perhaps, you'd best step through”. 

The man stood, taking a few steps away from the fireplace, and Severus sighed before reaching for his bag of Floo powder. He had hoped to do this through the fire, where his physical form would be kept safe, but he had promised Haedus that he’d do this properly, and, really, telling the Lestranges what their son had been getting up to should be done face-to-face anyway.

Stepping through the Floo, he brushed the soot from his robes and reluctantly followed Rodolphus over to the Chesterfield chairs at the side of the room.

“So” the man began, gesturing for him to sit, “Whatever it is that happened is bad enough that my wife will try to murder Albus Dumbledore?”

Snape’s lips curled faintly. “Yes. Which, I admit, would not break my heart, but it would derail the Dark Lord’s carefully laid plans. And that is something that neither of us can allow”.

Rodolphus studied him for a moment, then gave a short, humourless chuckle. “Fair enough. Tell me, then. What happened?”

Severus outlined the incident concisely - the broom bucking, the unmistakable Dark curse, his immediate counterspell. He gave nothing away of Haedus’s suspicions or his strange, powerful surge of will; that was for another day.

When he finished, Rodolphus leaned back in his seat, exhaling slowly. “Merlin’s beard. And this was only at his very first match?!”

“Indeed” he replied dryly, “The child seems determined to send me to an early grave”.

“Do you believe it will happen again?” Rodolphus asked, “During his next Quidditch game?”

“... No” Severus eventually said, after a moment's thought, “I think whoever did this failed thoroughly enough not to try again - but nevertheless, I shall request that I referee the next Slytherin match regardless. Hopefully, my presence on the pitch should deter any further… incidents from occurring”.

“Thank you” he replied genuinely, his dark eyes sincere, “Do you have any idea who cursed his broom yet?”

“Not yet” Severus replied, albeit reluctantly, “But Dumbledore - or, far more likely, Minerva - is sure to call a staff meeting this evening to discuss what happened. I’ll get a better impression of possible suspects then, and I will keep you informed of any… developments”.

Job done and promise kept, he stood, smoothening the front of his robes and turning back to the fireplace. For a fleeting moment, Snape allowed himself to feel grateful - this had been far less painful an ordeal than he had anticipated, and he had been fortunate that it was Rodolophus, steady and measured, who had answered his call. He couldn’t even imagine the carnage that would ensue if-

“Severus”.

The familiar voice sliced through the air like a blade. 

He froze.

Bellatrix Lestrange swept into the drawing room, her black gown whispering across the polished floor, her hair a dark halo of untamed curls. She stopped dead when her eyes fell on them - on Snape’s pale face, on Rodolphus’s too-casual posture - and her gaze immediately sharpened.

“What has happened to Haedus?”

“Nothing” Severus said, far too quickly.

“Nothing at all” Rodolphus echoed, far too earnestly.

Her lips curved in a cold, cruel smile. “Oh, really? And yet the pair of you currently look like kneazles caught in a trap... Try again”.

Sparks crackled from her fingertips, tiny flares of raw magic that made the air hum. Snape forced his tone to stay level even if he couldn’t control his racing heart. 

“Haedus is fine, Bella. Completely fine. He had a… minor accident during his Quidditch match this morning, but received nothing worse than a few small bruises. He’s fine - and what's more, he caught the snitch and ensured that Slytherin won!”

He had hoped that by mentioning their victory, Bellatrix - a former player on the Slytherin team herself - would be distracted.

He should’ve known better.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “An accident?”

Rodolphus shifted, slowly standing and taking a few steps to the side to place himself between her and the Floo. “Bella. He’s fine. He’s even sent us a letter! He’s safe, I promise you!”

But she wasn’t listening anymore. The sparks of magic had only increased - in both size and frequency - and her voice had dropped to a low, venomous purr. “If Albus Dumbledore thinks he can touch my son and live, I will flay him alive! I will tear his beard out, hair by hair! I will boil his bones and make him choke on them! I will- I will- I-”

The drawing room lamps spluttered as the sparks around her hands erupted into small, snapping whips of violet light.

“Bella!” Rodolphus’s voice was sharp, commanding, “You storm that castle now, and you hand Dumbledore the excuse he’s been salivating for! You’ll burn the treaty to ashes! Our son is fine!”

“And” Severus added, voice like a dagger sliding into flesh, “you will play right into his hands. He wants chaos. He wants to make us look like violent animals. He wants the Dark Lord to appear unstable… Do not give him the satisfaction”.

Bellatrix’s breathing was ragged, chest heaving, eyes still wild - but at least she was listening. “If he allowed my son to come to harm, then I demand retribution! An eye for an eye!”

“Then retaliate” Severus continued quickly, “But don’t do so with violence. We must be clever about this!”

“Then how do you suggest I get the blood that’s owed to me?!”

“Exposure” he said simply, “We’re not saying that you can’t get what’s owed to you, we’re merely suggesting that you take a… different form of reprisal. Imagine the damage you can do with your words - with the words of the Lestrange, Black, and Malfoy families backing you up? Imagine the Daily Prophet filled with tales of how, under Dumbledore’s very eyes, a child was put in needless danger? It isn’t the first time this has happened. Imagine the articles that could be published about how Hogwarts is unsafe and how Slytherins are often the targets. Imagine the questions it would raise about Dumbledore’s competence - about his loyalty... Haedus doesn’t need you to fight his battles for him, Bella, but there are avenues of revenge that you, as an adult, can travel down far easier than he can”.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then the sparks died down, the candles flickered back to life, and that maniacal gleam flared in her dark eyes, fierce and hungry. 

“Yes” she breathed, “Yes! Let the world see how useless he is. Let them whisper, let them doubt! Let them turn on him!”

Her laugh rang out, shrill and delighted, as she swept toward the writing desk. 

“I’ll write to Rita Skeeter right now! Papa has more than one contact in the publishing world, and Lucius has a cousin who works at the Prophet, too! And oh, I’ll make sure they know everything! Albus bloody Dumbledore will be drowning in scandal before the week is out!”

Snape and Rodolphus exchanged a silent glance - one full of relief tempered with exhaustion.

As Bellatrix bent over her parchment, scribbling with furious glee, Severus quietly stepped back toward the Floo, already thanking every single deity out there that he’d at least delayed the catastrophe for another day.

The fire in the grate spat low embers, painting the cosy townhouse in soft, flickering orange. Remus sat at the worn kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, a mug of tea steaming between his hands. Across from him, Sirius paced restlessly, his hair falling into his eyes, his boots thudding against the scuffed floorboards.

“You’ve been what?” Remus asked at last, his voice deceptively calm.

His partner dragged a hand through his hair, looking rather like a scolded dog. “I’ve been… you know… watching him… Keeping an eye on him… Making sure he’s safe”.

“In your Animagus form”.

“Yes”. Sirius’s grey eyes sparked with defiance. “Padfoot’s invisible in the Forest, Moony! Just a mangy stray dog nobody looks twice at. He’s the perfect cover!”

Remus set his mug down with a soft click. “He’s perfectly reckless, you mean! Dumbledore’s not blind, Sirius! What if he had seen you?! Or even worse, what if one of the students realised you weren’t just a stray and told a professor who then called the Aurors on you?! What if Harry had realised?!”

“He won’t!” he protested, “Harry doesn’t have the first idea who Padfoot is! He doesn’t even know who we are! Maybe he doesn’t even know what Animagus are! To him, I’m just a dog who likes hanging around”.

“Who likes- you mean he’s seen you?!”

Sirius grimaced, but then snorted and shook his head. “Well, I wasn’t planning on it, but then the little brat Stunned me!”

“He what?!”

Sirius straightened, grinning despite the sharp look Remus was giving him. “Last week, when he was outside the greenhouses. Kid’s got instincts like a bloody Auror! One second, he was pretending to admire a plant, the next - Stupefy! - and down I went! He said he knew I’d been following him for weeks!”

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose. “For fuck's sake, Sirius!”

“No, Moony, listen”. His voice softened, warm with pride. “He was brilliant! Eleven years old, and yet he’s still that fast? His reflexes were sharp as a whip, and he was smart enough to question me before deciding what to do. He didn’t panic, didn’t shout for help. He just… sized me up”.

His partner raised an eyebrow. “Yes, well, he is in Slytherin, Pads. Only a Gryffindor would’ve rushed in, wand-blazing with no plan!”

Sirius’s grin widened. “Maybe, but you didn’t see him, Moony… There’s something of James in the way he carries himself, and - Merlin, the way he flies! I watched his first match this morning. He’s a hundred times better than James was at that age!”

That, more than anything, made Remus sit back, his expression flickering. Sirius’s voice had taken on a low, aching note.

“And that’s not all. He caught the snitch after nearly falling off his broom! Someone cursed it, tried to throw him off, and still, he pulled himself back, somehow overcame the curse, and caught the snitch after pulling off a hundred-foot dive like it was nothing! I’d never seen anything like it!”

Remus frowned, his concern overtaking his annoyance. “Wait - he was cursed?!”

Sirius nodded and started to pace again. “Someone jinxed his broom. Had him dangling by one hand while the crowd screamed, and none of the other fliers were able to get close enough to catch him. I’ve no idea who was doing it… although Snape was muttering something and looked damned suspicious-”

“Pads” he interrupted with an exasperated look, “You know full well that Severus wasn’t the one trying to hurt him! If anything, he was likely casting the countercurse! Harry’s in his House, too, and you know how protective he is of his students - not to mind the fact that the Lestranges raised him and Severus has been friends with them for years!”

Sirius’s brows furrowed, his grey eyes narrowed in thought as the rest of his body stilled. “You know, I didn’t really believe him when he said he didn’t put two and two together during the Order’s last meeting. I mean, Harry may look like Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, but he also looks like James, and he’s got-”

He cut himself off, irritation flashing over his face, so Remus sighed and finished his sentence for him.

“And he’s got Lily’s eyes” he said quietly, “You’re right. There’s no way that Severus didn’t realise the truth, no matter what he’s told Dumbledore - he’s far too intelligent for that”.

“Which means he isn’t truly on the Order’s side”.

“Well, neither are we” Remus countered, “If we’re on Harry’s side and only playing nice with Dumbledore to be kept in the loop, then… then maybe Severus is doing the same thing”.

Sirius made a noise halfway between a scoff and a growl, but didn’t contradict him. Instead, he shook his head and resumed his pacing.

“Anyway, we can come back to that later - right now, however, the most important question is who would want to hurt Harry?”

“I think a better question is why” Remus started slowly, “I mean, what possible purpose does attacking an eleven-year-old serve? And were they attacking the Potter heir? Or were they attacking the Lestrange-Black heir?”

For once, Sirius had no answer. The fire crackled. Outside, London traffic rumbled past. The house suddenly felt too small for the weight of the silence that settled in its walls.

Finally, Sirius dropped heavily into a chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know. But I’ll find out. And when I do…”

Remus held his gaze, his own eyes briefly flashing molten gold. “They’ll wish they’d never laid a finger on him.”

The long staff table gleamed under the candlelight, heavy platters of untouched food pushed to the centre. No one was eating. The air was taut with the aftershock of the Quidditch match.

Albus Dumbledore sat at the head, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his half-moon spectacles glinting. His expression was as it so often was in these gatherings - serene, almost distracted, but Severus knew him too well to be fooled. Those blue eyes were sharp and assessing, weighing every person in the room.

Severus took his seat at the far end of the table. His expression was neutral, his mind disciplined into the same cool, silken mask he had perfected years ago. He had only just returned to Hogwarts in time for the staff meeting, and although it wouldn’t have been dangerous, as such, had he explained where he’d been, he didn’t want Dumbledore to associate him with the Lestranges any more than he already did. Severus knew that he was on thin enough ice as it was, with the revelation that the son of one of his closest friends was the long-lost Harry Potter, and he knew that the Headmaster didn’t quite fully trust him as much as he once had.

“Let us begin” Dumbledore said, “I’m sure that by now you are all aware why I called this emergency meeting. There was an incident today during the Quidditch match. Our young Slytherin seeker, Mr… Lestrange, was very nearly unseated”.

“Very nearly killed” Severus corrected softly, his voice like a blade cutting across the table.

Madam Hooch pursed her lips, chin lifting. “I watched the entire thing from the pitch. It looked to me like some sort of broom malfunction”.

He turned his head toward her, his gaze dark and unforgiving. “Then your eyes are failing you, Rolanda. That broom was very obviously cursed!”

A murmur swept the table. Flitwick frowned, tugging at his beard. “Severus is correct. I felt the resonance of the Dark Magic myself. Quite an advanced curse, I’d say, and quite a nasty one, too”.

Madam Hooch flushed scarlet. “That sort of depravity has no place on my pitch. I check every broom personally before they’re allowed in play-”

“Which is exactly why” Severus interrupted sharply, “the caster waited until the boy was already flying!”

Dumbledore raised a calming hand. “Whoever cast it did so from the stands. That much is clear”.

“Clear?” Karkaroff scoffed, leaning lazily back in his chair, his furs spilling over the carved wood like he owned it. “You think this was done in front of the entire school? With over a dozen professors present?! Whoever did this was clearly hidden elsewhere - back in the castle, perhaps, or even in the Forest”.

“On the contrary” Flitwick chimed in, “from what I can gather, the nature of the curse requires constant eye contact. Whoever maintained it would have needed to be in direct line of sight of the boy and visibly concentrating”.

Karkaroff waved a jewelled hand. “Then we would have seen them, but none of us did, did we?”

“I just don’t understand” Sprout said anxiously, “Why target Mr Lestrange of all people? The poor boy is just a first-year!”

Severus’s mouth curved in a humourless smirk. “Yes, he is, however, he is no ordinary first-year”.

The words hung in the air, unchallenged. Even Minerva’s lips thinned.

“Regardless” Dumbledore said smoothly, “we must take every precaution to ensure this does not happen again. Extra wards over the pitch, perhaps-”

“Wards won’t stop it” Karkaroff interrupted again, his voice carrying a sharp impatience, “If someone wants the boy dead, they’ll find another way. A broom, a staircase, a poisoned glass of pumpkin juice… Why, even that troll would have done the trick if Lestrange hadn’t killed it first!”

A tense silence followed. Even Dumbledore’s eyes flickered, just for a heartbeat, before he settled back into his benign mask. He had mixed feelings about the troll incident, Severus knew - Salazar, he even had mixed feelings about it himself! For an eleven-year-old child to be capable enough to take down a fully grown and enraged mountain troll…

“Speculation will do us little good” Dumbledore said at last, his tone quiet but decisive, “Our duty is to protect the children - all of them. Especially those who may be more… vulnerable to attack”.

“Then let us speak plainly” Severus said, his voice soft but dangerous, “The attack was on one of my students. A boy who, for reasons obvious to all of us, is already the target of undue scrutiny. And yet Madam Hooch saw fit to dismiss it as broom trouble”.

Rolanda bristled, her hawkish eyes flashing. “I do not dismiss the danger, Severus! But Quidditch is my domain, and I know the signs of a broom malfunction when I see them-”

“What you saw” he cut across smoothly, “was your pride clouding your judgment. You were too close, too invested in your game to admit that such a violation could take place under your nose - not to mention the fact that you and Mr Lestrange have clashed before. Perhaps you wanted to see him hurt”.

“Now see here-”

“Enough!” Minerva’s sharp tone snapped like a whip. She glared at Severus and then at Madam Hooch. “This is not the time for your petulant battles. Rolanda acted as any responsible official would and called for a time-out-”

His lip curled. “Responsible? While a first year was nearly smashed to pieces?! And let us not forget, it was the captain of my team who called for the time-out!”

“Severus” Dumbledore interjected, calm but firm, “this is not the moment to assign blame. What matters now is preventing it from happening again”.

“Then I will referee Slytherin’s next match”.

A ripple went through the table. Madam Hooch half-rose from her seat, scandalised. “You? Don’t be absurd! You’ve never refereed a match in your life! You’ll spoil the entire flow of the game-”

“The ‘flow of the game’ is irrelevant” Severus shot back, his composure thinning, “when a student’s life is being toyed with like a bludger! It was my student who was attacked, Rolanda, and I will not allow your incompetence or your biases to endanger him further!”

Gasps followed with even Flitwick muttering, “Severus, that’s hardly fair-”

“On the contrary” Karkaroff drawled, “I think he has a point. If someone has marked the boy, what’s to stop them from trying again? Best to have someone… shall we say… vigilant in charge”.

His grin was thin and snake-like, his gaze flicking between Madam Hooch and Severus with clear enjoyment of the tension.

“Severus cannot referee every match” Sprout said, her brow furrowed, “That isn’t reasonable or fair, and it sets a dangerous precedent, doesn’t it? The other Houses will think we’re favouring Slytherin-”

“I do not care what the other Houses think!” Severus snapped, “This is not about points or trophies. This is about a child’s life!”

“Severus”. Dumbledore’s voice was still soft, but it now carried an unmistakable edge. The murmurs stopped at once. He regarded Snape with those unreadable blue eyes for one long moment. “... Very well. You may referee Slytherin’s next match - but only Slytherin’s. Madam Hooch will continue to oversee the others”.

Rolanda’s mouth snapped shut, her indignation barely contained, but she reluctantly, hatefully, nodded her agreement.

“Then it is settled” Dumbledore concluded, rising to his feet with a sweep of his robes, “We will enhance the wards around the pitch, and we will all be vigilant. Our students’ safety must remain paramount. That is all”.

As the meeting was adjourned and the others filed out, murmuring in low, uneasy voices, Severus lingered behind, the gears in his mind racing.

He did not know yet who had cast the curse - but someone had. Only a few professors had spoken up during the meeting, while some of the others had remained almost suspiciously silent, but none had appeared guilty or wary. And yet someone in this room had smiled while Haedus dangled in the air, waiting to fall, to plummet over a hundred feet to his death...

And when Severus found out who, he would ensure that they regretted it.

Monday, 11th November

The Slytherin table was a low hum of conversation, forks clinking softly against plates as steam rose from sausages, eggs, and fried tomatoes. Haedus sat in his usual seat next to Draco, a strip of bacon in one hand and a buttered roll in the other. Underneath his robes, warm and comfortably coiled, Asha stirred.

“Hungry” she hissed, tongue flicking against his ribs.

“Patience” Haedus murmured under his breath, breaking off a small piece of bacon and letting his hand fall to his lap. Asha’s sleek head emerged just enough to snatch the morsel before vanishing back under the folds of cloth.

Draco, busy smearing marmalade onto toast, glanced sideways at him. “Feeding her again? You know, if anyone outside Slytherin ever finds out you sneak food to her during meals, you’ll never hear the end of it”.

“She deserves breakfast just as much as we do” Haedus said calmly, sneaking her another bit of sausage.

“Next thing we know, you’ll be teaching her to drink pumpkin juice through a straw” Theo muttered across from him, though his lips twitched in amusement.

Blaise leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. “I think I’d actually pay to see that. Imagine McGonagall’s face if she saw a snake sipping from a goblet at the table”.

Haedus allowed himself a small smile. “Then it’s fortunate Asha has better manners than most of the Gryffindors”.

There was a flutter of wings above them as dozens of birds swept into the Great Hall. The morning owls descended, rustling through the air in clouds of grey and brown feathers. Letters and packages dropped across the tables, some tied neatly with ribbon, others clumsily bundled in twine.

Almost immediately, the usual chatter shifted into whispers. Students leaned over their papers, voices hushed but urgent, heads turning toward the staff table at the front of the hall.

“What’s going on?” Draco asked, frowning.

An eagle owl swept down and landed gracefully in front of Haedus, dropping a copy of the Daily Prophet before stealing a slice of toast and flapping away.

Haedus pushed his plate aside and unfolded the paper. The bold headline sprawled across the front page in Rita Skeeter’s dramatic hand: HOGWARTS HEADMASTER ENDANGERS STUDENTS: DARK CURSE STRIKES ON QUIDDITCH PITCH

A grainy photograph of him half-falling from his broom - blurry, given the distance, but still unmistakably him - took up half the page, his face set in grim determination as the broom bucked violently above him.

Theo whistled low. “Merlin. You parents sure didn’t waste any time”.

Draco leaned in, eyes widening. “Let me see!”

Haedus tilted the paper so they all could read. The article was long, winding, and full of Rita Skeeter’s trademark dramatics. She recounted the Quidditch match in breathless detail, claimed eyewitnesses had seen Haedus nearly thrown to his death, and made pointed suggestions about Dumbledore’s “criminal negligence” in allowing such violence to take place on the pitch at all.

Blaise gave a quiet laugh. “Well, she sure doesn’t hold back, does she? Look at this bit - ‘Had such a thing happened to a member of the Gryffindor team, would the reaction have been so delayed? One must wonder whether Headmaster Dumbledore values the lives of his Slytherin students at all’. That’s going to go down beautifully with your father, Draco”.

Draco smirked. “Maybe he’ll even frame it and bring it with him to the next Board of Governors meeting”.

Haedus skimmed lower, where Skeeter quoted unnamed sources about Hogwarts’ “declining safety” and the “long list of past incidents conveniently swept under the rug”. There were even allusions to Dumbledore’s biased favouritism - how the Headmaster turned a blind eye when Gryffindors got into trouble but left other students unprotected.

Asha hissed a faint chuckle against his chest, no doubt sensing his dark curl of satisfaction. Sharp-fanged words - they bit deeper than venom.

Haedus folded the paper and slid it smoothly into his school bag, hiding the faint curl of vicious delight tugging at his lips. Around them, the murmurs in the hall were rising: Gryffindors protesting loudly, Ravenclaws already trading copies to analyse the text, Hufflepuffs muttering uncertainly. Up at the high table, Dumbledore’s expression was maddeningly serene, but Madam Hooch - who had also not been spared judgment - looked thunderous.

“Well” Theo said softly, lifting his teacup in mock salute, “let the chaos begin”.

“It’s about damn time” Blaise agreed, “Maybe people will start asking the right questions for once”.

Haedus reached for another slice of bacon, feeding it absentmindedly to Asha. His pulse thrummed with quiet, fierce satisfaction. Whatever storm his Maman had stirred up, it was one Dumbledore would have to weather alone.

And Haedus, for once, was content to sit back and watch the cracks begin to spread.

Chapter Text

Friday, 20th December

Thankfully, the rest of the semester passed without any further incident, and Haedus found himself glad to be returning home for the holidays. 

He hadn’t seen his parents in what felt like forever, and he hadn’t seen Tonton Baz or Papy or Grand-péré or Tatie Cissa or Tonton Lucius or Barty or anyone else in what felt like even longer! To have two whole weeks without thinking about classes or Dumbledore or Karkaroff would be a blessing, and he was thoroughly looking forward to the Dark Lord’s Winter Solstice Party tomorrow night, too.

The train ride passed in a blur of chatter and winter light streaming through the frosted windows. Haedus sat with Draco, Theo, Blaise, and Hermione, their compartment filled with the rustle of sweet wrappers and the occasional hiss from Asha.

“Ah, freedom”. Blaise sighed, stretching his long legs out. “No homework, no essays, no detentions. What bliss”.

“Speak for yourself” Hermione said primly, though there was the faintest quirk at the corner of her mouth, “We’ve got that Transfiguration essay for Professor McGonagall to do, remember? And I want to read ahead in a few classes, too, so I know what to expect next semester”.

Draco rolled his eyes so hard that Haedus was half afraid they’d stick. “Honestly, Granger. We’re not at Hogwarts anymore - you can live without books for a fortnight!”

“Well, you’ve clearly lived without them for far longer than that!”

Haedus grinned at the exchange but didn’t join in. His chest was buzzing with anticipation, and Asha coiled warmly beneath his robes as though she could feel it too. “I just can’t wait to be home. I’ve missed everyone so much. And tomorrow…”

“The Solstice Party” Theo finished quietly.

Hermione looked between them all with a frown. “You mean the kind of party that I’ll never get invited to?”

“The kind of party” Draco said with a smirk, “where you’d probably die of fright halfway through the entrée”.

She gave him a long look. “Remind me never to accept a dinner invitation from you”.

Haedus snorted and shook his head. “Just because you don’t have an invitation this year, Hermione, doesn’t mean that you’ll never get one”.

“She’s a muggleborn!” his cousin immediately protested, and he glanced over at him with a cool gaze. “Yes. She is. And yet she’s outperforming you in at least half of our classes”.

Draco flushed an indignant red and petulantly turned his back to him to stare out the window instead. Hermione flushed too, albeit out of pleasant surprise rather than anger, and quickly turned to Theo to ask him what book he was reading while Blaise shook his head at the lot of them.

The carriage softened into quieter conversation. They spoke of Quidditch matches, of the next term’s classes, and, inevitably, of the dangers that still seemed to lurk within Hogwarts’ ancient stones. But the tone was different now: cautious, yes, but stronger, more determined. They had survived their first semester together, and that counted for something.

When the train finally rolled to a halt and steam billowed across the platform, Haedus’s heart thundered in his chest. The crowd spilt out, voices echoing off the rafters, owls screeching in their cages.

“I’ll write” Hermione promised, tugging her scarf tighter as she prepared to seek out her muggle parents.

“You’d better” Haedus countered with a grin.

Theo clasped his hand, Draco patted him on the shoulder, and Blaise gave him an elegant little salute before peeling off toward his mother, and then - there they were.

“Maman! Papa!”

Rodolphus was the first to spot him. He broke into a grin, striding forward and scooping Haedus up as though he weighed nothing at all. He spun him in a circle, laughter booming, before setting him down, only for Bellatrix to sweep in and snatch him away.

“Mon étoile” she crooned, crushing him to her chest, curls tickling his face. Her grip was fierce, almost desperate. “Never again are you going so long without coming home!”

“I missed you too, Maman” Haedus promised, wriggling in her hold to look at them both, “You should’ve seen me at the Quidditch match! My broom was cursed, but Sev helped me fix it, and- oh! But before that, there was the troll, and everyone says I was brilliant, and Hermione’s amazing at spells, and Theo’s a really good friend, and Blaise says we’ll trash Gryffindor next term and-”

They let him talk as they swept him away through the crowds, Rodolphus keeping one steadying hand on his shoulder while Bellatrix hissed threats under her breath at passersby who jostled too close. Asha wriggled restlessly beneath his robes, tasting the air as they stepped into the Floo station.

Green flames flared to life, and in the blink of an eye, they were home.

The Lestrange drawing room glowed with firelight, garlands of evergreen and silver strung across the mantle. And waiting there, as though they had never left their posts, were Rabastan and Randolph.

“Tonton Baz! Grand-péré!”

Rabastan crouched down at once, arms open wide. “There’s mon petit serpent!” 

He caught Haedus up in a hug nearly as fierce as his brother’s, spinning him around and around and around until Asha hissed indignantly and Bellatrix scolded them both. Randolph, stately and silver-haired, extended his arms more slowly, but his eyes were warm. Haedus flung himself into them without hesitation, burying his face in the familiar scent of pine wood and smoke.

“We have a lot to catch up on, corbeau” his grandfather said quietly, “You must tell us every single detail”.

And Haedus did - words tumbling out faster than he could quite keep up with, his family listening intently as though every small triumph and every close call mattered more than anything else in the world and made sure that, above all else, Haedus knew that he was loved.

Saturday, 21st December

They stepped through the Floo into Slytherin Manor, where golden light spilt from chandeliers and classical music thrummed low beneath the hum of voices. Witches and wizards in expensive robes moved through the vast hall, glittering with laughter, whispers, and the faint, sharp edge of politics. 

The Dark Lord was striding towards them, greeting his most important guests personally, tall and immaculate in black robes cut like a statesman’s suit, his face striking and even more beautiful than Haedus remembered. His presence carried more weight than the dozens gathered in the hall combined. Conversations faltered as he passed, people bowing their heads slightly, some with awe, others with wary respect.

“Rodolphus. Bellatrix. Welcome” he said smoothly, before his dark eyes shifted, settling at once on Haedus, “And here is our young seeker”.

Haedus straightened instinctively, heart leaping, hammering loudly in his ears at being addressed.

“I heard about your first Quidditch match” the Dark Lord continued, his mouth curving faintly, “Severus tells me you reacted admirably - that you broke the curse yourself, even”.

Heat rushed to his cheeks, but it was a proud, glowing heat. He beamed, shoulders back, chest tight with delight. “Yes, my lord, I did. And I even killed a troll!”

The Dark Lord’s brow arched, his smile sharpening into something almost amused. “Did you, now?”

Haedus nodded eagerly. “It was during Halloween. Draco was there, and Hermione - she’s one of my new friends now - and the troll was going to smash them with its club, but I used the Blasting curse, and then I used the binding spell Papa taught me, and then I used the Cutting curse to kill it!”

His words tumbled out too quickly, but the man didn’t interrupt. He simply tilted his head, listening with every appearance of interest. He waited until Haedus finally paused for breath before replying.

“That is most impressive, but where were your professors during this?”

“Oh! Karkaroff told everyone that the troll was in the dungeons, so they all rushed down there to capture it, but Hermione didn’t know about the troll cause she was in the third-floor bathroom, so Draco and I went to tell her. Sev arrived after I killed the troll, though! And McGonagall too, although she wasn’t very happy with us, and then Karkaroff arrived and-” Haedus stopped and suddenly frowned. “Except… Except Karkaroff was already on the third floor. I saw him arrive before us, so… so why did he take so long to reach us? And it was after that night he started limping too, which meant he hurt his leg then, but the only thing that could’ve done that was- oh”.

Haedus blinked, all of the pieces finally clicking into place, and when he glanced up, he found the Dark Lord’s gaze, burning and intense, staring right back at him.

“Did you know that there’s a cerberus at Hogwarts, my lord?”

Bellatrix’s hands abruptly tightened on his shoulders. “There is a what?!”

Rodolphus, too, gave him an admonishing look. “Why did you not inform us of this earlier?!”

Haedus flushed, shrinking slightly under their anger, but refused to back down. “I didn’t want you to worry. You already said you thought it was too dangerous for me to go. If I told you, you would have pulled me out, and I… I like Hogwarts. I don’t want to leave”.

“Your safety is far more important than what you like, Haedus!” his Maman said sharply, “What in Salazar’s name were you thinking?! A cerberus?! At Hogwarts?! Why didn’t you tell us?!”

Thankfully, he was saved from having to answer by the Dark Lord silently raising his hand, and both of his parents reluctantly fell silent. He studied Haedus for another moment before, with effortless grace, he crouched down until they were eye-level with each other, his dark gaze never wavering.

“You have been very observant, little speaker” he said softly, before slipping into a silken hiss that only they could understand, “Tell me about Karkaroff”.

Haedus’s heart thudded loudly in his chest. He glanced nervously back up at his parents - who were already frowning in confusion - but the Dark Lord’s gaze was steady, expectant. Haedus swallowed and answered in the same tongue, the sounds spilling natural from his lips.

“He kept asssking me about private lessssssonsss in the Dark Artsss before Halloween - he wasss very insssissstent. He sssaid he would help me, that I would learn what Hogwartsss couldn’t teach me… But I sssaid no”.

The Dark Lord’s head tilted. “Why?”

Haedus shifted, Asha tightening protectively around his torso beneath his robes. “Becaussse he doesssn’t want to teach me, not really. He wantsss to ussse me. If he’sss clossse to me, he thinksss it will make him clossse to Maman and Papa again. And then… maybe clossse to you, my lord. He jussst wantsss a way to get into your Inner Circle”.

His eyes gleamed, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his expression. “You sssaid thisss all happened before Halloween. What did you do to make him ssstop asssking?”

Haedus allowed himself a small, dark smirk. “I told him that my parentsss had already hired far better tutorsss than him and then I killed a troll… He didn’t asssk me again after that”.

The Dark Lord was silent for a long moment. Then his lips curved into a smile - not mocking, not indulgent, but soft and pleased. He raised a hand, brushing his fingers lightly against the faded scar on Haedus’s forehead.

“Excellent” he murmured, “You ssshow cunning. Pride. Viciousssnessssss, when it isss needed. Thessse are qualitiesss that I admire greatly, little ssspeaker”.

Haedus’s heart swelled, warmth flooding him at the praise, his skin where the Dark Lord had touched him burning with a delicious heat. But beneath the warmth, something prickled - an insistent, restless thought that wouldn’t leave him be.

He remembered the whispers he’d overheard, the stories that Blaise had told him, the things that his parents and Tonton Baz and even Grand-péré had spoken of in dark, hushed tones when they thought he wasn’t listening. Karkaroff. The traitor. The coward who had sold names - their names - to the Ministry at the end of the war.

Why, then, was he still breathing? Why had the Dark Lord, who was sharper and stronger and more cunning than anyone else alive, not struck him down yet?

Maman had told him once, very firmly, that the Dark Lord didn't like mixing business with pleasure. That questions of loyalty and treachery were his concern, not Haedus’s. That it was not a subject for polite conversation - and certainly not at the Dark Lord’s very own party.

And yet… the Dark Lord had praised him. Had touched him. Had spoken to him in Parseltongue, had asked him questions and listened intently to the answers as though Haedus were special, chosen, worth his time. That kind of approval… it made him feel braver and far more emboldened than perhaps he ought to be.

He hesitated, then lifted his chin slightly, his voice coming out meek but steady. “My lord… may I asssk you a quessstion?”

The Dark Lord’s gaze sharpened, curious. “You may”.

Haedus’s throat felt dry, but he pressed on. “Why haven’t you killed Karkaroff yet? For all he’sss done - for betraying you, for betraying usss - why isss he ssstill alive? He’sss not even a good professssssor!”

There was a flicker in the Dark Lord’s dark eyes, gone almost before it was there. For a long moment, he said nothing at all. The silence stretched, heavy, until Haedus’s cheeks grew hot and he began to worry he’d crossed a line.

At last, the Dark Lord said, “I cannot tell you everything, little ssspeaker”.

The words landed like a weight in Haedus’s stomach. His chest tightened, and his shoulders hunched. Because I’m still a child, he thought bitterly - it was an excuse he’d been given many times before. He didn’t say it aloud, but his disappointment showed in the slump of his posture, in the way he looked away.

The Dark Lord’s voice softened, though, drawing him back. “Not becaussse you are a child, Haedusss. You are far more intelligent than that”.

His head snapped up, startled.

“If I told you why Karkaroff ssstill livesss, you would be put in danger. Knowledge isss power - but it isss alssso a liability. And you, Haedusss, are too valuable to risssk… All you need to know isss thisss: Karkaroff isss ssstill ussseful to me, for now. When his usssefulnessssss runsss out… ssso too will his life”.

Something in Haedus shivered at the calm certainty in that last sentence. A finality. A promise. He swallowed, trying to arrange his expression into something poised and graceful, the way Papa always told him to be at gatherings like this. 

“I underssstand, my lord. Thank you for telling me”.

The Dark Lord’s lips curved faintly, pleased. “Good. Believe me when I sssay it isss not a quessstion of age, little ssspeaker… You are no average child”.

Haedus nodded, pride welling back in his chest. He would accept this answer, even if curiosity still burned inside him. If the Dark Lord said Karkaroff’s end would come, then it would. All he had to do was be patient and wait.

Switching back to English, the Dark Lord rose fluidly to his full height, commanding the space once more. 

“You have raised a very perceptive child” he told Rodolphus and Bellatrix smoothly, though the look he gave Haedus said more - much more, “See that he continues to sharpen these instincts”.

Bellatrix’s chest puffed up like she had swallowed fire, pride overtaking her earlier fury, and Rodolphus’s eyes burned with the same.

The Dark Lord’s hand came to rest briefly on Haedus's shoulder, heavy and reassuring. “We will talk some more later, little speaker. For now, I must greet my other guests. Enjoy the party”.

And then he was gone, cutting back through the crowd with that effortless authority that bent people out of his path. Haedus could hardly stop smiling. The Dark Lord had spoken to him - wanted to speak to him again! He’d asked him questions and listened to him and treated him like an adult! He treated Haedus like he was someone important! 

He bounced a little on his toes, unable to keep the excitement from his face as the music swelled around them and the Winter Solstice Party truly began.

Wednesday, 25th December

Christmas morning in Lestrange Manor glittered with silver light. Snow shimmered outside the tall windows, muffling the world in white, but inside it was all warmth and cheer. The fire roared in the hearth, candles floated overhead, and the scent of cinnamon and apples filled the room.

Haedus sat cross-legged on the thick rug in front of the tree, his face flushed with excitement as brightly wrapped parcels piled higher and higher around him. Bellatrix watched from a velvet armchair, her sharp smile softened with amusement, while Rodolphus sat beside her with a cup of coffee, occasionally leaning forward to pass Haedus another package.

Rabastan lounged lazily on the sofa, pretending not to be invested but snorting with laughter whenever Haedus’s excitement grew too dramatic, while Randolph, still imposing despite his age, stood by the fire, cane in hand, watching the scene with a fond gaze.

“Oh!” Haedus exclaimed as he ripped open a heavy box to reveal a sleek new set of enchanted quills, their tips gleaming silver, “Thank you, Grand-père! I love them!”

He scrambled up, ran to hug him tightly, and Randolph chuckled, ruffling his hair. The morning went on - tearing paper, delighted shouts, small bursts of laughter echoing warmly through the grand room - until Haedus’s hand closed around a package much lighter than the others.

It was wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with an unremarkable bit of string. No card. No seal. No mark at all.

He frowned. “Who’s this from?”

The others exchanged puzzled glances. 

“The elves brought it in with the rest?” Rodolphus asked, frowning slightly.

“They must have” Rabastan replied, “And if the wards let it through, then that means it’s safe”.

“Safe” Bellatrix repeated coldly, eyes narrowing, “but curious”.

Haedus set the other gifts aside and carefully untied the string. The brown paper fell away, and something soft, silvery, and strange spilt into his lap. It gleamed in the firelight, liquid-like, shifting and shivering in his hands.

An invisibility cloak.

Beneath it, folded, was a small note. Haedus picked it up and read aloud: “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”.

His face immediately twisted into a scowl. 

“Your father” he spat, “They mean James Potter! Which means-”

“Dumbledore sent it” his Papa finished, his voice low and taut with anger. Without another word, he summoned the cloak from Haedus’s hands, his dark eyes blazing with fury as he cast multiple detection spells over it, scanning the fabric for anything that could pose a threat.

Bellatrix did the same, he wand moving in sharp, elegant arcs, before declaring, “Nothing. It isn’t cursed”.

“Dumbledore still touched it” Rabastan said darkly, “And that’s reason enough to be suspicious. He dares send you a gift as though he has any claim on you at all!”

“Perhaps” Randolph said, “We should inform our lord”.

Haedus’s uncle gave a sharp nod before casting the Patronus charm, and a large, agile Lynx bounded forward, vanishing through the wall with a shimmer.

Haedus’s heart gave a small, traitorous leap. The Dark Lord was coming here? On Christmas?! For a moment, his excitement surged so brightly it chased away the unease, until another thought struck him like a stone in the chest. 

His shoulders slumped. He fiddled with the note in his lap, voice small. “But I don't have a present for him”.

Bellatrix softened - only for him. She knelt beside him, her long fingers brushing his cheek. “The Dark Lord does not celebrate Christmas, mon étoile. He has no need of gifts, nor does he want them”.

“He will be satisfied enough with your loyalty” Rodolphus added firmly.

Still, Haedus’s chest felt heavy, but before he could say more, the air in the room shifted. Power pressed down, unmistakable, reverberating through the very stones of the manor. The candles spluttered, the fire flared - and then he was there.

The Dark Lord strode into the room with no need of announcement, tall and immaculate, shadows bending to his presence.

“Merry Christmas, my lord” Rabastan said at once, rising to bow. The others followed, Bellatrix dipping low, Randolph inclining his head in respect. Haedus scrambled up, clutching the note, his heart fluttering nervously.

The Dark Lord’s dark eyes flicked to the silver fabric in his father’s hands. His lip curled faintly. “So. Dumbledore is sending gifts to children now, like some sentimental old fool”.

Bellatrix bristled. “My lord, we scoured it for any trace of curse or hex-”

“And found nothing” he finished knowingly.

“Yes” Rodolphus confirmed tightly, “But we thought it wise you check for yourself”.

With a casual wave of his hand, the cloak floated from his arms and unfurled in the air. The Dark Lord’s wand moved with fluid precision, arcane detection spells spilling from him in quick succession. Finally, he lowered his wand.

“It’s untouched. The cloak is safe”.

The tension in the room eased, and everyone let out a silent breath of relief. With another flick of his wrist, the Dark Lord summoned the so-called ‘present’ and inspected it closely.

“It is of surprisingly high quality” he admitted, feeling the weight of the fabric in his hands, “I do not believe that this was an attempt to harm Haedus - rather a not-so-subtle manipulation of a different kind”.

“The note says that the cloak belonged to James Potter, my lord” he said quietly, holding out the scrap of parchment, “Do you think… I mean, Dumbledore knows who I used to be, so maybe…”

He trailed off, but the Dark Lord remained silent, merely looking back at him with those unfathomable maroon eyes, waiting for him to continue.

“Do you think… he was trying to make me like him?” Haedus finally finished uncertainly.

“Yes” he said simply, “Dumbledore is thinking like a Gryffindor, of course. I believe that he thought you would feel sentimental upon receiving the cloak and approach him about him once you return to Hogwarts. Perhaps he even thinks that you’ll ask him about your birth parents”.

“Which I won’t” Haedus said fiercely, “Because they aren’t my parents! And he won’t take me away from here! He- He can’t!”

Bellatrix gave a cut-off, almost choked breath at his words, and in the next heartbeat, she had swept him into her arms. She clutched him tightly to her chest, her long hair falling in a dark curtain around them both. 

“Mon étoile” she whispered fiercely, her voice trembling slightly, “Never let anyone make you doubt that. You are ours. Ours!”

Her grip was fierce enough to hurt, but Haedus leaned into it anyway, burying his face in her robes. Rodolphus laid a steadying hand on his wife’s arm, his other arm wrapping around his son’s shoulders.

The Dark Lord regarded the scene with sharp, inscrutable eyes. For a long moment, silence reigned - broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and Bellatrix’s faint, shaky breath as she held her son. At last, his voice slid into the air, smooth and cool, but carrying the weight of finality.

“Haedus speaks truth. He is yours. Blood may bind him to James and Lily Potter… but blood is not everything. He has been raised in your house, in your image. He belongs to you, and to no one else”.

Bellatrix pulled back just enough to look at her son’s face, her hands cupping his cheeks, her eyes gleaming with something raw and bright. “Do you hear that, mon étoile? Even our lord knows. You are a Lestrange - heart, soul, and name”.

Haedus nodded quickly, his throat tight. The Dark Lord’s lips curved faintly, though the smile did not reach his eyes. “Dumbledore, as ever, underestimates us. He believes that you are malleable, little speaker - that you can be swayed by sentiment, redeemed from the ‘darkness’ that he imagines you live in. He is a Gryffindor to the core, and thus, a fool. He does not understand loyalty when it is given freely… or love when it is among our kind”.

Bellatrix’s chest heaved with a sudden laugh, brittle and fervent all at once. “He will learn! I’ll make sure of it!”

“Indeed” the Dark Lord said softly, his gaze sliding back to Haedus, “But for now, we do nothing. The cloak itself is harmless. Let him think his ploy is working. If he attempts to draw you aside at Hogwarts, you will not resist speaking to him - but you will tell us everything he says”.

Rodolphus’s hand squeezed his son’s shoulder “Do you understand, Haedus? You do not approach him! If Dumbledore approaches you, then you will tell us immediately, and we will decide where to go from there”.

Haedus swallowed thickly, but nodded again. “Yes, Papa. I understand”.

The Dark Lord inclined his head, clearly pleased. “Good. Patience is a weapon as sharp as any blade, little speaker. Let Albus Dumbledore dig his own grave. When the time is right, I will decide how he should be buried”.

A shiver ran through Haedus, but it wasn’t fear - it was exhilaration. He tightened his fists by his side, heart beating loudly in his ears. “Yes, my lord”.

The Dark Lord’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, then shifted back to Bellatrix and Rodolphus. “You were right to call for me. Keep me informed of any future developments… Randolph, a word?”

The old man inclined his head and followed the Dark Lord out of the room, his cane tapping lightly against the ground. Haedus watched them go, buzzing with curiosity but knowing better than to ask. He knew that both his grand-pére and his papy had been friends with the Dark Lord back when they were in Hogwarts, and that the man often sought their counsel on important matters. What the Dark Lord could wish to ask his grandfather now, however, Haedus wasn’t sure.

Before he could think any more on the matter, Rabastan clapped his hands together and leapt towards the Christmas tree.

“Well then!” he said, a familiar wolfish grin in place, “There’s been enough doom and gloom for one day, don’t you think? You’ve still got a few presents to open, mon petit serpent, and I for one want to see you shriek when you see what I got you”.

The tension broke, and Rodolphus immediately began chastising his brother for whatever explosive and/or dangerous gift he’d decided to get his son this year. Haedus knew what Tonton Baz was doing - distracting him, distracting them from everything that had just happened, but he decided to go along with it all the same. 

His Maman still looked worried, and Papa was clearly clutching onto the change of topic like a lifeline, and he knew from experience that the Dark Lord’s meetings with his grandfathers could last hours. 

And besides - the Dark Lord had proven that he’d answer Haedus’s questions in the past, so perhaps he could find out more later…

Chapter Text

Thursday, 2nd January

The fire crackled low in the hearth opposite the Dark Lord, throwing long shadows across the shelves that lined the walls. Each was crammed with tomes - dark bindings, cracked spines, scrolls bound in leather or parchment, some whispering faintly when the flames stirred the air. 

Tom sat at his desk, fingers steepled, staring at his collection of books even as his mind circled around and around the same thought - the Invisibility Cloak.

The Cloak that Dumbledore had dared to send to Haedus. Was it a power move? Some sort of twisted message that the old fool wanted to send him? Showing him how easily he could still get to his precious Harry Potter despite the boy having been raised by Tom’s most loyal?

He wouldn’t put it past the Headmaster to do such a thing, and yet… something about it didn’t feel right. This wasn’t a message, it was… what? Manipulation? He hadn’t given Haedus any suggestions as to what he could use the Cloak for - well, nothing aside from “use it well”, but that wasn’t a manipulation, was it? He had to know that the boy would bring the Cloak back to Hogwarts with him, so perhaps he intended him to use it there? But for what?!

“Did you know that there’s a cerberus at Hogwarts, my lord?” 

He never had gotten around to asking Haedus about that, had he? He’d been too focused on what that rat Karkaroff was doing, how he’d been treating the boy, how Haedus had scared him away with a few innocent words and a dead troll at his feet.

Tom allowed himself a brief, vicious smile.

Only eleven years old, and the boy was already showing more promise than half of his Death Eaters combined.

But if Haedus had already found the hidden beast that Dumbledore had stashed away somewhere, then he wouldn’t need the Cloak to find him - so just why on earth had Dumbledore sent it to him?! The old fool surely couldn’t think that it would endear him to the boy, not after everything he’d done, everything that Haedus had heard about him growing up. So why?!

And then, of course, there was the issue of the Cloak itself.

Tom had scanned it himself for any threats or hexes or latent spells, and had found it clean. He was confident that it hadn’t been cursed - confident enough to return the Cloak to Haedus without a second thought, so he knew that it was safe… But the fact remained that if the Cloak truly had belonged to James Potter and Dumbledore had been holding onto it for eleven years… then how on earth was it still functioning?

No Invisibility Cloak, no matter how finely woven, should have lasted that long unscathed. All others frayed, dulled, and shed their power like a snake sheds its skin. And yet this Cloak remained… whole. Untouched. As perfect as the day it was made - which meant it was no ordinary Invisibility Cloak.

His eyes drifted over his bookshelves, narrowing at the familiar weight of legends buried within. The sight of that Cloak had brought a story to mind when he’d first seen it. Tales of Beedle the Bard…. The Three Brothers… The Death Hallows… Children’s tales, yes - but what were legends if not distorted truths?

The Cloak of the youngest brother. The Wand of the eldest. The Stone of the middle.

For years, he had dismissed them as a parable, a lesson for children about arrogance, grief, and humility. But now…

Now he was not so certain.

The Cloak in Haedus’s possession matched every whispered description. A true Hallow. An artefact beyond ordinary magic, untouched by the passage of time. Could it possibly be…?

Through his birth father, Haedus was the last direct descendant of the youngest Peverell brother, to whom the Cloak had first been given. It was too much, too… perfect, for it to be a mere coincidence. If the Hallows were real, then one piece sat now in his reach, wrapped around the shoulders of his favoured protégé. Which begged the question: where were the other two?

Tom’s gaze sharpened. The Elder Wand. Passed from master to master, stolen, claimed in blood… that would be almost impossible to track. The eldest Peverell had left no direct line, but that mattered little - its ownership was passed through bloodshed and victory and death. 

But the Resurrection Stone…

Tom’s thoughts snagged there. The legend was clear: the middle brother, Cadmus Peverell, had begged for the power to recall the dead. It was his line Tom carried in his veins. By every right of blood and inheritance, the Stone should have been his.

Yet he had been left with nothing. His mother’s family squandered their power and name, pawning heirlooms for firewhiskey, choking on the dregs of their own decay. The Gaunts had been too blind, too weak, too ruined to understand what they still possessed. His line had dwindled, grown thin, inbred, corrupted, until it had finally ended with him.

By right, if the Stone truly existed, then it should be his - but the Gaunts had left him nothing. No gold, no treasures, not even a name worth keeping. The Gaunts had squandered every shred of their legacy and had left him in an orphanage with nothing but shame and squalor. It hadn’t been until Tom was a teenager that he’d even learned the truth of his lineage and had begun tracking down what was owed to him. 

Tracking down Morfinn had been easy, and framing him for the murder of the Riddles even easier. Tom had left that night with nothing but anger and pain and-

And a ring.

Tom stilled, breath catching. His gaze slid slowly to the ring that gleamed faintly upon his right hand. An ugly thing of heavy gold, the band crude and misshapen, its stone cracked and blackened with age. A trinket of his ruined bloodline, a token he had once worn only for the proof of his connection to a wizarding family. A ring he had soon turned into a Horcrux and then reclaimed, almost forty years later.

Slowly taking it off, he held the ring up to the flickering firelight and inspected it closely. In the very centre of the black stone was a carving - a small, odd thing that he’d never paid any attention to and had dismissed as a scratch caused by his careless ancestors. Now, however…

A triangle. A circle. And a line.

The Cloak. The Stone. The Wand.

This… This was the Resurrection Stone. It was his. It had always been his! 

Tom’s lips curved slowly, dangerously. If Haedus now carried the Cloak, and he himself bore the Stone… then all that was left was the Elder Wand. He felt his pulse quicken with the thought - not with fear, never fear, but with anticipation, with hunger. The foolish old man playing at sentiment had unwittingly set a much larger series of events in motion.

The Cloak. The Stone. The Wand.

And when all three were united once more… the Master of Death would be his.

Sunday, 5th January

The frost hadn’t yet melted from the eaves of King’s Cross when Haedus climbed aboard the train, his trunk levitating obediently behind him. Asha’s head poked curiously out of his collar, tongue flicking at the air, before she slid back down to coil herself warmly beneath his robes.

The compartment was much as it had been at the start of the holidays: Theo already settled in the corner with a book, Blaise stretched out in lazy elegance, and Draco muttering irritably about having had to force his way through the crowd on the platform. Hermione came hurrying in at the last moment after saying goodbye to her parents, cheeks flushed from the cold, before plopping down on the seat beside Haedus.

When the train gave its first lurch and pulled free of the station, Haedus leaned forward, his voice brimming with suppressed excitement. “You’ll never guess what I got for Christmas”.

Draco arched a pale brow. “Another snake?”

“Better”. Haedus grinned and rummaged in his bag until he pulled out the folded bundle of shimmering silver fabric. The cloak spilt across his lap like liquid moonlight, catching the weak winter sun that filtered through the frosted glass. The others leaned forward at once.

“An Invisibility Cloak?” Theo breathed, eyes wide.

Blaise whistled low. “Merlin’s beard. Do you have any idea what you could do with this?”

“Get expelled faster than you could blink” Draco retorted, though his gaze was hungry, almost covetous.

Hermione tilted her head, brow furrowed. “It is beautiful, but… who gave you something like that? I don’t imagine your parents did”.

Haedus’s expression soured, the joy of the reveal tarnished. “Dumbledore”.

The reaction was immediate: Draco’s face twisted, Theo stiffened, and Blaise gave a derisive laugh.

“Typical” he said, shaking his head, “That old meddler poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, as usual”.

Hermione blinked at them, taken aback by the sudden scorn. “You all speak of him as though he’s awful, but - he’s Albus Dumbledore! Every book I’ve read calls him the greatest wizard alive. The man who defeated Grindelwald, and one of the only people who stood against You-Know-Who! And besides - why would he give you such a wonderful gift if he were terrible?”

Haedus’s mouth pressed into a flat line. Slowly, deliberately, he folded the cloak back into his bag before, with a quiet voice, said, “Because he’s trying to use me”.

Hermione faltered. “Use you? What do you mean?”

“He’s been meddling in all of our families for years. He tried to convince Wizengamot to put my parents in Azkaban for life, even when there wasn’t proper evidence, even when it went against the peace treaty! He’s done the same to Theo’s family - cutting deals, twisting trials, making sure that anyone who opposed him during the war paid the price. And he nearly had Draco’s father imprisoned too”.

“But that’s because-” Hermione began, but Haedus cut across her, his voice steady but sharp. “Yes, I know. The Lestranges, the Malfoys, the Notts - we all fought in the war and, according to Dumbledore, we fought on the wrong side. Our families have done some terrible things, I’m not denying that - but so did Dumbledore’s Order”.

“Our parents fought to make the world a better place” Theo added quietly, “They wanted something more than what the Ministry offered - knowledge, freedom, equal rights… And for that - for daring to fight for it - Dumbledore branded us all monsters”.

“If it weren’t for the Dark Lord, all of our parents would be rotting in a cell in Azkaban now” Draco said with a sneer, “So forgive us if we don’t have that ridiculous Gryffindor hero worship for the old fool like you do, Granger”.

Hermione sat back, biting her lip. Her voice was quieter when she spoke again. “But… he must be good. He wouldn’t still be Headmaster if he weren’t! Surely someone would have replaced him otherwise!”

Haedus leaned closer, his voice gentler now, coaxing rather than cutting. “Hermione, think about it. Since the war ended, what has Dumbledore actually done? What good has he brought into the world? The Dark Lord - Tom Riddle - he’s the one who pushed through protections for muggleborns, so magical children don’t grow up abused. He’s the one who expanded the Hogwarts curriculum - Dark Arts, Rituals, Alchemy. He gave creatures like werewolves and goblins far better rights than they ever had before. He’s the one building a future… Dumbledore could have chosen to do any of that anytime he wanted... but he chose not to”.

Silence fell in the compartment, broken only by the steady rhythm of the train over the tracks. Hermione looked down at her hands, frowning deeply. The arguments clashed with everything she had read, everything she thought she knew - but she couldn’t deny that the laws Haedus listed were real, nor that they mattered.

“I…” she hesitated, then sighed, “I don’t know what to say anymore. Everything that I read... Maybe I just need to think about this some more”.

Blaise snorted. “Good. Thinking is much better than parroting books, Granger”.

She shot him a sharp look, but there was no true heat behind it. Haedus smiled, reaching down to tap his bag where the Cloak lay hidden. 

“It doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that we know Dumbledore’s watching. And if he thinks I’ll come running to him because of a piece of fabric, then he’s the fool everyone says he is”.

Draco smirked. “For once, cousin, we agree”.

The tension broke, laughter bubbling up in its wake. The train rattled on through the snow-blanketed countryside, carrying them back toward Hogwarts. But the conversation lingered in Hermione’s mind, tugging at threads of certainty she hadn’t thought could unravel.

The sky above the Great Hall was heavy with storm clouds, the enchanted ceiling mirroring the winter night outside. Candles floated in shimmering constellations above the four long tables, their golden light reflecting off goblets and polished silverware.

And Haedus could feel Dumbledore’s eyes on him.

The Headmaster sat at the centre of the staff table, smiling benignly down at the gathered students as though he were nothing more than a kindly old grandfather. But Haedus knew better. He'd felt the weight of that gaze pressing down on him the moment he entered the hall, sharp and prying beneath the surface of its twinkling warmth.

He didn’t look up. He wouldn’t. If he met Dumbledore’s eyes, the man would take it as an invitation, an excuse to pull him aside after dinner with that syrupy voice of his and pry into things that were none of his concern.

Instead, he strode to the Slytherin table, sliding into his place next to Draco with a practised calm he did not feel. Hermione peeled away with a wave, vanishing into the red-and-gold swarm of Gryffindors. Blaise was already draped across the bench, looking as though he’d never left, while Theo sat down with far more subtlety.

The hum of voices lowered as Dumbledore rose to his feet.

“Welcome back, everyone!” His voice carried effortlessly across the hall, genial and warm. “I trust you all had a restful holiday and are ready to begin your new term with diligence and courage”.

Polite applause rippled through the hall. Haedus’s fingers curled tightly on the bench.

“Just a few quick announcements before we begin our feast” Dumbledore continued, “First, magic in the corridors between your classes is still forbidden-”

Haedus rolled his eyes. Lame.

“-and, as I told you at the start of term, entering the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is forbidden. Any student found venturing there will face the most severe consequences”.

There it was again, Haedus thought, pulse quickening. The third-floor corridor. It was always the third-floor corridor.

“Now! Let us eat”.

Food burst into being across the tables, platters steaming, goblets filling, but Haedus ignored it for a moment, leaning toward Draco.

“Did you hear that?” he whispered.

“Hear what?” The boy was only half-listening, already reaching for a slice of roast beef.

“The third floor. He mentioned it again”. 

Draco shot him an exasperated look. “You’re being paranoid, Hades. He only mentioned it in case some idiot forgot. You know how Longbottom is”.

“No”. Haedus shook his head firmly. “Think about it. The Forbidden Forest is dangerous, too, but he didn’t mention that, did he? Why repeat the warning about the corridor unless there’s something he doesn’t want us near? That cerberus wasn’t there by accident”.

Draco sniffed, though he didn’t argue as quickly this time. “So you think Dumbledore’s hiding something under that trap door you saw?”

Haedus’s lips curved into a faint, determined smile. “I don’t think. I know”.

His cousin made a sceptical noise, but he didn’t press further. Theo, however, exchanged a meaningful glance with Haedus, and even Blaise - who usually cared little for anything outside his own amusement - looked intrigued.

Dumbledore’s words still hung in the air, echoing inside Haedus’s mind like a challenge. And, he thought with a dark little smirk, the old fool had already given him exactly what he needed to succeed.

Saturday, 11th January

The library was hushed, as always, parchment rustling and quills scratching in a steady rhythm beneath the flickering candlelight. Haedus sat at their usual table, Asha curled sleepily under his robes, while piles of books teetered precariously around the small group. 

Draco was muttering under his breath as he copied a Transfiguration essay, Theo read silently, Hermione was making neat and methodical notes, and Blaise doodled idly in the corner of his parchment, his assignments long finished.

Haedus, however, had his head buried in a thick, dusty volume he’d plucked from the very back of a shelf after a lot of hunting. His eyes glinted as he turned the pages, until they caught on an illustration: a monstrous, three-headed dog, fangs bared, paws bigger than cauldrons.

A cerberus. Perfect. Beneath the drawing, the neat script read:

While nearly impossible to subdue by force, these guardians may be lulled into docility by-

Draco’s quill froze mid-scratch as he caught sight of the giant dog. His pale eyes immediately narrowed. 

“What” he said, in the slow, dangerous tone he inherited from his mother, “is that?”

He didn’t bother looking up. “I know that you don’t enjoy reading, cousin dear, but I would’ve thought that you’d have learned to recognise a book when you saw one”.

“I’m not asking about the book, Hades, I’m asking about what you’re reading! What are you planning?!”

“Oh, nothing”.

“Nothing?” Draco echoed, clearly unconvinced. He reached across the table and tapped the page with his quill. “You don’t check out books on man-eating monsters for nothing!”

Theo glanced up briefly, then returned to his own reading, too clever to get in the middle. Blaise smirked, clearly amused but also remained silent.

Finally, Haedus sighed, lowering his voice so only his friends would hear. “Fine. I’m just… curious, that's all. If anything in here can tell me how to knock out the cerberus without hurting him”.

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Hermione spun around so fast her curls whipped across her parchment. “Cerberus? Did you just say cerberus?!”

The three Slytherins exchanged looks - and then Haedus, of course, told her. His voice was low but brimming with excitement, retelling how he and Draco had discovered the creature behind the third-floor corridor’s trapdoor. 

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “A cerberus?! In a school?! That’s… That’s-”

“Exactly what you’d expect from Dumbledore” he cut in smoothly, flipping another page. His tone was sharp, disdainful. “He doesn’t care about our safety. If he did, he wouldn’t have put it there in the first place - or lied about what’s really going on”.

Hermione faltered. Her instinct to defend the Headmaster was strong - she had read so many books that painted him as a hero - but the logic was difficult to argue with. She pressed her lips together, unsettled.

“Unbelievable” she muttered finally, half to herself, “A dangerous beast like that, just lying in wait… It’s utterly irresponsible!”

Draco leaned back in his seat with a smug look. “Finally, she sees it”.

Hermione shot him a scowl before turning back to Haedus. “But why are you reading up on them? You can’t honestly be thinking of going back, are you?”

He let the silence settle for just that little bit too long and got matching horrified and disbelieving expressions from all four of his friends.

“Hades” Draco said, voice flat, “Haedus Cygnus Lestrange, you are not-”

“I am”.

“Hades!”

“Oh, calm down!” he protested, “I’m not just going to waltz in there and stare the cerberus in the eye! I’m going to make a plan first - hence why I’m reading about them! I don’t want to kill the poor thing, I just need to find out if there’s a way to get around him”.

“Merlin, Hades, are you mad?!” Draco hissed, “You can’t just- just- just casually knock out a cerberus! It’ll eat you!”

“Which is why I’m making a plan”. Haedus rolled his eyes at his cousin's antics. “Honestly, Draco, it’s not that big a deal”.

“Not that big a- Alright, that’s it. I know I can’t talk you out of this because you’re just as bloody stubborn as Auntie Bella once you’ve got an idea in your head, but what I can do is make sure you don’t go alone”.

Haedus blinked and then smiled at him. “Aw, Draco, are you offering to-”

“No” he said shortly, before gesturing at Hermione, “But she will”.

The girl gawked at him. “Excuse me?! She will what?! Are you signing me up to break school rules without even asking me first?!”

“Oh, please, Granger, that’s hardly the most important thing to consider”.

“Then you go with him, then!”

“I already did go with him and I didn’t like it!” Draco snapped, “So if he’s determined to go back-”

“Which I am” Haedus interjected helpfully.

“Then one of us has to go with him, and I vote you!”

“Makes sense” Blaise said, nodding, “You are a Gryffindor, after all”.

Hermione sputtered, half-offended, half-scandalised. “And just what on earth has that got to do with-”

“Haedus is about to throw himself into mortal peril” Draco interrupted, “Which is, like, Gryffindor’s entire thing! So if he’s going to do something stupid, then it’s up to you to do it with him!”

Hermione looked between them, torn between horror and pride. At last, she let out a sharp breath and muttered, “Fine. But if we get expelled, I’m blaming you!”

Haedus’s grin was bright and sharp. “Deal”.

Draco folded his arms, clearly satisfied with himself, while Theo shook his head, smirking at the chaos around him. Blaise leaned back in his chair, hands tucked behind his head, his voice drawling with lazy amusement.

“Well then. It’s settled. Haedus gets his death wish, Granger gets to play knight in shining armour, and the rest of us get to watch the fallout. Truly a perfect balance”.

Hermione threw her quill at him. “This isn’t funny, Zabini! We’re talking about a cerberus! A literal monster guarding something Dumbledore doesn’t want us to find! We could- We could get hurt, or- or worse!”

“Yes, yes, all very tragic” he replied, utterly unbothered, “but do send us some sort of sign if you die, won’t you? I’d hate to miss the funeral”.

Theo finally looked up, his expression calm, calculating. “If you’re both set on going, you should think about timing. Tonight will be quieter - everyone’s still sluggish after the holidays, and the curfew patrols will be light. But you’ll need to be careful. If you’re caught, no amount of clever explanations will save you”.

“Noted” Haedus said, already mentally plotting routes through the castle. His chest thrummed with excitement, the idea of slipping under the cloak and back into that forbidden corridor too tempting to resist.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Merlin help me, what have I gotten myself into…”

“It’s like we said” Draco cut in smoothly, smirk tugging at his lips, “You’re a Gryffindor. This sort of thing is practically your House’s number one hobby”.

Her glare could have curdled milk, but Haedus only laughed, unable to stop the bubbling thrill that rose in his chest.

“Thank you, Hermione” he said with surprising earnestness, and for once, she faltered. “… You’re welcome… I think”.

Asha shifted beneath his robes, letting out a faint approving hiss that only he could feel vibrate against his ribs. It was as though the serpent knew what was coming, coiled and eager for the adventure ahead.

Haedus leaned back in his chair, snapping the heavy tome closed with a decisive thump. “Tonight, then. After curfew. Meet me by the stairwell near the library. Bring your wand… and your courage”.

Hermione groaned into her hands. Draco muttered darkly about madness running in the family. Blaise laughed. Theo returned to his book. And Haedus sat there glowing with anticipation, eyes alight, the promise of secrets ahead burning brighter than any candle in the library.

Chapter Text

Sunday, 12th January

The castle was asleep. The torches in the corridors had burned low, their flames guttering as the cold of January seeped through the ancient stone walls. Shadows stretched long and deep across the flagstones, and every creak of the floorboards above seemed unnaturally loud in the silence.

Haedus slipped out of the Slytherin common room with practised stealth, his bag slung across one shoulder containing anything they might need in an emergency - not that he intended there to be an emergency, of course. Beneath his robes, Asha stirred lazily, tongue flicking against his skin as though tasting his excitement. The Cloak of Invisibility was neatly folded over one arm, ready and waiting to be used.

Hermione was already at the appointed spot - the stairwell near the library - pacing nervously, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her head snapped up at the sound of his approaching footsteps, and she let out a sharp whisper.

“You’re late!”

“I’m right on time” Haedus replied easily, shaking out the Cloak. The silver fabric shimmered in the moonlight, and he grinned at the way her eyes widened. “Ready?”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready” she muttered, “but if we’re doing this, then let’s just get it over with before I lose my nerve”.

“I thought you were meant to be a Gryffindor?” he teased, sweeping the cloak around them both.

“And I thought you were meant to be a Slytherin!” she shot back, “What part of sneaking around the castle after midnight to visit a monster screams self-preservation?!”

Haedus laughed and gently tugged her closer to him so that the silver folds covered them completely. For a moment, they were pressed shoulder to shoulder, his warmth seeping through the winter chill, and Hermione briefly stiffened before forcing herself to relax.

The corridors were eerily silent as they crept along, each step deliberate and slow. Haedus’s heart hammered in his chest, though not from fear, but from exhilaration. The thrill of danger, the promise of discovery, the heady rush of defying Dumbledore himself.

They passed a patrolling prefect without so much as a glance, the cloak hiding them in its silver embrace. Hermione gripped his arm, holding her breath until the prefect turned the corner, then let it out in a shudder.

“This is mad!” she whispered against his ear.

“This is brilliant!” he whispered back, eyes glowing in delight.

When at last they reached the forbidden third-floor corridor, the air felt heavier somehow, thick with secrets. Haedus slipped out from beneath the cloak just enough to push open the great door. Its hinges groaned, the sound echoing into the darkness beyond.

And then the smell hit them - musky, hot, animal.

A deep growl rumbled from the shadows, followed by another, and another. Torchlight spilt faintly across the chamber, illuminating three massive heads lifting from the floor. Each pair of eyes glowed faintly yellow, and each set of fangs gleamed as they bared their teeth.

Hermione froze. Her breath caught in her throat, her hand clutching at Haedus’s sleeve. “Merlin’s beard…”

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Haedus whispered, his tone filled with reverence, “The perfect killing machine”.

One head lunged forward, jaws snapping inches from the edge of the trapdoor it guarded. Asha hissed sharply from under his robes, coils tightening against his ribs.

“Don’t panic” Haedus murmured, already slipping the small harmonica from his bag. It was simple, carved of dark wood - a trinket he'd charmed an older year Slytherin into letting him borrow for the night, with no questions asked. He raised it to his lips, and the first low notes spilt into the corridor.

The effect was almost immediate.

The three monstrous heads blinked, ears twitching, growls softening into low rumbles. Slowly, cautiously, the cerberus’s massive form sagged back onto the floor, lids drooping. One head gave a great yawn, another tilted sideways with a huff, and soon the cerberus lay down completely, its breaths deep and heavy, filling the chamber like the roar of distant thunder.

Hermione gaped at him. “You- You did it! You actually did it”.

Haedus lowered the flute with a triumphant smirk. “Of course I did. I told you - knowledge is power. I knew the library wouldn’t let me down this morning”.

They stood there for a long moment, staring at the slumbering beast. The trapdoor loomed just behind its paws, sealed and waiting. Haedus’s pulse thrummed with the temptation to move closer, to see what was hidden below.

Step by cautious step, he drew nearer, Hermione clinging to the back of his sleeve as though she could physically hold him back. When he crouched beside the trapdoor, the massive dog let out a snore so loud the stones seemed to vibrate beneath their knees. Haedus’s grin sharpened.

With careful fingers, he worked at the iron ring set in the wood and tugged. The hinges groaned faintly as the trapdoor lifted, revealing a black hole that seemed to swallow the light of the torches.

Haedus raised his wand. “Lumos”.

A thin beam of light shot downward, slicing through the darkness. For a moment, there was nothing but shadows… and then movement. Something shifted far below - long, sinuous, writhing. Like ropes or… like snakes.

His breath caught, chest tight with sudden excitement. Was it snakes?! The thought of them - guardians of an ancient secret, protecting something in Dumbledore’s care, creatures he could speak to - sent a thrill racing through him. His grip on the edge of the trapdoor tightened, his body leaning forward. He wondered if he could make it down, if the fall would kill him, if the snakes would catch him. His lips parted, pulse hammering, on the edge of daring it.

Hermione seemed to sense it, her hand tightening hard on his arm.

“Don’t you dare!” she whispered furiously, “It’s enough that we’ve proven it’s here. We can’t go any further. Not tonight!”

His eyes glittered with rebellion - but after a long beat, he sighed, slipping the harmonica back into his bag. “Fine. Not tonight”.

Together, cloaked once more, they slipped back into the darkened corridors, leaving the great dog snoring behind them.

But Haedus’s mind was alight with possibilities, his thoughts racing. Dumbledore had hidden something - something worth guarding with one monster after another. And now, Haedus was more determined than ever to uncover it.

Tuesday, 21st January

The library had emptied long ago, candles guttering low in their sconces, but Haedus lingered to finish the last of his Transfiguration notes. By the time he packed away his parchment and slipped into the silent corridors, the castle was hushed and still. The faint echo of his footsteps followed him as he turned toward the dungeons.

He was halfway down the stairwell when a voice drifted out of the shadows.

“Mr Lestrange”.

Haedus stopped. The voice was calm, gentle, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. He turned, schooling his features into polite surprise.

“Professor Dumbledore!”

The Headmaster emerged from the gloom as though he had been waiting for precisely this moment, robes trailing like smoke. His eyes gleamed in the torchlight, that familiar piercing blue that made lesser men flinch.

“Out so late?” he asked mildly, as though Haedus had been caught red-handed despite having another hour before curfew.

“I was in the library, sir” he replied, “I didn’t want to leave my essay unfinished”.

“Ah”. Dumbledore’s smile was soft, grandfatherly, but his gaze was like a razor. “A commendable habit. I wonder, though… might I borrow a few minutes of your time? My office is not far”.

A flicker of unease curled low in Haedus’s chest. Why ask to speak with him now? Did he find out about his visit to the corridor? Did he know that Haedus had opened the trapdoor?! He smothered the thought quickly, keeping his expression open and mild. He had been careful. Meticulous. And besides - his and Hermione’s late-night visit had been over a week ago! There was no way the old man could know.

“Of course, sir” he said brightly, adjusting the strap of his bag across his shoulder, “I don’t mind”.

Dumbledore inclined his head in thanks and turned, leading the way. Fawkes’s faint song greeted them as they entered the circular office, the air thick with the scents of parchment, candlewax, and lemon drops. The fire crackled merrily in the grate, at odds with the sharp edge of the silence that followed.

“Please” Dumbledore said, gesturing towards a chair. Haedus sat, every line of him composed, graceful, careful.

The Headmaster lowered himself across from him, folding his hands. “I wished to see how you were faring, my boy. January can be such a dreary month, especially for one still adjusting to a new home”.

Home. How he loved to dangle that word like bait.

“I’m doing very well, sir” Haedus replied pleasantly, “Quidditch training and homework both keep me busy, and I like the challenge”.

“And speaking of Quidditch…” Dumbledore’s tone was casual, but the sudden shift made his spine stiffen. “You’ve quite recovered from your unfortunate incident last November?”

Incident - as though his cursed broom had been an accident. His hands stayed perfectly still in his lap, though suspicion prickled under his skin. He still wasn’t convinced the old man hadn’t orchestrated the attack himself, and now here he was - bringing it up like an indulgent grandfather checking on his ward.

“Yes, sir” he said smoothly, “I’m fully recovered now”.

“Good, good”. Dumbledore nodded, folding his hands together. “The staff and I had a long discussion about the matter. Naturally, we cannot allow such danger to befall a student again. Professor Snape has kindly agreed to referee your next match in February, and I assure you, all staff will be on the utmost alert”.

The words landed like a stone in Haedus’s chest. Severus had already told him, of course, the outcome of that little staff meeting, but the Headmaster’s tone felt… off. Was telling him this meant to reassure him? Or was Dumbledore warning him that Haedus was under closer scrutiny than ever? And the mention of all staff on high alert… did that mean Dumbledore suspected something else would happen? Or was he laying down another layer of control? Was it possible that this additional protection was genuine?

Haedus offered a small, dutiful smile. “That’s… very thoughtful of you, sir, thank you”.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, as though he believed he had just provided comfort. “We only want what’s best for you, my boy. Your safety is of great importance to me”.

Is it? He thought somewhat bitterly, Or is my usefulness what matters?

He inclined his head politely. “Thank you, sir”.

The Headmaster did not immediately reply. Instead, he studied Haedus with a steady intensity, his fingers tapping once against the desk before folding again. When he spoke next, the change of subject was so smooth it almost felt rehearsed.

“You know, your professors speak very highly of you, my boy. They believe you have a… promising mind”.

Offer him a compliment first to soften him up before the strike - Haedus knew the old man’s manipulations well.

He dipped his head modestly. “I try my best, sir”.

“And yet” Dumbledore said gently, leaning forward, “I cannot help but wonder whether Hogwarts itself has… intrigued you”.

A pause. A question. A… test?

Haedus tilted his head with the perfect touch of confusion. “Intrigued me, sir?”

“Hogwarts is very old, as I’m sure you know” Dumbledore said, eyes never leaving him, “Full of doors that lead nowhere, staircases that shift, corridors with… secrets. I wonder if you’ve stumbled across any such curiosities”.

For a single beat, Haedus’s heart clenched. The trapdoor. The cerberus. Hermione’s hand on his sleeve. The writhing shadows far below. He forced his lips into a small laugh, light, careless.

“I’ve found a few broom closets, sir” he said cheekily, “Do they count?”

Dumbledore’s mouth curved, but the glint in his eyes only sharpened. “Quite”.

The silence stretched between them, thick as smoke. Haedus held the gaze evenly, letting his face remain guileless, as though he hadn’t the faintest idea what was really being asked. Was Dumbledore asking him if he’d been on the third-floor corridor? Or was he trying to manipulate him into going there? But why? Did he want him to get eaten by the cerberus?!

“Hogwarts has a way of testing its students, Mr Lestrange” he said quietly, “Especially those destined for great things”.

And there it was. The hook.

“Great things?” Haedus echoed, tilting his head in a mimicry of innocent curiosity.

“Greatness comes in many forms” he replied softly, “Wisdom. Courage. A steadfast heart. Not what others tell you to value, but what you choose yourself. I would not see you… misled, my boy... not by anyone”.

There was weight in the words. A warning. A dig. A threat, veiled in kindness.

“I don’t think anyone is trying to mislead me, sir” Haedus replied carefully, “I trust my friends and family”.

The old man’s smile thinned, though he quickly smoothed it over. “Well then… I hope, in time, you may learn to trust me as well”.

Haedus’s answering smile was wide, guileless, almost childlike. “Of course, sir! I like learning from everyone. You never know when something might come in useful”.

For a heartbeat, the old wizard’s eyes sharpened - searching for cracks. Then they softened again into grandfatherly warmth. “Very wise, Mr Lestrange. Very wise indeed… Well, I suppose I’ve kept you long enough. You may leave, my boy”.

As Haedus rose, the Headmaster bade him goodnight with every appearance of benevolence, and yet he felt the weight of those piercing eyes on him until the door clicked shut. Only then did he let the mask slip, his lips twisting into something colder.

The corridor outside the Headmaster’s office was silent, the air cooler without the crackling fire and the cloying sweetness of lemon drops. Haedus lingered a moment, listening to the echo of distant owls and the wind through the trees of the Forbidden Forest, before he took a deep, steadying breath and walked away.

His footsteps echoed softly against the stone as he descended the deserted staircases, every step measured, his mind gnawing on Dumbledore’s words like a wolf worrying bone.

“Full of doors that lead nowhere, staircases that shift, corridors with… secrets. I wonder if you’ve stumbled across any such curiosities”.

It was too pointed. Too deliberate. Dumbledore hadn’t been making polite conversation - he had been testing him. Pushing. Nudging. Haedus’s stomach tightened. It almost sounded as though the old man wanted him to go to the third-floor corridor.

But why?

The thought rattled around his skull with every turn of the staircase, every echoing step across the flagstones. Did Dumbledore want him to stumble upon the cerberus, to be mauled, torn limb from limb? That seemed absurd… and yet not entirely impossible. The man had already allowed the beast to live inside the school, hadn’t he? And there was the troll incident, and the Quidditch incident, too. Clearly, someone was out to get him, so perhaps it was the Headmaster…

Or was it something subtler? Did Dumbledore want him to find the trapdoor, to see what lay beneath? A test, perhaps - see how far curiosity would drive him, how reckless he was willing to be, how much Gryffindor was in his blood? Or maybe it was a lure, designed to push him in the direction Dumbledore needed him to go, without him even realizing it.

Haedus’s lip curled faintly in disgust. That was the problem with men like Dumbledore: every word, every pause, every look was a move on the board, and one could never be certain whether the threat was real or imagined.

Still - if there was one good thing in all of this, it was that Dumbledore clearly had no idea Haedus had already been to the third-floor corridor. Twice.

The thought steadied him. He had been careful, cautious. The harmonica, the cloak, Hermione’s steady hand on his sleeve - it had all been a plan executed flawlessly. If Dumbledore suspected anything more than idle curiosity, he would not have been so… indirect.

And yet…

Haedus slowed as he passed beneath a set of high, arched windows, the moonlight casting silver lines across his face. What if he was overthinking it? What if Dumbledore’s probing words had nothing to do with the third-floor corridor at all? Hogwarts truly was riddled with oddities, after all. Trick doors, vanishing steps, classrooms that came and went, the Room of Requirements that Barty had told him about once when he was little.

Was it possible that the old man had merely been speaking generally?

Haedus exhaled slowly through his nose. There were far too many possibilities here to consider, and he really didn’t like not knowing the truth.

By the time he reached the stretch of damp stone wall that melted into the Slytherin common room entrance, his thoughts were still circling, sharp and restless. Was Dumbledore trying to trick him into revealing something? Was he warning him away? Or was he simply laying a breadcrumb trail, nudging him closer to whatever secret he kept buried beneath the trapdoor?

He wasn’t sure. And that uncertainty was worse than anything.

As the wall slid open and the faint green light of the common room washed over him, Haedus straightened his shoulders and set his expression back into its usual calm mask. He would tell his friends about the conversation tomorrow, and perhaps even write a letter to his family, too. He wanted their opinions, their insight, despite the verbal tongue-lashing he knew his mother would give him once he learned what Haedus had been doing.

But for now - he would keep the questions gnawing quietly at the edges of his thoughts. Because if Dumbledore was playing a game… then Haedus needed to make sure he was several moves ahead.

Wednesday, 22nd January

The dormitory was quiet, save for the faint swishing of the Great Lake against the enchanted windows. Most of the boys were still asleep, curtains drawn tight around their four-posters, but Haedus sat upright at his desk, a single green-shaded lantern burning low at his side. His quill scratched steadily across the parchment, the ink dark and sure despite the tremor running through his thoughts.

He had considered writing to his parents first. He had even begun a draft to his father - then stopped, staring at the ink pooling on the page, imagining the storm it would unleash. His mother’s fury, his father’s concern, the lecture about recklessness and drawing attention too soon. No. They couldn’t know. Not yet.

But his uncle… His uncle would listen.

He dipped his quill again and bent closer, the words tumbling out in a sharp hand.

Tonton Baz,

I know you won’t like me writing to you instead of Papa or Maman, but I really need your advice and I cannot risk them hearing about this yet. Please - keep this to yourself unless you truly think it's too important to hide.

Dumbledore spoke with me last night. He summoned me to his office, and while it seemed like he wanted to reassure me about Quidditch, he kept circling around to other things. He said Hogwarts is full of secrets and asked if I’d stumbled across any. He pressed and prodded like he was trying to catch me out.

It felt like he wanted me to admit something. Or worse - that he wanted me to go somewhere. His words were too pointed. He could only mean the third-floor corridor. I don’t know if he suspects I’ve already been there, or if he’s laying bait for me to follow. I can’t tell if he’s warning me or testing me.

I hate it. Every word out of his mouth feels like a trap, and yet it’s wrapped in smiles and honey.

What do you think he’s playing at? Should I pretend I never noticed? Should I push back? Or should I act like I believe him and follow where he leads, to see what he truly wants from me?

I know Papa would rage at me for even considering that, and Maman would send me home by owl if she knew I’d gone near the cerberus again, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s happening here, something they’re not telling the rest of us, and I can’t just ignore it.

Please write back quickly.

- Haedus

He read over the letter twice, then folded it tightly and sealed it with green wax. Asha stirred faintly against his skin as he fastened the scroll for the owl, tongue flicking against his ribs in sleepy protest.

“SSShh” Haedus murmured, slipping from his chair and padding quietly across the cold stone floor. The dormitory door creaked faintly as he eased it open. Within minutes, the letter was tied to the leg of a nondescript school barn owl, and the bird disappeared into the pale light of the early morning sky.

Haedus lingered by the window long after, watching for any sign of a reply despite its futility, but the rising sun above the lake glistened with nothing but silence.

Thursday, 23rd January

The reply came during breakfast the next day. A neat envelope dropped onto his plate of toast and eggs, drawing a suspicious look from Draco and a curious one from Blaise. Haedus slipped it under the table before either could say a word.

He didn’t open it until later, tucked into a quiet alcove of the dungeons between classes. His uncle’s handwriting, sharp and slanted, filled the page.

Mon petit serpent,

I don’t like this. Not the letter, not the contents, and not the fact you thought to write to me first instead of your parents. They would want to know - need to know - but I will hold my tongue for now. Do not make me regret it.

As for Dumbledore, you are right to be suspicious. He is a man who wraps his commands in riddles and makes his manipulations sound like gifts. Never forget that. He does not do anything without reason, and if he pressed you on the matter of Hogwarts’ “secrets” it means he wanted something from your answer.

Do not give him what he seeks. Feign ignorance. Smile, flatter, distract. Let him think you are clever but harmless. If he wants you to go somewhere, make him show his hand first. Do not leap where he points. If you do, you will only dance to his tune.

That said, watch him closely. Men like Dumbledore prefer pawns who do not realize they are pawns. The moment you reveal that you do realise it, you become something else - a threat or a rival. Do not let him see that.

Write to me again if he approaches you, or if anything unusual happens. If this escalates, I will have no choice but to bring your parents into it. For now, I will trust your judgment.

You remind me more of your mother every day - that is both a compliment and a warning.

- Rabastan

Haedus read the letter three times through, the words settling into him like stones thrown into deep water. He folded the parchment carefully, sliding it into the inner pocket of his robes, and straightened his shoulders.

Tonton Baz was right. He couldn’t reveal his hand, not to a man like Dumbledore. If this was a game, then he needed to stay three moves ahead. Clever but harmless. Smile, flatter, distract. Yes. He could do that. He had been doing it since the moment he’d stepped foot in this castle, wearing masks upon masks until no one saw what lurked beneath. If Dumbledore thought him naive, all the better.

He adjusted his robe as he stepped out of the alcove, slipping back into the flow of students trudging toward their next class. To anyone else, he looked as though nothing had happened - cool, composed, with that quiet Lestrange poise that made the older years step aside in the corridors.

But inside, his thoughts were sharper, faster, more deliberate than ever.

Rabastan had confirmed what he already suspected: Dumbledore’s every word served a purpose. The Headmaster wasn’t merely watching him - he was prodding, shaping, maneuvering. And if Haedus wasn’t careful, he’d end up pushed straight into the role Dumbledore wanted him to play.

Well. He wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

He would play the part of the bright young student, eager to learn, dutiful and diligent. He would nod and smile at Dumbledore’s riddles, tuck away the poison behind every sugar-coated phrase, and make the old man believe he’d won. All while keeping his own secrets safe.

By the time he reached the Slytherin common room later that day, his mind was already working through the next step: what to tell Draco, what to tell Hermione. They deserved to know that Dumbledore had approached him - but how much should he reveal? Draco’s suspicion might be useful, Hermione’s indignation even more so. If she began to doubt the Headmaster too, then perhaps they wouldn’t be the only ones playing this game.

The green-tinged firelight flickered over the serpent statues as the wall slid open and Haedus stepped through. He kept his back straight, smoothing his face back into the cool composure expected of him, the faintest curl of a smile at his lips.

Yes. Tonton Baz was right. He had to be clever. He had to look harmless.

But one thing was certain: Dumbledore wasn’t the only one capable of playing games. And Haedus intended to win.