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Chapter Text

He wakes up to the shrill caws and aggressive poking of Fawkes. Swatting the phoenix away is useless. The damn bird keeps tugging at his nightshirt like he was planning to ripping the fabric

“Alright, alright, I’m up!” he groans, swiping half-heartedly at the beak now hooked onto his sleeve.

Fawkes lets go only when he stumbles toward the window, where a disheveled black owl is glaring at him with the intensity of someone who hasn’t slept in a week and blames you for it. On its beak hangs a letter, wrinkled and damp.

Fawkes nips him again, hard.

“I said I’m going!” he snaps, yanking the letter free. 

The note is brief. Sloppy handwriting. No signature besides the name.

Don’t know if you’ll get this. Don’t know if you’ll come.
I have no one else to talk to, not here anyways.
I’m at the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry.
P.S. I have no candy puns, sorry

Dumbledore stares at the last line. 

“Candy puns?” he says aloud.

 Fawkes stares back, unblinking.

“...Very helpful.”

Now he’s standing outside a room at the Leaky Cauldron. 

He knocks gently. No answer.

He tries again. This time, the door creaks open just enough for him to peek in.

And there’s the boy. Curled like a wounded animal, eyes flickering at him. 

Dried blood on his shirt. Wand gripped in one hand. The look he gives Dumbledore is wary.

“You came,” Harry mumbles, like it’s some kind of punchline.

“You called,” he says, tone light but cautious. “I rarely ignore unsettling mail delivered by rattling dark owls.”

Dumbledore worked in silence, and moving steadily as he mended the smaller cuts and coaxed bruising back beneath the skin. Harry didn’t flinch much. He had the look of someone used to patch jobs. Someone who’d either learned to sit still or learned it didn’t matter.

“You were right to send the letter,” Dumbledore said eventually, voice calm. “Though I admit I don’t know who you are or what happened. Although I would like to hear why you're in such a shape.”

“Yeah. It was a bit of a… mishap?”

“Mishap?”

Harry shrugged with one shoulder then winced. Dumbledore performed a diagnosing spell and found out a dislocation. “I was fighting.”

“Fighting?”

“Yeah. In the Ministry.”

Dumbledore’s hands paused mid spell. He continued, setting it back with a loud snap. With it Harry’s eyes teared-up. “Sorry. Continue.”

It took him a few seconds then he spoke back up with a light tone. “We were in the Department of Mysteries and everything went to hell. There was a circular room full of doors that kept spinning. They spinned so fast and I was hit by a hex then slammed into one. Pretty hard.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “And then?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “Woke up later, back in the Ministry. No clue where anyone went.”

“And apparently with some interior decorating done to your ribs.” Dumbledore hummed, casting another diagnostic spell.

“Purple and black match my eyes.” He sighs. “I made it out, somehow,” Harry went on. “Didn’t get stopped. No alarms. No one saw me.”

Dumbledore’s head tilted slightly. “That’s... rather fortunate.”

“I was going to find help. Aurors, maybe. Well… Maybe not them. They haven't been my biggest fans for a while. Thought I could find a healer. But then I passed a newspaper stand.”

Dumbledore flicked his wand again. A slow bone-knitting spell. Nothing painful, just uncomfortable enough to keep Harry distracted.

“It said 1943,” Harry muttered. “Big headline about Muggles and rationing and war.”

Dumbledore blinked.

“I thought I hit my head harder than I thought,” Harry admitted. “But then I saw the date again, and again, and I knew I was screwed.” He pauses, then corrects himself. “I’m screwed.”

Silence stretched.

“All I had were a few galleons, my wand, and no idea how the hell I got there.”

“So naturally,” Dumbledore said carefully, “you wrote to me.”

“Didn’t know who else to trust. Or if you were even... alive yet,” Harry muttered. “Figured you might be. You seem like the kind who’s always just sort of there. You and cockroaches.”

Dumbledore let out a quiet chuckle despite himself. “High praise.”

“Didn’t say I liked cockroaches.”

“Well,” Dumbledore said mildly, “I am alive. And you are in the wrong decade.”

Harry exhaled. “Yeah. More like a century but yeah. All the signs said ‘Wizarding London,’ but it felt like I’d been dropped into a museum.”

“Why the Leaky Cauldron?”

“Knew the name,” Harry said. “Figured it wouldn’t have changed much. And it hadn’t. Tom looks like he’s always looked that way. Ok, that’s a lie. He looks really young”

“Barely, I’m sure.”

“It’s off-putting,” Harry muttered.

Dumbledore let him sit in silence for a while after that. The worst of the bleeding had stopped. The fractures were mended. 

But Dumbledore’s thoughts were still catching up.

Time travel.

Accidental, it seemed- but real.

And Harry... hadn’t said everything. Not about how he got out of the Ministry without being seen, or why was he even fighting there in the first place. Not about who else had been with him. 

But he didn’t push him to continue, not yet he couldn't. 

Instead, he said, “We’ll figure something out. We’ll keep you safe, until we can find a way forward.”

Harry looked at him, like he didn’t quite believe him. Then he nodded, slow and reluctant.

“Okay,” he said. “I guess I’m yours now.”

Dumbledore smiled faintly. “I do wish you’d phrase it less like a hostage situation.”

“Can you blame me?” And he could blame him for not understanding.

Harry didn’t seem to understand he wasn’t the man he appeared to know. And he didn’t understand why that man was in so low regards. 

Chapter Text

Dumbledore took Harry home that same day.

The house in Godric’s Hollow wasn’t grand or old, just warm in a worn-out kind of way. Books covered nearly every surface, and lemon-drop tins turned up in absurd places—tucked behind vases, stacked on windowsills, one inexplicably inside a plant pot. Two stories, decent space. Still, he lived there alone.

Harry stood in the entryway like he didn’t know whether to run or collapse. His clothes were still stained with blood. He hadn’t said much on the way over.

Dumbledore removed his cloak and hung it carefully. “You can sit, if you’d like,” he offered. “Or not. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Harry didn’t move toward the armchair. Instead, he wandered a few steps forward, stopping in front of a photo frame. The eyes seemed to be stuck on his late sister and his younger brother.

Dumbledore hesitated. Then, conjuring a modest tea service and a couple of sandwiches, he asked, “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

Dumbledore paused. A faint furrow appeared between his brows.

“You look older,” he said eventually.

Harry gave a humorless huff. “War does that.”

They sat in a quiet not-quite-truce, the smell of bread and mint tea filling the air.

“Were you enrolled in school before… this?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry let out a short laugh—sharp and without real mirth. “Yeah. School. You lot always care more about that than anything else. I mean even he seemed to care. Didn’t really bother me during my exams.”

Dumbledore blinked at him. “What’s so funny?”

Harry shook his head. “Nothing. Forget it.”

A pause.

“So…?” Dumbledore pressed, gently.

“I was. Not anymore I guess- or not yet.”

He nodded. Time seemed to be far too confusing to think straight. 

Once Harry took a sip of his tea, he continued. 

“Would you like to be enrolled again?”

He looked down at his hands, knuckles scraped, skin pale. There was no answer in his face—just exhaustion, and that distant look people get when they’ve already had the worst thought but haven’t said it aloud yet.

“I don’t want to do anything,” Harry admitted. “I kind of wish I hadn’t written to you. Would’ve been easier just to bleed out and be done with it.”

Dumbledore inhaled softly, but didn’t speak right away.

Eventually, Harry shrugged and added, “But I guess I’m here now. So… sure. Enroll me. Whatever.”

Dumbledore gave a slow nod, stood, and summoned a quill and parchment. “We’ll need to get your details down.”

He began filling in the form.

“Name?”

“Harry Potter. Well… I don't know what it is anymore. Would it be the same if my parents aren’t even born yet”

They both took a second, Dumbledore pondered lightly then did a soft understanding sound. He stood up and got a heavy book from his shelf. 

Dumbledore considered that. “The castle keeps records,” he said, standing to retrieve a thick, leather-bound book from his shelf. “It tracks all students—past, present, and potential future. It may tell us what name it recognizes.”

He flipped through the pages. Eventually, he stopped. 

His heart also stopped.

Written in dark ink: Peverell. 

He glanced down at the words. For so long he has been looking for this, looking for hallows and now he has here what could possibly be his answer. 

Found in one Harry Potter. 

There was something unreadable in Dumbledore’s expression. Not quite surprise. Not quite dread. His fingers lingered on the name, his gaze distant.

“The Potters descend from the Peverells,” he murmured. “It would appear the castle defaulted to the older bloodline.”

“What’s that?”

“Your name now is Hadrian Ignatius Peverell.”

“Ew.”

“Yeah, quite...”

Dumbledore allowed himself a smile. “Yes, well. It does have a certain... dramatic flair.”

He turned back to Harry. Their eyes met. Dumbledore tried to read him, to go inside his thoughts, but tall, carefully built, barriers made it impossible without his knowledge. 

Who taught you to guard yourself like that?

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. Too quickly. “Quite alright.”

He gets an enrollment form and a quill, but he can't quite yet write.  

Just as he was about to start, after writing down ‘Ha’, something shifted and an idea took shape behind his eyes.

Then, softly, more to himself than to Harry, he said, “They may find you.”

Harry blinked. “Who?”

“The Department of Mysteries. They may want to contain you. Time travel is… rare. Incredibly valuable. They’ll want to know how you did it, why and if you can do it again.”

“They’d lock me up?”

“I don’t know if they’d ever let you go,” Dumbledore admits. “But we can keep you safe. We can hide you.”

Harry looked at him, wary. 

“I don’t know why you came here. I don't even know who I was to you , but you used to trust my judgement. Could you trust me again?”

Harry met his gaze. He could see the hesitation, the way his fingers twitched, and how his head lowered.

Harry was quiet for a minute too long. His eyes had gone back to the moving photo of his family.

Blinking slowly he seemed to be memorizing them. But finally, after a long sigh, he nods.

Chapter Text

Harry had thought surviving a war meant he’d earned a break.

He was wrong.

The Ministry's Records Division was a circle of hell all its own: underground, windowless, and so overcharmed that the air smelled faintly of dust, magic, and burnt ink. Everything was beige. Beige walls, beige floors, beige furniture. Even the light was beige.

“I hate bureaucracy,” Harry muttered, slumped over the desk as he glared at his fourth copy of Form F-22b: Petition for Magical Minor Guardianship. “I didn’t even hate Umbridge this much.”

“Bureaucracy predates evil,” Dumbledore said wisely, leafing through a stack of contradictory paperwork with growing despair. “And unlike evil, it can’t be defeated. Only endured.”

“This is disgusting. I want to barf over all these people.” He sighs and signs the documents handed to him.

After a few minutes, and several paper-cuts, Harry lets out a scream when he stabs himself in the hand with the quill. “Why so much paper?” Harry moans as Fawkes cries over him.

“The system has safety charms, against fraud,” the professor explains slowly, but there’s resentment in his voice.

“It thinks we are fraud.”

“Well. It may not be wrong. Technically, you don’t exist.”

Harry threw a quill at him.

They were five hours in.

Harry’s handwriting had started out neat, if a little annoyed. By now, it had devolved into something resembling death threats in cursive.

Dumbledore, ever the optimist, conjured another cup of tea that Harry swore was getting more bitter with every form.

Fawkes was snacking on the corner of an outdated “Family Designations & You” pamphlet. His talons left tiny scorch marks on the desk. No one tried to stop him.

“I suppose now we pick your legal name,” Dumbledore said, opening a folder titled Adoptive Renaming and Magical Re-registration of Minors: Ministry Oversight Protocol, 1941 Edition. It was eighty pages long and entirely handwritten.

Harry leaned back in the creaky chair and stared at the ceiling like it might collapse and end his suffering.

“Well,” Dumbledore said, tapping his quill thoughtfully, “since the name Hadrian Ignatius Peverell is technically valid but tied to a complicated spawning situation that half the Department of Mysteries wants to vivisect-”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“-we might want to pick something a bit less fun.”

“‘Harry James Dumbledore’ is fine,” Harry said. “Just that.”

“Hmm. But what about a second middle name?” Dumbledore offered, far too cheerfully. 

“There’s no such thing as a second middle name. A middle name is your second name. It would be a third name, and no!”

“You could be Harry James Ignatius Dumbledore. Sounds dashing.”

Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Or, hear me out, Harry James Ignatius Cadmus Dumbledore. Cadmus adds mystery.”

Harry said nothing, but the muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Or Antinous! You’d be Harry James Ignatius Cadmus Antinous Dumbledore. Strong. Scholarly. People would write sonnets about you.”

Harry looked like he was calculating how long it would take to strangle Dumbledore. “I’m not becoming a Greek tragedy.”

Fawkes squawked violently and bit Dumbledore’s hand as he attempted to write Ignatius on the form.

“Fawkes!” Dumbledore yelped, shaking his hand. “That hurt!”

The phoenix blinked slowly, then let out a very deliberate chirp of disapproval and fluffed his wings in offense.

Harry was smug. “Even your bird hates the name.”

At last, they managed to fill out the final field. 

Chosen Name: Harry James Dumbledore, and the form gave off a warm golden shimmer of bureaucratic approval. 

A very elderly clerk appeared in the private room they were holed up in. She stared at Fawkes and the scorching for a minute then gave them a brittle smile, took the paperwork… and returned five minutes later with another stack.

“This,” she said sweetly, placing it with a horrible thud that made Fawkes shake, “is the supplemental paperwork required for magical name changes, bloodline absorption, shared kinship bonds, and residential reassignment. Form G-841 through M-91. Approximately twenty five minutes to complete.”

Harry stared at the paper, then slowly raises his tear-filled eyes to stare at her. “This is a prank.”

The clerk, who had long since lost her soul to the demonic entity that was bureaucracy, smiled and walked away.

There was a long silence. 

Then Harry very slowly removed his glasses, set them on the table, and slammed his face into the desk with a hollow thud. 

Dumbledore followed suit, folding his arms and letting his head fall onto the form pile.

Fawkes, with all the dignity of a mythological firebird, crawled across the table and began eating the wood.

Chapter Text

Something that Harry quickly learnt from Dumbledore was that he truly loved teaching.

He didn’t teach because he had to, but because he couldn’t help it. It spilt out of him in waterfalls, even when Harry wanted nothing to do with it.

Still, Harry soaked it all up like a sponge. He didn’t even realise how much he was learning, only that things were starting to fall into place. That spell work made more sense in Dumbledore’s strange metaphors and tangents than it ever had in textbooks.
One morning, Dumbledore casually summoned three brooms out of nowhere (none of which were relevant to their conversation about apparition) and launched into a ten-minute lecture on magical aerodynamics and the tragic limitations of wandless levitation.

Harry, still in his nightgown, unbrushed hair and sleep in his eyes, just nodded along like he understood what those words meant.

“You know,” Dumbledore said eventually, halfway through conjuring a wind tunnel for demonstration, “this reminds me of the first time I cast Lumos.”

He smiled faintly. “I’d run away from home. I think I was… nine? I hid in a barn and remembered what my father used to summon light. My hands were shaking too much to get it right. My fingers were freezing. But I was so proud when the wand lit up. I remember thinking, ‘At least now I won’t die in the dark.’”

There was a pause.

“That’s bleak,” Harry said. And dramatic, he thought.

“Terribly,” Dumbledore agreed brightly. “But it was a lovely light.”

They were brewing again, because Harry was “bloody cursed” when it came to Potions, or so he said.

Dumbledore handed him the mortar and pestle and said, “Try not to maim yourself.”

They worked side by side at the bench, sleeves rolled up, the sunlight through the window painting everything with a golden hue. Dumbledore hummed something that sounded suspiciously like a jazz tune as he stirred clockwise, then counter-clockwise, then diagonally, which Harry was pretty sure wasn’t a real instruction.

“Creative licence,” Dumbledore was all he could say.

It wasn’t going terribly. Nothing had exploded yet, and Harry had only got dandelion root powder in his hair once.
He glanced at the window just as the sky began to fade from warm peach to dusky lavender.

“Oh,” Harry said, almost to himself. “I’m sixteen now.”

Dumbledore didn’t look up. “Hm?”

“Today,” Harry clarified. “It’s my birthday.”

The stirring stopped. Dumbledore turned toward him slowly.

“… You’re what now?”

“Sixteen.”

“Today?”

Harry shrugged. “I forgot.”

There was a pause. Dumbledore blinked once, then twice. Without another word, he turned around and left the room in a swirl of robes.

Harry frowned. “… What?”

He was halfway through cleaning the bench when Dumbledore reappeared some forty minutes later, holding a slightly lopsided lemon cake on a floating tray. It was still warm, smelled incredible, and was slowly leaning to the left like the Tower of Pisa.

Harry blinked at it, slowly feeling how warmth stretched across his body. “That looks like it’s about to collapse.” He mumbles, trying to keep the smile from his voice. 

“Rude,” Dumbledore said, already slicing generous pieces. “It is a delicate slant.”

Harry took a bite and immediately had to sit down. “Okay, but why is this so good?”

“I used to make it for Aberforth,” Dumbledore said with a shrug. “Until he tried to feed one to a goat.”

Harry blinked. "Understandable."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the scent of citrus filling the air.

Harry looked around at the shelves—at all the odd little tins and jars, and the inexplicable number of lemon-drop containers scattered across every available surface.

“Do you… Really like lemon or something?” he asked.

Dumbledore looked genuinely startled. “How did you know?”

Harry stared at him. Trying very hard not to stare at the five visible lemon-drop tins all around them. “I don’t know. A hunch.”

Dumbledore leaned back with a sigh. “You’re far too perceptive for someone who still can’t identify a bezoar.”

Chapter Text

The day before the school year began, Harry lay sprawled on the floor idly tossing a balled-up piece of parchment into the air as Fawkes watched him with curious eyes.

For all his mythical grace the Phoenix was like a common pet, loving to play just like one.

Harry had discovered it by accident. He'd dropped a crumpled parchment, and Fawkes had snatched it midair like an overexcited puppy. Since then, it had become a bit of a ritual.

He wanted to know how far did he behave as one. So far, Harry had confirmed that Fawkes enjoyed playing catch, responded to simple instructions like sit, and loved belly rubs. 

Dumbledore had stared i horror when the Phoenix was being pet, and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

He reached out to smooth the feathers, and Fawkes leaned into the touch with a trill. 

The room was quiet, golden with late afternoon light, when the door creaked open and Dumbledore stepped in.

Without a word, the man settled into the chair beside him, casting only a glance at them. 

He opened a book and began to read. It was the comfort that did it. That easy, familiar silence that made him remember what tomorrow was. 

In their comfort he had foolishly got used to something good, but couldn’t stay here forever.

“I don’t want to ride the train,” he murmured, voice rough from a day spent in silence.

Dumbledore hummed in acknowledgment. “I suppose that makes sense.”

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t push. Just turned the page of his book.

Harry glanced down at Fawkes, hiding his smile in the warmth of feathers.

The morning was far too calm for the first day back at school.

At eight o’clock, they sat quietly at the table, sipping tea and eating breakfast. Harry lazily spread jam on his toast while Dumbledore ate his porridge with the same peaceful focus he brought to most things.

It was a sharp contrast to the chaos he remembered from mornings with people tripping over trunks, scrambling for socks, yelling across the house. Now, the quiet almost felt luxurious.

When it was time, they retrieved their trunks and stood by the fireplace.

“I once tried to get to Diagon Alley,” Harry said, “but I misspoke and ended up in Knockturn Alley.”

Dumbledore hummed. “Let’s not do that today.”

So Harry stood by the fireplace, repeating the destination under his breath several times, just to be sure.

When the green flames swallowed them, they stepped out into Dumbledore’s office at Hogwarts. Harry took a moment to take it in. It wasn’t the elegant, sweeping tower room he’d known. This one was cluttered with overstuffed bookcases, dusty instruments, strange trinkets—and right in the center, plain as day, sat a Pensieve.

“You have a Pensieve in the middle of your room?”

“Office,” Dumbledore corrected.

He sighs dramatically and Dumbledore has to stiffen a smile. “You have a Pensieve in the middle of your office?”

“Why, yes!”

Harry changed into his plain black school robes in the adjoining washroom. The lack of red accents felt odd, like something important had been stripped away. He caught a glimpse of himself-

Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know...

He knew Dumbledore’s history with Slytherins. Knew how he’d felt about Voldemort. About Parseltongue. About everything Harry shared with the boy Dumbledore feared and hated. Would he push Harry aside, too?

That thought sat heavily in his chest.

They left the office in comfortable silence. Dumbledore didn’t tell him where they were going, and Harry didn’t ask. Instead, he glanced around the hallways, humming under his breath.

“This is the Headmaster’s office,” he said.

“I know,” Harry replied.

“Did you often end up there?”

“No, I—” He stopped himself. Should he tell Dumbledore about the future? Would that make it worse? “My headmaster liked to give cryptic advice. From his office.”

“Fun!”

‘Traumatizing’ was the word that came to mind, but fun was fine too.

When they entered the staffroom, the conversation died at once. Professors looked up in surprise. 

A woman, dressed in sharp black robes glanced between them with something that swayed between concern and curiosity.

Armando Dippet, who Harry recognized from a memory, nearly dropped the book he was holding.

A large, cheerful man lit up the moment he saw them. His eyes sparkled with curiosity as Dumbledore made the introduction.

“This is my son. He’ll be finishing his education at Hogwarts.”

My son.

Harry kept his expression carefully neutral, but his throat tightened. He gave a small nod and turned before anyone could ask anything else.

He wandered the castle instead.

It was both familiar and unfamiliar. The corridors felt narrower, the air warmer. The portraits were nosier. One complained about his hairstyle. Another tried to guess Harry’s bloodline like it was a riddle. He let them be wrong for sport, then finally said Dumbledore and walked off. The portrait called after him, saying it didn’t appreciate being lied to.

Eventually, he stumbled upon the large man from earlier, this time as he left a room.

“Ah!” the man said, perking up. “We haven’t officially met!”

“Harry,” he replied, cautious.

“Horace Slughorn,” the man said, enthusiastically shaking his hand. “I’ve heard about you, of course.” Likely just now. “Dumbledore’s son! My word, what a surprise. And you’ve got his eyes—well, not quite, but there’s something there, don’t you think? Ha!”

Harry gave a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“So! Your mother: what’s she like? Magical, I presume? She must be quite brilliant, to have captured Albus’s heart!”

There was a beat of silence.

Harry blinked. “Oh. Uh—she’s…”

His mind went blank.

“Yeah, she’s… great. I’ll get back to you on that.”

Before Slughorn could ask anything else, Harry turned and walked out.

Then, around the corner, he broke into a run.

Harry corners Dumbledore in the corridor outside the Great Hall, arms crossed and brows raised.

“You do realize people are asking questions, right?” he says. “About me.”

“Understandable.”

“Yeah, I get it. But we have to know the same answer. Like, who am I?” 

Dumbledore, entirely calm, and still checking the student list, replies, “You’re my son.”

Harry blinks. “Yeah, I know that! But you didn’t give anyone a story. No background, no mother, no reason why I’m here—nothing. We need a consistent lie, Professor.”

“I thought the truth was complicated enough.”

“That’s not heping.”

Dumbledore sighs. “Fine. Your- eh, mother… was a very private person. We were never married. She raised you abroad. We reconnected recently.”

Harry pauses, then squints. “That’s the most suspicious answer you could’ve given.”

“It’s plausible!”

“It’s vague.”

There’s a short silence.

Something clicks in his brain. “Should we kill her?” he deadpans. 

Dumbledore looks horrified.

“What? Who?”

“My mother.”

“Why?!”

“I mean, for the story,” Harry clarifies, biting back a grin. “She died tragically. You were heartbroken. Had to step up as a single father.”

Dumbledore closes his eyes and exhales slowly. “That… would certainly explain your attitude.”

“Exactly,” Harry says, triumphant. “Emotional trauma

"That’s the secret ingredient.”

Dumbledore sighs and hums in reluctant agreement.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall feels bigger than he remembers. The ceiling sparkles with candlelight and false stars, and he's surrounded by the cacophony of the students around him. They are all looking at him in wonder as he stood behind the first years, barely towering over the eleven-year-olds. 

Harry's presence is ignored at the beginning and during the sorting. He was starting to get antsy as they all took their seats and he remained standing. Almost like being forgotten, but he knew he wasn't for Dumbledore kept sending him calming glances over the heads of the children. Towards the end, he even smiled secretly, and he stopped bouncing his leg. 

Whispers rise when his name is read aloud.

Dumbledore stands beside him, gently resting the Sorting Hat on his head as the hall quiets.

The Hat hums the moment it touches him.

“Hello, again.”

Harry exhales through his nose. “I was wondering if you’d know. Or if you'd think this was our first meeting.”

“Oh, I know. I work on a level different from all of you, dear boy. Present at every time, all at once.”

He grimaces. “Got it.” He says, but doesn’t. 

“Now then will you let me put you where you belong, or do you have thoughts this time?”

“... He's going to kill me if you do this.”

“Albus? No, he won’t. If anything, maybe this will help him see that it doesn’t matter where you are. What matters is what you do.”

Harry hesitates. Swallows. The silence in the hall stretches.

Then, softly, “Fine.”

“Glad you agree. Can I tell you a little secret?”

“What?”

“You didn’t have a choice. I wasn’t going to let you swing me around like last time.”

“SLYTHERIN!”

There's a short pause, the silence is deafening then soft laughter breaks on the Slytherin's table then polite applause from the rest of the tables, even as they were exchanging amused smiles. 

The Hat is lifted from his head. He blinks into the candlelight and looks up at Dumbledore, who's staring at him with wide eyes. 

“We’ll talk about this later,” he says, voice low.

Harry nods, then moves toward the green table.

The surrounding air is colder when he reaches them. Their eyes are placed over him like vultures on an animal that’s about to whale its last breath. 

He slides into a seat.

If he felt cold before, now he was freezing.

Dark eyes stare at him with an intensity that makes him shake. The sort of intensity that made a person feel concerned about their soul being taken. 

He was being studied by a familiar face with brown eyes and neatly combed hair. 

Harry knows that pretty face. He’s seen it in memories and a twisted version of it, those features masked behind cruel shrilling laughter and red eyes. 

Not long before he landed here, right after Sirius’ death, he was looking for his favorite follower. She was going to take Harry to him, but then got lost and ended up here.

The man had hurt him, had played with him like he was a mouse. And now his counterpart was ogling him down.

But he is not Voldemort yet.

This one is younger. Still redeemable. There’s still a chance to save his life.

“Welcome,” Tom Riddle says.

Harry swallows.

“… Hi.”

Harry had just enough time to fill his glass when they leaned forward.

“So… Dumbledore’s your father?” one girl asked, cutting into her roast.

Harry blinked. “Yeah.”

There was a pause. A few eyebrows rose. Someone choked on their pumpkin juice.

He thought that maybe they would be uninterested as soon as they learnt their truth. Not the truth but the truth they had made up hours ago.

His name was Harry Dumbledore, his mother had passed, he was homeschooled and decided to attend Hogwarts after she died. It wasn't a solid story and he confirmed this as he saw the look on Tom's face.

They moved on to more interesting things, like his hobbies and sports. Harry had barely contained excitement as the captain said they were looking for a new Seeker.  

A blond boy down the table scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

“You have all week to chat about quidditch. So, ‘Dumbledore’, what would your daddy think of you being in Slytherin, hm?” 

Harry didn’t miss a beat. “Ew.”

That earned a startled laugh from someone.

“Assume he’s unhappy but…” he shrugged, stabbing a potato with his fork, “nothing he can do about it.”

He didn't miss the way Tom smiled at that, but he couldn't tell if it was out of amusement or mockery. 

Chapter Text

He had been in the Slytherin's common rooms before, once when he spied on Malfoy to find out if he was then one causing the petrifications. Only to find out it was being done by the very same boy leading him around the room with a bright smile.

Back when he had stepped inside, he had thought the common rooms where far too extravagant especially compared to the comfortable and homely space of his own space. 

The rooms went far and beyond.

The space was doubled than the tower, they could easily fit at least 7 more beds than they had. The tall ceiling was decorated by fake stars and the windows (one next to each bed) was showing the lake. 

It was dark, but he wondered what it would look like in the morning when the sunlight filtered through the waves.. 

“Oh.”

Harry turned towards the sound. Tom was sporting a wicked smirk but it quickly turned into an innocent wide-eyed stance when he's caught.

“What?”

“Oh, it's nothing.” When Harry didn't relent, he presses his lips together in a way that made Harry think he was repressing a smile. “Your bed was just… shoved between Abraxas’ and mine.”

Harry nods slowly, trying to understand why that was so funny when Tom lets out a really loud snort and has to turn around to hide his face.

Even then Harry noticed the blush that travelled down his neck and colored his ears. 

A Slytherin, (was it Lestrange) stares at Tom for a second. His brows are furrowed and his eyes are sharp, looking like he was assessing something. Then sighs and walks away. 

Harry shrugged off his robe and tossed it at the foot of the bed—only for Tom to slide next to him, pick it up, and carefully hang it on a bedpost hook like he was handling something delicate.

“Keep it like this. Otherwise you'll have to iron it."

He doesn't remember ironing his robes.

“Right.”

The boys finally scrambled around. Harry sighs and starts removing his clothing. 

Damn it.

Dumbledore had touched his trunk. He lifts the pastel yellow sleepwear with swimming ducks.

He reluctantly puts it on and slides on the bed as fast as he can, closing the curtains. 

The bed was far too big. He was almost drowning in it. Two more people could sleep there and there was still space left. 

The mattress was also way too soft, making his whole body dip into it, and the sheets felt like they were spun from actual clouds. He sinks into them with a sigh and wraps himself up with the soft silk blankets, lightly wondering why a teenager would need silk blankets.

He's lulled to sleep by the soft hum of the lake and the light chattering of the other Slytherin's as they got ready to bed.

-

He's shaken awake, and he makes a low grumpy sound as he stretches, making his bones ‘pop’.

He blinked groggily. His surroundings were dim and green and completely foreign.

A face stares down at him.

“Siri?” he breathes.

The boy pauses where he is hovering and, to Harry's dismay, blushes. “Pardon?”

He looks like Sirius. Sharp cheekbones. But the hair is short and styled, and the eyes aren't right. 

His grey eyes are sparkling with life and youth, not haunted by life.

“Oh… sorry. Nothing.”

The Not-Sirius squints at him, taking one step away. “A Gryffindor came to the door. Said Professor Dumbledore’s asking for you.”

Why would Dumbledore- oh, right, his dad.

“Thanks, uh-?” He waits, and almost winces when the boy frowned.

“Orion.”

Harry chokes on air. “Oh. Right. Thank you, Orion.”

Sirius’s father, he has seen that much in the Black tapestry. He remembered trailing his fingers softly over the scorched outline where Sirius’s name had been.

Harry scrambled upright, nearly dragging the sheets with him. He began pulling on his clothes in a rush, aware of a few half-interested glances from the other boys. Orion lingered by the bed as Harry attempted to fix his hair.

Taking his bag he bolted off the dorms, and out the common rooms. 

Harry nearly yelled when a: “Hi,” was said directly in front of him.

“Bloody hell—oh. Hello.”

A redhead gave him a tight, awkward smile. “Hi. Professor Dumbledore said to take you to his office, as soon as you were up.”

Harry sighed. “Right. Off to get canned.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “What?”

“No, no, joking.” Harry waved it off. “Probably just a bit of yelling.”

“Oh. That’s not so bad.”

“Considering I got sorted into Slytherin? Yeah.”

The redhead relaxed. “Yeah, you really did fuck it up.”

Harry snorted. “That’s me.” The redhead makes an awkward gesture with his mouth that was far too familiar.

“I’m Septimus Weasley.”

That makes… a lot of sense. “Harry… Dumbledore. You probably already knew that. But, uh. Hello.”

“I'm sure you are overwhelmed so I'll take you to his office.”

“Oh right! Because it's my first night here!”

“... Yeah, yeah, exactly.”

“You're really kind, I have no idea where I am.”

Too far.

“I mean I am, I'm… sorry I didn't sleep well.”

Septimus shakes his head and starts walking, Harry follows quickly. “It's okay. The first night is like that for everyone. As a Prefect the younger students tend to ask for advice. The first night is always the hardest.”

“I can imagine.”

“The change is liked but they tend to cry for the first few days.”

Harry hums. He couldn't remember much of it from his first time back when he was a Gryffindor but there weren't a lot of tears. 

During his silence he didn't noticed Septimus staring at him.

“I wasn’t expecting Professor Dumbledore to have a kid,” Septimus said.

“We’re the same age,” Harry pointed out.

“... A lad.”

“Better,” Harry muttered, earning a chuckle from Septimus, “Yeah, well. No one expected it, I think.”

“You had a mother, too?”

“Uh. Yes?”

Septimus narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. That's... A surprise."

His eyes narrowed at the redhead. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Septimus shrugged as he chuckled, “Not my place.”

They turned a final corner and stood by Dumbledore’s office. Septimus knocked twice and let go when he heard the admittance from inside.

“I’ll be seeing you, Dumb-”

“Harry. Please.”

“...Harry.” Septimus grinned and waved. His smile was as bright as Rons. Harry felt it like a punch to the chest. 

Harry watched him go, and even in his walking, he thought of Ron.

The last he remembers was him covered in patterns and being on the verge of fainting. Then nothing.

But Septimus was a Weasley completely safe from his trouble. He would never have to deal with any of it.

Shaking his head, he lets himself inside the office. 

Dumbledore was already sitting at the table with a full spread of breakfast.

He slid into the empty chair, picking up his cup. Dumbledore stared at him over the rim of his own teacup.

“So…” Harry began, sipping the too-hot coffee. “I was meant to be a Slytherin.”

Dumbledore raised a brow.

“The first time, I mean. Back then- or in the future? The Hat wanted Slytherin. I said no. Thought it was where all the Dark wizards went. No—actually—it was mostly because this kid I hated ended up there. Louse prick. I was petty.”

Dumbledore’s lips twitched. “I see.”

“I imagine you pictured your… son” Harry smirked, “would be a brave little Gryffindor. Or maybe a Ravenclaw.”

“You’ve forgotten Hufflepuff,” Dumbledore said mildly.

“I left it out on purpose.”

Dumbledore actually laughed.

Progress.

But then he sighed.

“It’ll take time,” he said quietly, “to get used to hearing my name... associated with you.”

Harry set his cup down. “You don’t get time. We’re in a war, so you have to either get used to it and work fast or drown. People are curious. That’s going to come back and bite us, fast.”

He jabbed a fork into a sausage.

“They’re already curious.”

Dumbledore exhaled, slow and heavy. “Could you—could you behave like a child for five minutes?”

Harry met his eyes without blinking. “Not a child.”

After a few seconds of silence Harry snaps back into reality.

“Dare to explain why everyone is confused that I have a mother?”

Dumbledore hums, then drinks his tea.

—

As soon as Harry is out of earshot, the rest of the Slytherin boys immediately lean in.

“Dumbledore’s secret child?”

“Feels…”

“Fake as tits?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, I thought he was queer,” someone mutters.

“Right?!” 

“I was waiting for the dramatic bachelor reveal, not a teenager.”

“I'm not that surprised. Lord Grindelwald has always wanted a heir-”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN GRINDELWALD?!”

“Yeah?”

“You think…?!”

“Could be his!”

“That's not how it works.”

“What?”

“They're both men!”

“Oh, I forgot you were a half-blood. It's possible for them to have children.”

“What?!”

“Magic?”

Tom drowns out the rest of their conversation. Their conversation wasn't anything he didn't know.

And he had better things to think of, a voice singing to his ear as his eyes still fixed on the door Harry had disappeared through. 

It was far too precious. The possibly bastard son of the professor that hated him since the first day they met, had ended up in the house he resents. 

Tom was pushed aside as soon as his power, his ancestral gift, was known by the man, but now his precious boy was sleeping just meters away from him.

He could trail his fingers through that messy hair. That's how close he was.

The robes looked like they were made for him, not tailored, but purposefully designed with him in mind. Green suited him far too well. And the colour matched his eyes. 

He wants to wrap him in more emeralds just to stick it to the old man. 

Maybe even wave a little green flag with a snake to stick it further. 

To laugh in his face: this was fate. 

Someone nudges his arm. “You think he’s legit?”

“Does it matter?” Tom slowly turns to them, trying to stop the smile from curling on his lips but failing. “He's ours now.”

---

“He’s going to be late. I knew we should’ve brought him ourselves,” Avery muttered, narrowing his eyes at yet another Gryffindor boy who wasn’t the anomaly they were waiting for entered the room.

“We don’t even know if he has this class,” Lestrange replied, arms crossed. “Slughorn said there was no need to hand over Dumbledore’s schedule.”

“Maybe he thought you meant the old one.”

“...” Lestrange clicked his tongue. “Damn it. I should’ve been more specific.”

He was just about to tell Lestrange to go fetch the boy when both Dumbledores’ stepped into the classroom. 

They didn’t look related. Not even remotely. Tom watched them both with a sharp gaze, eyes flicking between heights, features, movement. Nothing aligned. Not even their ears.

Must’ve gotten the good looks from his mother, Tom thought, fingers twitching around his quill. 

Then did a quick mental search with the pictures he had seen of Lord Grindelwald, but still nothing. 

Well, maybe the nose.

Albus patted the boy’s shoulder lightly before moving to the front of the classroom.

 -

Harry tries to ignore the empty seat among the Gryffindors and instead sits with his new house. He dropped his bag on the side and sank into the seat without a word.

Avery tried, he really tried, to keep the distaste off his face. He failed.

The classroom buzzed with the low murmur of students, parchment rustling and quills scratching as seats filled. Dumbledore stood at the front, robes shimmering faintly with movement, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“Welcome,” he said, voice warm, “to this year’s study of Transfiguration. I’m proud to see so many of you here.”

His gaze swept the room, a pleasant smile on his face—though Harry noticed it lingered a little longer on the Gryffindors, the Ravenclaws, and even the Hufflepuffs. But his eyes barely grazed the Slytherins.

Harry shifted slightly in his seat. Besides him, Avery huffed.

“We begin,” Dumbledore continued, “with a subject I’ve always found rather stimulating. There’s a good deal of scholarly disagreement on the matter, which makes it all the more delightful.”

Harry sides eyes Avery when he sees him slumping in his chair and rolling his eyes.

“Now then. Who here can tell me one of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration?”

Tom raised his hand before anyone else had the chance. It wasn’t showy, just efficient. Controlled.

“Gamp’s Laws states you cannot conjure food from nothing, it can be summoned if you know the location, but cannot make nutritious food from thin air.”

Dumbledore’s smile thinned, just barely. “Correct.”

No points awarded.

Harry tilted his head. That was... odd.

Dumbledore turned back to the board, launching into the broader rules and implications of conjuration. Chalk floated beside him, sketching neat, magical diagrams as he explained the differences between summoning and transfiguration, between replication and creation.

Another question followed: “What are some items that can be conjured, but aren’t considered truly nourishing or substantial?”

Dumbledore hesitated, glancing around. “Why not let someone else try, Tom?”

No one moved. The students from the other houses didn't seem to know, and the Slytherins didn't dare.

Tom’s hand stayed up.

Dumbledore sighed. “Very well. Tom,” he said at last, a touch resigned.

“Creatures,” Tom answered smoothly. “Snakes, birds, insects. All conjurable. Although I do have a question. Could they be used, if you knew where their exact location was, to produce food in case it's needed?”

Dumbledore’s expression cooled further. “Unknown,” he replied curtly. “And I would advise against trying. It’ rather unethical.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. The tone reminded him far too much of Snape’s clipped sarcasm, of how his uncle used to dismiss him without really listening. 

It was painful to perceive. 

And for the rest of the lesson, that tension hovered above Harry.

The topic veered into conjuration legislation and magical limits, but Harry had stopped paying attention. 

When the bell rang and students gathered their things, Tom paused in the doorway. His gaze found Harry's and held it, for just a second too long. Then he disappeared into the hall.

His attention comes back to Dumbledore, when he starts gathering a stack of parchments, “Well? What did you think?”

Harry shrugged. “Fine, I guess. Transfiguration is not my strongest subject. Though… what’s your deal with him?”

Dumbledore pauses what he is doing for just a second but Harry still notices. 

“With whom?” he says, far too casually to be casual. 

“Riddle.” He says, even though his lips twitched to say ‘Voldemort.’

Dumbledore paused his organising for a second. He glanced up, face unreadable now. “Tom is not an easy person to teach. I must keep him in check.”

“You don’t like him.”

“No,” Dumbledore said shortly. “I don’t. He isn’t a good person.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t that the words were a surprise. He’d seen Dumbledore’s distrust in the future. But he’d expected more restraint. 

For a second he wonders if he should say it, if it will hurt the possible future. By being here he was already messing up many things.

But seeing it, Tom's strength, his attempts to be normal despite the professor's distaste-

He clears his throat.

“Treating people like that hasn’t ended well for you,” Harry said softly.

Dumbledore froze. “What do you mean?”

Harry just shrugged, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked out without answering.

He didn’t want to blame him, but he still played a part in the turning of the monster.

-

Tom was waiting just outside the classroom, leaning against the wall. He looked too much like the model on Ginny's magazines covers for him to not notice.

His eyes snapped to Harry the moment the door clicked shut behind him.

“I didn’t see you at breakfast,” he said. His voice was softer than Harry expected.

For a second, upon hearing his voice, he understood how people fell for it. 

But that thought grounded him quickly. It wasn’t the voice that made people follow. It was the distasteful ideas behind said voice.

That made him shudder.

“Had breakfast with Dumbledore,” Harry replied, keeping his tone neutral. “He walked me to class. Luckily my first lesson was his, I guess.”

Tom made a humming sound, head tilted slightly. His eyes gleamed in a way Harry didn’t like.

“Convenient.”

“I think that’s the whole point of nepotism.”

A short laugh escaped Tom. “So, you can be funny.”

He adjusted the strap of his bag and started walking, ignoring the jab.

Tom fell into step beside him. “I was curious. You weren’t on the train, I would have seen you. Prefects have to do rounds on the train to ensure the safety of the students. “Nostalgia filled him. That was such a Hermione thing to say. He focuses back on the boy, whose dark eyes are monitoring his reactions carefully. 

“I was allowed to skip the train and travel through floo instead.”

“Ah, that would be better. While I feel is more productive to directly transport yourself to the location, there's something about the transition from our common lives to here that I find fascinating.”

“I imagine.” 

Tom pauses. 

“You weren’t sorted with the first-years, but right after.”

“Yeah.”

“That's not common.”

“Is it common for sudden transfers to be sorted with the first years?”

“We don't have them actually.”

“Oh, right.”

“And where did you come from? Where are you transfering from, it's what I mean. Durmstrang’s out—you don’t have the look. Beauxbatons either. No accent.”

“I was homeschooled.”

“Right. That's what you said.” Tom was fact checking him. “Where?”

“Britain.”

“That’s vague.”

Harry smiled. A small curve of his lips that clearly said: That’s the point.

“You were homeschooled even though your father’s a professor… interesting choice.”

Harry stayed quiet. That was something he’d need to talk to Dumbledore about—establishing a proper backstory.

“So why come here?” Tom pressed. “Your mother couldn’t keep teaching you?”

“She died.” He says it calmly. He's unsure how he should sound at it. Too sad would make him look weak, but didn't know how far he should go. 

If his tone was weird then Tom didn't react to it, he simply nodded. “Makes sense.”

He didn’t say anything else for a beat. Just walked beside him, thoughtful.

Then, in a softer tone: “Well, don’t worry. Even if you’re new, we’ll make sure you feel at home. Slytherin takes care of its own. You’ll see.”

Harry gave a noncommittal sound in response, neither agreement or disagreement. They continued in silence for a few paces before Tom clicked his tongue and stopped him.

“Your tie.”

“What?”

Without asking, Tom reached forward and adjusted it—long fingers working quickly, neatly. “It was uneven. Slytherins are expected to look sharp.”

Harry blinked at him. “That’s… a thing?”

“Unofficial. But everyone knows it.”

Harry exhaled faintly. “I’ll try not to embarrass the family.”

“You’d better not,” Tom said, but there was a flicker of amusement in his voice.

They fell into step again, heading up toward the upper floor. When Harry turned confidently at the right hallway, Tom made another soft noise of approval.

“You’ve explored the castle?”

“A bit. I arrived early. Walked around before everyone else got here.”

“Smart,” Tom said, almost to himself.

A few quiet steps passed before he asked, “What was your education like?”

“Different.”

“Stricter?”

“In some ways.” He paused. He didn’t have a clear picture of what his mother had been like, not in this version of the story. He settled for something vague and safe. “my mother, uh, she wasn’t overbearing. Just… She wanted the best for me. Tried to teach me all she could.”

“Magical education?”

Harry shot him a glance. “Obviously. We also did a few Muggle subjects.”

Tom’s interest sharpened. “So you’re half-blood?”

Harry paused for just a second too long. Another thing he’d need to check with Dumbledore. “You could say that.”

Tom’s smile was small and faint, almost thoughtful. “You’re hard to read.”

“Good.”

When they reached the next door, Tom held it open till Harry stepped through.

A sudden thought pops into his head. He wonders if he should keep it quiet, but after seconds of silence he can't.

“Hmm, Tom?” 

He blinks a few times.

“Can I call you Tom, or do you prefer-?”

“Yes, you can call me Tom. It's- it's no problem.”

“Good.” He pauses. “I'm… I want to say sorry.”

He sees the dark eyes blink a few times, then furrow. 

“What?”

“For him. I saw how he behaved. And maybe you don't care anymore, because you're, y'know, older or whatever. But if he has always been like that, then, I'm sorry.”

Harry would have never believed that Tom Riddle could be so expressive, but he was capable of reading all the emotions that flicked through his brain: from confusion, to annoyance, to anger, doubt and finally wonder.

It was too much.

He opens the book and falls into a random page, “just wanted to say that.” He starts reading a page on the importance of wand care just to have something to look at besides Tom's eyes. 

Tom didn't say anything else. But even with his eyes stuck on the pages, he could feel his gaze trying to find him.

Chapter Text

The air was already turning cold. A sharp breeze nipped at Harry’s cheeks as he wandered across the lawns during his free period.

Most students were still in class. The grounds were quiet, save for the rustle of leaves, the distant sounds from the forest, and the crunch of his footsteps.

He was regretting going out, and now understood Orion's aversion when he asked if he wanted to accompany him. Their robes weren't winter robes. He should have realized. 

Telling himself he would just have a quick trip then go back, he rounded the greenhouses, not expecting to find anyone else, but behind the shed, crouched beside a wooden pen and humming softly, was a very large man– no. A boy.

His hair was a wild mess of dark curls, his hands enormous and dirt-smudged as he carefully fed a large chunk of meat to something unseen for most people. 

But he could see the dark skeletal horse staring at the boy as he munched on the flesh.

Harry slowed. “Hi,” he said.

The boy jumped and looked up. His eyes were bright. “Oh, hiya! Didn’t think anyone’d be out right now.”

Harry tugged his scarf tighter and walked closer. “I have a free period and didn't feel like staying inside. I thought what a beautiful day! But it's not pretty anymore, it's so cold.” The boy nods, a strained laugh slipping through a close mouth. “What’s that you’ve got?”

The boy grinned, even if there's still some nervousness twitching the corner of his mouth. “She’s a Thestral. Still a baby. Don’t worry, yeh won’t see her if yeh haven’t seen someone die. But she’s there.”

Harry blinked, staring into the void that were the Thestral’s eyes. “I see her.”

The boy’s smile faltered for a second, then he nodded. No strange apologies were given, but he preferred it that way. “I’m Rubeus. Rubeus Hagrid. I work here with Master Ogden.”

He didn’t mention being a student, though Harry knew he had been one, up until last year. “I’m Harry.”

“I haven't seen yeh before.” 

“I transferred this year.” And because there's no need to lie when he has the green accents on his clothing, he added: “Got sorted into Slytherin.”

Hagrid raised his brows. “Yeh don’t talk like one.”

Harry snorted. “Thanks, I guess.” He retorts, with no real bite on his voice. “What exactly do you do with Master Ogden?”

Hagrid pointed towards the forest. You could see the faint outline of a pen made hastily. “I look after the creatures. Professor Dumbledore says I’ve got a knack.”

Harry knelt down beside him, resting his arms on the edge of the pen. “You clearly do. She’s beautiful.”

The thestral nuzzled against a beaming Hagrid, as he offered her more food. 

“Yeh can come see her anytime, if yeh like. Most students are scared of ‘em. Or at least those who can see ‘em. But they’re gentle, really.”

“I’d like that,” Harry said quietly.

Far above them, in the window of the Arithmancy corridor, Tom Riddle stood still.

He hadn’t meant to stop. He had a class. But there Harry was kneeling next to The Boy petting a monstrous horse.

Tom’s jaw twitched and he narrowed his eyes.

The roast lamb on Tom’s plate had gone cold.

He chewed slowly anyway, not tasting it, the silver fork tapping once, twice, against the edge of the porcelain before he set it down again. Around him, the Slytherin table murmured low about Lord Grindelwald and his latest raid, but Tom wasn’t listening.

Across the table, he watched Harry.

The boy sat alone, elbow propped against the wood, flipping lazily through a battered Transfiguration book. His scarf was rumpled, his hair stuck up in places, unbrushed and wind-tossed. 

Tom dropped his gaze to his plate again.

“Stop!” He hissed, but it was far too late

Myrtle’s scream. The flicker of torchlight on wet tile. 

Her glasses cracked on the floor.

He hadn’t meant for her to die.

He’d frozen.

For the first time in years, he’d been afraid.

He had planned to prove something. To show that the blood of Slytherin still meant something, that dark magic did not necessarily mean disaster. 

Instead, a girl had died. A young muggleborn girl, weeping in the bathroom because someone had teased her again.

He hadn’t even remembered her name till later. He had messed up and there was no way back. There was no way for him to save himself. 

The real story wouldn’t have been believed (“an accident? Sure. We believe you. Put this handcuffs on,) so he spinned another tale.

He had thought over and over, then he’d turned toward the boy with the wild hair and the great spider hidden.

Hagrid had been the perfect scapegoat.

He wasn't liked. He was big, clumsy and fond of dangerous creatures. Blaming him and the beast he called family was as easy as breathing.

But now he saw him across the grounds or near the stables, a gangly fourteen-year-old with mud on his boots and hay in his hair.

Tom stabbed a carrot with unnecessary force. Thought of the way Hagrid used to talk about the spider, how he fed it, how it “understood” him. How excited he’d been to raise something of his own.

He was expelled, and he should have left the castle and never looked back. But Dumbledore had found a way to keep him.

Tom thought of that too often: Dumbledore's gaze.

Suspicious yet knowing. He had kept him at a distance, he had learned how to play him.

But now he had Harry under his wing.

Another liability.

Tom risked another glance. Harry was laughing at something a second year had told him. He looked up briefly and their eyes met.

Tom looked away first.

He pushed his plate away. The food was inedible now.

Guilt made food taste rotten. 

“Dumble-”

“Harry.” He interrupts Tom. 

“... Harry. Where do you think you're going?”

“Out.”

Tom cocks an eyebrow. 

Does he fix them himself? They look clean. He trails his fingers over his overgrown eyebrows and wonders if anyone here could help him with them.

“You can't go out this close to curfew.”

“It's only-”

“No.”

“But-”

“No!”

“But I'm going to see Du- Albus!” He says fast before the Prefect can interrupt him.

Tom hums, crossing his arms and leaning his weight on the doorstep.

“I'll take you.”

There's a snort near the fireplace.

“To his office!” He adds, blush crawling up his neck. “I'm- I can take you to his office.”

“Ah… thanks.”

They exit the common rooms, and right before closing it, they heard the laughter from inside.

Tom's face is still a bit red, and refuses to meet his gaze.

“Are you sure you're okay taking me…?” he trails the words off, a smirk slowly covering his face, enjoying the way Tom's face gets a pretty pink color all over. “To Dumbledore's office?”

The Prefect can only nod back. 

Harry laughs at him. “I'm sorry, I won't tease anymore.”

They passed a few drifting ghosts. One was a woman in a long dress being followed by the shackled spirit whose name he couldn't recall. 

He hums.

“All ghosts are allowed to just float around the castle?” Harry asked.

“Allowed?”

“I mean- are they free to go wherever? Or are there ghosts that are stuck in place?”

Tom considered it. “Nothing stops them. Not physically, anyway. As long as they stay inside Hogwarts, they go where they want.”

“Hm.”

Si Myrtle could leave any time she wanted. Yet she chose to cower the toilets. 

“Most stick to where they’re comfortable. No magical force keeping them there, just habit.”

“You know all of them?”

“Some. Most ghosts are kind. Some, like The Baron,” he makes a gesture with his head where the ghosts had disappeared, “are plain unpleasant.”

“He doesn’t seem very social.”

“He’s not. He’s dreadful.”

“Any friendly ones?”

“Nearly Headless Nick’s alright. Even to Slytherins.”

“Really?” Tom nods, the movement flipping a piece of hair that fell over his eyes. He bats it away. 

“I got lost in second year. He helped me find my way back.”

“You?” Harry raised a brow. “Got lost?”

Tom smiled, faintly coy. “I’m only human.”

Harry scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me.”

They turned a corner. Dumbledore’s office appeared ahead, quiet and empty-looking.

Harry brushed the hair out of his face and smiled at Tom. “Thanks. And… sorry if you get in trouble for this.”

Tom snorted—a loud, unexpected sound that he quickly coughed into silence. “I won’t get in trouble. I’m a Prefect.”

“Oh. Good.” Harry’s eyes gleamed. “Then I’ll make sure to abuse that power. I like late-night walks.”

Tom blinked, stunned. The pink returned instantly to his face.

Harry immediately regretted it.

“I meant—I didn’t mean it like—”

“It’s fine,” Tom cut in, stiffly. “I’ll take my leave. Make sure your dad walks you back.”

Harry watched him leave, the boy’s dark robes sweeping the floor behind him. He disliked the way he said ‘dad’.

He knocked. No answer.

Letting himself in, Harry shrugged off his robes and tossed them over the nearest chair.

“Hello?”

No reply. Just a soft trill from Fawkes’s perch near the fireplace.

He sighed. The rug looked absurdly warm and inviting. He lowered himself onto it, sat a moment, then stretched out, limbs heavy, and sighed.

Fawkes ruffled his feathers, then dropped down and landed squarely on Harry’s stomach.

“Ugh—hi.”

Before he could adjust, a voice startled them both.

“Something wrong?”

Harry flinched. Fawkes shrieked and flapped.

He turned toward the voice and found Dumbledore standing near the bookshelf, looking far too pleased with himself.

“For a second,” Harry muttered, “I thought your phoenix had learned to talk.”

“Today is not the day. Hopefully soon,” Dumbledore said with a chuckle.

Harry sat up, scratching gently under Fawkes’s beak as the bird settled, still annoyed. “So… is there something wrong?”

“Not really.”

Pause.

“Well. I’m just… upset.”

Dumbledore waited. Fawkes didn’t trill this time—just calmly began preening, tugging old feathers free one by one.

“I met Hagrid.”

“Ah. Young Rubeus.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Young Hagrid.”

There was a beat.

“I take it that you—”

Both of them cut themselves off.

Harry covered his face. Dumbledore sighed.

“Forget I asked,” Dumbledore said gently.

“Forgotten,” Harry said.

“I thought we weren’t telling what we know.”

“We aren’t. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“It’s just—it’s Hagrid. He’s so young.”

“Fourteen,” Dumbledore confirmed.

“Fourteen,” Harry echoed, almost to himself.

He hesitated. Harry's story wasn't a secret due to Riddle's actions with the Chamber of Secrets during his second year. He know what happened to Hagrid, Tom had shown him. And Dumbledore didn't say anything at all.

Even when it was important information.

He pushed forward: “Why is he here? Shouldn’t he be a student? This isn’t some- some discrimination thing, is it?”

Dumbledore looked genuinely startled. “No! Nothing like that.”

Harry pretended to relax his body and looked away. He waited.

“Mr. Hagrid harbored a… creature,” Dumbledore said carefully. “A dangerous one. He was expelled after it harmed a student. There was talk of Azkaban.”

Harry stared at him. “He’s just a kid.”

“Indeed.”

“No matter what happened… someone that young shouldn’t go through that.”

Dumbledore didn’t respond immediately. His gaze softened, and the familiar twinkle crept into his eyes.

Harry narrowed his own. “Don’t try to breach my mind or I will spill milk into your sock drawers.”

A pause. “Fair enough.”

Chapter Text

The desks had been shoved to the edges of the room to avoid obstructing the space. A dueling platform shimmered in the center, faintly glowing with protection enchantments for the students that weren't performing. Well, performing wasn't the right word but as he threw a glance at his Slytherin's housemates, it was what fit. The way Malfoy was peacocking should have been embarrassing but it made him chuckle.

Some students were buzzing with excitement, others just shaken by nerves and some, like the Ravenclaw near the back of the room, on the verge of puking.

Harry was just almost shaking with the need to duel.

Professor Merrythought stood near the back wall, arms crossed, a small, amused smirk on her face.

“Let’s try something a bit more practical, shall we?” she said, voice sharp under the brim of her hat. “I'm exhausted from the old-fashioned reading material. You learn nothing with it. Where you truly grow is on the battlefield,” she snorts, far from the delicate laugh that he has heard Walburga make. “Most of you think that you'll never have to fight for your life.” Was he the only one who noticed the way she glanced at Malfoy? “You're all wrong. This is all I can offer to save you. But you'll have to save yourself.”

There's a pause, the silence heavy over their heads. 

“Pair up.”

One by one, pairs stepped up, spells flying, sparks flashing. 

As he looked at the duels, he couldn't help but wonder of their potential if only they had proper training. If they had a motivation to truly survive. His chest tightened with memories of all the face from Dumbledore's Army. 

They all shone brightly after some encouragement. This group needed more than encouragement. The fuels were messy and quick, and much to Tom's dismay, the Slytherin's didn't fare too well. 

He noted offering help. 

“Now, a pair I'm curious about: Riddle. Dumbledore. You two are next.”

He heard a chuckle coming from Abraxas’ and noticed Tom glaring at the blond but kept walking forward, steady and silent. Harry followed, spinning his wand once around his fingers as he moved into place.

Bow to death, Harry Potter . 

Tom bowed back, his mouth twitching.

He started it, sending a biting hex that Tom blocked with a stagger. 

Tom’s wand moved in clean, sharp lines, every curse precise. 

His style wasn’t as pretty as Toms, but it worked against him. 

His first curse hit the floor near Tom’s foot. Tom dodged and sent a jinx that made Harry’s wrist jolt; in response, he sent one that hit him underneath his knee.

“Careful of the kneecaps!” He heard the professor shriek.

Harry ducked under a binding charm, shot back a trip jinx, and followed it with a disarming spell. 

Tom deflected, then hit back with three spells in a row—one Harry blocked, one tore his sleeve, and one scorched the wall behind him.

They were circling each other as drops of sweat trailed down their faces. Harry stared at the whole picture that the Prefect made and threw a slicing charm that caught part of Tom's pants and his leg. 

A long cut opened the fabric of his pants from under the hip to below the knee. Blood started dripping from the cut.

Tom shivered. This was just a class duel, but Harry wasn’t holding back. 

That thought was confirmed when a bombarda exploded where he had been standing before he dodged it.

Harry pressed forward.

He fired three quick jinxes. The last one caught Tom in the ribs and knocked him flat. 

“Expelliarmus!” He chuckles, catching the wand when it flies at him.

He bows at the fallen boy. 

Tom stayed on the floor, chest rising fast. His leg was bleeding, and his clothes were torn up. 

“Well,” Merrythought said, stepping in at last, “that was… exciting.”

She eyed Harry with a strange expression. An unusual combination of admiration and concern. “Mr. Dumbledore, your technique is rather aggressive for a school setting.”

Harry tilted his head. “We should know how to survive,” he said. “We’re in a war, after all.”

Something flickered across her face. Then she nodded, just once.

“Pair off again,” she told the rest of the class.

As wands rose and students scrambled, Tom quietly stood and took his wand back from Harry’s hand. Their fingers didn’t touch—but it felt like they almost had. 

He holds the wand. 

It was warm. 

Of course, it was! His magic kept it like that.

But a part of him thought it was because of Harry. Because he held his wand, his fingers curled around it, Harry rubbed his magic there. 

He had a strange need to hold the wand close to his face, but that was ridiculous.

Tom runs from the class as soon as the professor dismisses the class, his face burning up.

Harry slowly puts his stuff inside his bag and turns to leave.

“Ah!” He yelps. The professor had at some time teleported and was standing centimetres from him, her face determined.

“Duelling Club meets Fridays,” she said. “You’d fit in.”

Harry shrugged. “Might try out for Quidditch first. See how that goes.”

She looked him over like she was already moving the calendar around in her head. “Do that. We’ll make the schedule work.”

He didn’t have the heart to tell her to stop. 

“Sure. That’s great, uh, yeah, let’s do that.”

“Yes.” 

“... Fun.”

-

TMR Private Notes — For Study Purposes Only — DO NOT READ

Observation: Harry Dumbledore’s duelling technique.

Today's Defense class. We were paired for a duelling practice.

Initial impressions:

Duelling style = offensive.

He moves like he’ll be fatally attacked. It felt more like an instinct than a style. He's working with what he feels it's right.

I do have to admit if this is Dumbledore's (Sr.) work then he's brill… A good- 

Yikes. No.

Moving on:

He fights like he's used to it.

His stance is good, strong…(?)

His legs are long. That’s probably why he can move like that. (what?)

Casting notes:

He casts rapidly, one spell after another, no hesitation. His disarming spell has more force than necessary, it nearly knocked my wand out twice.

Arms : 

Okay, so, his arms—

Are strong

Well-muscled

Veins when casting

Irrelevant. That’s not relevant. Why am I making a whole section on his arms?

Movement:

He’s fast. His footwork is… athletic. Possibly Quidditch-trained. Tends to roll up his sleeves when dueling.

It’s distracting. (Not to me. In general. Someone should tell him.)

Facial Expression:

Completely blank. Unsure if it was done on purpose to avoid giving me any clues as to what he was going to use, or if his face gets blank when he focuses. Either way: unhelpful. 

Also that smile when he took my wand. I don’t care about it.

Smug. Rude.

Eyes green as a fresh pickled toad.

Glowing eyes

His eyes are not important.

(… Why am I even writing this.)

Conclusion:

He fights like someone who’s trying to survive, not win. (It makes sense.)

He was terrifying for a moment.

I may have flinched.

I need to adjust my stance.

He dropped low twice. I didn’t predict it. Might try that in my own duelling.

His biceps -

NO MORE NOTES ON HIS ARMS.

Or hair. Or that one spell where it blew back and—

Gods above. His neck

No, no, no, no, no

This is a disaster. I am perfectly fine. I am a scholar.

This is for research.

I do not fancy Harry Dumbledore.
I’m going to burn this page.

Probably.

Eventually.

Shut up.

—T.M.R.

Chapter Text

Sunday morning, Harry wakes up earlier than usual. He slipped out of his bed with a yawn, then slipped into the bathroom with his toiletries and his tryout uniform.

Yes, today was quidditch tryouts, and he wanted that place.

Slytherin already had a Seeker, but did they have their Seeker?

The thought made his chest puff a little. He knew it was petty, but he didn’t care. He wanted the position—even if it meant the current Seeker got bumped to reserve. Flint bought his place on the team anyway, so who cared what he felt if someone better took his place?

Harry splashed cold water on his face, hoping it would wash away his smugness. 

It didn’t.

Spending time with the Slytherin's was upping his self-confidence, maybe way too high. 

He pulled on his uniform and gave it an appraising look. It did look better than Gryffindor’s. Malfoy had been right, their colours were flattering on him.

He walks down to the common room, broom in hand (a second broom lent to him by Malfoy, ‘just in case’ he decided to help). All the boys from his year were there, lounging in less flashy robes. Among them were Orion and Alphard, already dressed in their Quidditch gear.

Tom was mid-sentence when Harry came in, but his words stalled. His eyes slithered up and down his uniform, finally settling to fixate on the rug under his feet.

The others looked up, trying (and failing) not to grin.

“Are you trying out?!” Malfoy asked, his voice tinged with excitement.

“Yeah. I’ll give it a go.” And I’ll get in, Harry thought, but didn’t say. Being around them had made him a bit of an arse.

He was waiting for them to say anything else so he could gracefully exit, but they all settled to stare at Tom, who was now pulling a thread on the pillow over his lap. 

So… no graceful exit.

“Yeah, so, like… I’m heading out now...”

The brothers decided to tag along. As they made their way to the pitch, Alphard leaned in every so often to whisper quick tips on how to impress during tryouts.

They were the first Slytherin's to arrive, so Harry took his time stretching and warming up. Harry did a few laps around the pitch before the rest of the team showed up. When he finally touched back down, Casier, the Slytherin captain, gave him a slow once-over.

“Well… you’ve got the right build.” 

Harry didn’t like the way they laughed. What was that supposed to mean?

“So,” Casier continued, “think you’ll get in? Or are you here to waste my time?”

“Oi,” Orion called from the sidelines, his face unreadable. “Careful how you talk to him.”

“It’s fine, Orion,” Harry muttered, tilting his head. “He’ll swallow his words once he sees me kick his arse.” He jerked his chin toward Flint.

“What the-?” Flint frowned.

“Feisty,” Casier said. “Let’s see if he can back it up. Flint, get over here.”

The older boy loomed over Harry, taller by a few inches, eyes narrowed.

“Don’t take it personally,” Harry said.

Flint scoffed.

“Here’s the deal,” Casier said, holding up a golden snitch. “You’ll both fly laps. At some point, I’ll release this. First one to catch it gets the spot.”

He smiled down at him. A wide, full smirk full of teeth. Unpleasant and fully condescending. 

“It won’t be easy, squirt. I don’t play favourites.”

“Not that he could,” someone muttered. “Not with his father.”

“Oi-” Orion started, but Harry cut in.

“It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting anything.” He returned Casier’s smile, sharp enough to cut glass.

“Good,” the captain said.

They mounted their brooms and shot into the air. Up here, Harry felt free. 

No fights, no distrust, no huge secrets that could get him in trouble with the international magic law.

Nothing of the sort. Now he can get something to unwind. 

All he needed was the snitch.

“Wh-” he barely has enough time to swerve as Flint nearly slammed into him. “What the hell?”

“What is it, squirt?” Flint smirked.

“Don’t call me that, arsehole!”

They kept circling. Harry ignored Flint’s repeated attempts to shove him off course-until he caught a flash of gold.

Got you.

He feinted left, Flint followed, and Harry whipped right, straight toward the snitch. His fingers closed around it moments later.

“Yes!” he roared.

“NO!” Flint shouted.

Harry landed in front of Casier. He removes the helmet and doesn’t even try to fix it. He knows it looks stupid, but he’s far too delighted with the sour ‘I’m going to kill myself’ expression that was decorating his lovely face. “Hello again!”

“Looks like we’ve got a new… seeker.”

Flint tumbled down from the broom, red-faced. “That’s not fair! My father-!”

“-Will hear about it, yeah,” Harry said, cutting him off. “Yeah, yeah, go tell Daddy.”

The courtyard was cool in the shade, but the sun made the stone benches warm beneath them. Harry sat with Orion, the remains of a shared block of honeyed fudge between them, bits of sugar clinging to their fingers.

“I’m glad you got Seeker,” Orion sighs as he stretches his legs. “It’s a big improvement considering our last seeker.”

Harry grinned. “Thanks.”

“That dip during practice? No one expected it. Not even Tom, and he sees everything.”

That made Harry blink. “Tom was watching?”

Orion shrugged. The movement was far too wide  for it to be casual. “He’s always watching.” Then, with a smirk, “You didn't notice?”

Harry felt something crawl down his spine. He didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted his focus to the small bit of fudge left between them, tearing it in half, and shoving it into his mouth so he didn’t have to speak.

“I’ve been thinking about our match against the Hufflepuff's,” Orion continued, chewing slowly. “Their Beaters are sloppy. If you angle from above, past the left ring, you can cut behind the Keeper and circle down before they even see you.”

Harry made a sound of agreement. “You think they’ll try and target me?”

Orion scoffs. “Of course. You’re fast and new. Perfect target. If I were them, I’d try to spook you early.”

Harry snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“Exactly.” Orion grinned. “They’ll try to break you. Keep your eyes set on the sky. You’ve got the instincts to handle it.”

Harry smiled, warm from more than the sun or the fudge. “Thanks.”

He reached for a napkin and froze when his eyes met him.

Across the courtyard, on the stone barrier and leaning against the column, was Tom. He had a book open on his lap. He was not reading it.

Tom was staring. Particularly at his arms.

Harry blinked once.

Tom looked away.

Then, slowly, looked back.

Harry glanced down at his sleeves. Hoping they were dirty and that's why he's looking in that strange expression but they're still clean. 

“What?” Orion asked, noticing his sudden stillness.

“Tom,” Harry muttered. “He keeps looking at me.”

Orion’s face goes red looking like he’s holding his breath and nods his head rapidly.

“He’s probably just lost in thought.” 

Okay.

Okay.

It’s October. It’s kind of cold, and he’s rolled his sleeves up again. 

He’s doing it on purpose. He knows what he’s doing. His arms should not look like that and his stupid collar is undone and his hair’s all windswept like he just step down from his broom or was shagg- No, stop.

And now he’s laughing. With Orion Black. Like Orion is funny. Orion is not funny. He’s got two jokes and one of them is “what if we rig the broom shed door to hex people?” 

Which wasn’t even good the first time.

He’s licking fudge off his finger.

I’m going to explode.

Right here, in this courtyard. I’m going to detonate like a cauldron someone threw a cat in. This is it. This is how I die. “Cause of death: Dumbledore’s son, sugar-coated.”

He’s biting into fudge like he’s in a Honeydukes advert. His eyelashes are unfair. His face glows. He’s glowing. What does he use on his skin? Moonlight?

And his thighs. Why are his trousers doing that. Why are they—fitting like that.

Okay. Alright. No. No.

This is fine. I am fine. Everything is under control.

I am definitely not picturing him-

STOP. 

He’s laughing again. Laughing. And leaning close to Orion and I swear if his hand so much as brushes Orion’s I will drown myself in the Black Lake. I will tie rocks to my robes and just - plunge. Feed me to the squid. Let it end.

He’d probably be warm, too. If you touched him. Solid, golden-boy warm. Smells like sunshine and cedar polish, probably. He’d be the type to kiss like he's starving and then laugh against your mouth-

NOPE. ENOUGH. WRONG DIRECTION.

I hate him.

I hate him and his messy hair and his confidence and the way he walks like he’s already won and the way he eats fudge like it’s flirting and—

I hope he gets hit in the face with a Bludger. Not only that, but I hope he falls off his broom in front of the whole school.

I’d catch him, though.

MERLIN, I NEED TO BE PUT DOWN.

I’m going to commit a crime. I’m going to explode his chair. I’m going to hex Orion bald.

This is not a crush.

It’s not.

It’s NOT.

This is a crisis.

I’m going to go lock myself in the library and alphabetize something to distract the stupid things popping on my brain.

Harry pushed open the door to Albus’ quarters without knocking. 

The scent of floral tea and phoenix ash met him instantly. 

Albus sat in his armchair, spectacles low on his nose, a book in one hand and a teacup balanced in the other.

“Hello, father,” Harry said, stepping in.

“Child,” Albus replied calmly without looking up.

Harry dropped onto the sofa, the cushions swallowing him whole. 

Fawkes gave a musical trill before fluttering down to perch in his lap.

“Hey, there,” Harry murmured, stroking the bird’s feathers receiving a shriek as a greeting.

“Anything you want to talk about?” Albus asked mildly, turning a page.

Harry hesitated. In that pause, it hit him: how much he liked being here. 

Liked the absurd, ridiculous Albus. The way his very presence filled a room with colors no one else could see. Liked the unbothered silences just as much as the rambling.

Liked it so much that realizing it made something twist unpleasantly in his chest.

Oh, ew. Is this fatherly affection? Or whatever that's called?

“Not really…” he said at last, his voice quieter than before.

“Oh,” Dumbledore replied, and there was a knowing note in it.

“What?!”

Albus lowered his book just enough to meet Harry’s eyes yet he didn’t say anything.

Heat climbed the back of Harry’s neck. “Ew, stop that.”

Albus covered his face to continue reading. Harry could have almost been fooled if it wasn’t for the shaking of his shoulder.

Harry’s ears burned. He bent his head, pretending to fuss with Fawkes’ feathers, so Albus wouldn’t see the flush creeping across his face.

Chapter Text

He taps repeatedly over his parchment, humming the song that Orion was blasting after their last practice. 

The rhythmic tapping was stopped when Tom snatched the feather off of his hands. His brown eyes were twitching lightly and coloured in annoyance. 

“Care to stop?” While the words were said softly and very low (as they were in the library) there was a bite to it that almost made Harry laugh.

“Remind me why I need to…”

“An A is not a proper grade.” 

“Who says?”

Tom glares at him as he pushes another book towards him. “Me.”

Harry glares back, trying to push as much venom as he could into his stare. 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the slightest bit intimidating if he went by Tom’s amusement colouring his eyes. Harry sighs, quitting his attempts and latches snatches the book from Tom’s hand. “This is ridiculous.”

“What is ridiculous about studying to improve your grades?” 

He pauses his long look at the index to stare at Tom's face.

“Well… Nothing, but I just…” He sighs, closing the book and setting his head above it. “I don’t want to.”

“Oh? You don’t want to? Oh… Well, that's really sad for you, because you’re going to study.”

Harry choked out a laugh and made a gesture to get up. A hand latches into his shirt like a claw. It was as strong as the merfolk when they tried to drown him last time, he was helping Hagrid out. 

“Sit.”

Twisting his arm, he tries to dislodge his shirt, but Tom just tightens the hold.

“Harry, sit.”

Finally, sighing, he slumps back on the chair.

“You’re so overbearing.”

Tom doesn't seem to bite into the hook at first. His hands holding the books, seemingly looking for a particular title, as Harry rests his head on his hand passing pages with no goal. 

Tom's voice finally comes back: “What do you think your father would say about the ‘A’?” The words are soft, but they carry the tone he usually takes with the other Slytherin's. 

A tone of manipulation.

Which made him want to laugh. 

Harry curls an eyebrow, “Did you just bring up my dad?”

“... Yeah. What do you think he’ll say?”

“He’ll be like, ‘oh, well, grades aren’t everything. Care to explain why are you spending so much time with Mr. Riddle?’”

Tom paused again, considering what he said and sudden understanding coloured his face. 

“Fair.” 

For half an hour, he really tries to study, but his eyelids grow heavier with every line, even as he attempts to focus on the words. 

Transfiguration was an interesting subject, but it's far from Harry's favourite. It's far too complicated to solve his confusions in one afternoon, and (and yes, he dares to say it) far too boring to even try. 

McGonagall's style of teaching wasn't ideal, and neither was Albus’ style when referring to the intricate subject.

Practical Transfiguration tests? Sure, he could do it. 

Theory? Why not slam his head with a shovel instead? 

Finally, after 10 minutes of struggling with the same line, he gives up. Guiding the feather to the margins of the parchment he doodles the pets of the Slytherin's. 

Just as he was outlining Katherine's canary, Tom lets out a groan.

“You got to be pulling my chain.”

Looking up, he sees the Prefect glaring down at him. 

“What?”

“Can’t you focus on this for five seconds?”

“I can’t. I’m bored,” he sighs, leaning back on his chair. “And it's been 45 minutes.”

“No, it hasn't.”

“Yes, it has.”

“It's been 42 minutes.”

He feels his eyelid twitch. “Whatever. I'm bored.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be if you could just focus on it.”

“Lies,” he hisses.

“Come on,” he opens his eyes and looks back at Tom when he places his hand on Harry's arm. “Focus and…” 

Staring at him he sees his eyes get lightly glassy and unfocused, then a dark blush flushed on his face down his neck, painting the fair skin. 

Tom's hand, which was previously wrapped around his arm, lets go as if it had burned him and he sets it above the closed book. 

“And what?”

Tom's head shakes repeatedly, his eyes focused on his parchment. 

“Nothing…”

Harry bends his back and twists himself next to Tom's face, trying to meet his eyes. 

“What did you just think?”

Tom suddenly lunges to his feet and looks at the ceiling. 

“Wow, I just remembered I'm late!”

“Late for what?”

“...yes.” he leaves the table

Harry is now alone at the table.

He stares at the pile of books. 

There were two options in front of him: study or get away. 

The right choice wasn’t hard at all.

“I’m not staying here.” He pushes the chair under the table and gets away before a Slytherin sees him and rats on him. 

-

Catching the snitch is easy. 

Having to avoid the snitch and lead the other seeker away from it because it's too early to catch it thanks to the team being far behind on points? Torture.

The entire match he had been shoved and jostled more times than he could count, and the barked warnings from Casier and Carrow (“don’t fucking it up, squirt!”) were wearing his patience thin, but in a short break he had declared he needed them to bring it up or they'll lose even if he caught the snitch. 

His jaw ached from gritting his teeth and his ears buzzed from the wind.

After around twenty minutes they had enough points to end this. 

This could finally be over. 

Diving low, he pulled up at the last second barely avoiding a head-on collision with the Hufflepuff seeker.

“I’m sorry!” the boy shouted over the roar of the wind and crowd.

Harry caught a glimpse of his face, earnest and pale with nerves, and despite himself, he nodded back. “It’s okay!” he shouted through clenched teeth. Merlin, they’d nearly plummeted to their deaths and the Hufflepuff was apologizing? “Just - be careful!” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Better that than snapping: mind your bloody space.

Shaking it off, Harry kicked higher, climbing above the chaos of the other players. Up here, the field spread out below him like a green board, dots of scarlet and gold, yellow and black darting around like ants. He slowed his broom deliberately, hovering, watching. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Hufflepuff seeker shadowing him, copying his movements.

Good.

Harry feigned a sharp dive to the left. The boy followed instantly. At the last moment Harry twisted, banking the other way, his eyes snapping to a flicker of gold near the stands. His pulse jumped.

There you are.

He leaned low over his broom, his chest pressed right against the wood and even if his muscles complained about the pain, he urged the broom faster. The Hufflepuff seeker realized too late and scrambled after him, almost shoulder-to-shoulder as they tore across the pitch. Harry stretched, fingers brushing empty air once, twice-

Then at last he felt it, cool and fluttering in his palm as he closed the hand. 

“YES!” Harry roared, triumphant.

He shot upward, looping the field with the snitch held aloft, laughter bursting from his chest. When he landed, the team swarmed him, thumping his back and shouting. He nearly doubled over laughing when Casier himself edged forward, looking reluctant, uncertain—then raised a hand and patted Harry’s head, as though knighting him into the team.

“Not bad,” Casier muttered.

The Hufflepuff seeker approached, flushed and panting, but smiling. He extended his hand. “You’re a good player.”

Harry stammered, suddenly awkward, “Th-thanks. You too.” His ears burned as they shook hands.

As they continue celebrating he sneaks a look at the teacher's tower. 

Dumbledore was dressed in gnarly crimson robes but was sporting a green scarf as he clapped enthusiastically.

He feels something warm spread across his chest.

-

Harry is still buzzing later that night.

The Slytherin common room glittered with levitating candles and laughter. Someone had smuggled in bottles of something sweet and something burning, and the twins were calling it a ‘soirée’ with obnoxious pride. 

Harry ended up leaning against Riddle on the green velvet settee, his cheeks flushed and a soft chuckle escaping him. A drink clinked between his fingers.

“Have you ever drank before?” Tom asked, watching him.

Harry paused, thinking. “Never. A friend tried to sneak me some Firewhisky… but his mum found out.” He takes a shot and winces, then chuckles. “We were in so much trouble.”

He laughed to himself and went to take another shot, but Tom’s hand suddenly closed over his wrist.

The contact sent something sharp and strange jolting up Harry’s arm. 

They both stared down at the point of contact.

“You should slow down,” Tom said quietly, not letting go right away.

Harry nodded slowly, though he didn’t move away either. It was Tom who slowly released his fingers from around his arm, placing his hand over his own glass. He took the glass and lightly settled it on the table. 

Neither noticed the glance the twins shared across the room.

“Yeah… What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Have you drank before?”

“Yes,” Tom said, composed. “I’m part of Slughorn’s club. We’ve sampled wines. Liquor, too.”

“What’s that?”

Tom blinked. “Liquor?”

“No!” Did he look that dumb? “Slughorn’s club.”

“It’s… a little group made by the Potions professor,” Tom explained. “He gathers students he thinks will go far. Those with potential. Connections. People he thinks can become somebo-”

Harry yawned so big it brought tears to his eyes.

Tom pauses, staring down at him, his eyes roaming over his face (at the half-lifden eyes tearing up, the crinkle of his nose and the open mou- focus).

Harry blushes in regret noticing he has stopped talking. 

“Sorry!” he said quickly. “Not you—I mean, I didn’t- you were not boring, just… I’m tired. You’re fine.”

Tom stares. That shouldn’t have made something warm curl low in his chest. 

That quiet hung between them, then Harry, sighing, rested his head on Tom's shoulder. 

The Prefect freezes at the contact. His chest jumps with his beating heart. 

“I can’t believe I play Quidditch for Slytherin,” Harry mumbled, the words sleepy, breath warm where it hit his collarbone.

Tom’s voice caught before he forced it out. “... Why’s that?”

“Albus was certain I’d be in Gryffindor.”

Tom it's about to comment, but Harry stretches with his eyes closed, and he can't speak. His shirt raises a bit, showing a sliver of his skin, his neck is bare and so close. 

He can't focus. 

Tom counts to ten then back to zero, and that's when he can talk. 

“How’s he taking you being here?” 

Harry exhaled, long and low.

“Better. He didn’t like it at first but…” A shrug. “He can’t hate me for it. It’s easier now.”

Tom’s voice sharpened before he could stop it. “He hates us.”

“I know.”

“You’re not going to try to defend him?”

“I've told you before I don't agree with him. He does hate Slytherin's, I can't lie.” There's a pause in which Harry sighs and Tom had to look away to not lose his mind. “I was scared.”

“He was never going to abandon you.”

“Not abandon,” Harry murmured, as his face rested over Tom's shoulder, “But I thought he might resent it. His name, dirtied.”

“That’s what you think this does?” Tom’s voice had gone soft again, but not kind.

“No,” Harry said after a pause. “I don’t. But… he might have.”

He's petrified by the wide, glassy, emerald eyes blinking up at him. 

He froze at the sight. Not even a mandrake could save him from it.

The eyes close slowly with a sigh. “You're warm.” He mutters, and the sound of his voice made him feel like he was sinning. 

At any point, he could be struck by lightning for his unworthiness at being the receiver of the words. 

“... You’re drunk,” he mumbles, his throat closing. 

Harry hummed back. “Not enough.”

Tom looked down at the vision.

He's suddenly struck with the others' eyes, trying to steal what's his. 

He had Dumbledore’s secret cuddled up to him and only him.

The wonder-boy who swept through the house like was born for it. 

Maybe his selfishness was the one speaking, but he wanted to claim the creature that was toying with him like prey.

“I think you’re a danger,” Tom murmured.

Harry just smiled, sleepy and sideways. 

---

The common room was quieter the next morning, dim with the gray wash of early light slipping through the lake-green windows. Most of the party’s mess had been vanished away by eager third-years hoping to win favours.

Tom sat near the fire with a book in his lap and a barely-touched cup of tea beside him. He hadn’t slept much. Too many thoughts. Too many questions.

“You know,” drawled Lestrange, sliding into the armchair opposite him, “if your goal is to enrage Dumbledore Sr., there are less intimate ways to do it.”

Tom didn’t look up from his book. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mm. Don’t you?” Rosier came up behind them with a smirk, arms crossed. “Because I saw the two of you last night. Practically cuddled up like sweethearts.”

Tom turned the page slowly, ignoring the way his ears warmed.

Rosier added helpfully, “I applaud your methods. Improper and bold, but it will bear results soon enough.”

“I’m not-”

“-Trying to seduce Dumbledore’s son?” Lestrange cut in smoothly. “Or just hoping he’ll call you daddy next?”

Tom snapped the book shut with a soft thunk. “Don’t be crass.”

They were laughing now, with that sharp edge Slytherin's always used when testing a weakness. 

Which should never be used against him.

“He’s new. It makes sense to keep an eye on him.”

“Keep an eye, he says,” Rosier muttered under his breath, grinning at the letter in his hands.

Tom ignored the jab, though something restless coiled in his stomach.

Yes, before he kept an eye on him for strategic reasons. Maybe his eyes had thrown him off balance for a moment, but his pretty face didn't mean he would quit his mission. 

But then he apologized. 

And he was good to him. No manipulative attempts to get something from him. 

Then last night he had leaned into Tom’s shoulder like it was nothing.

It was…

Tom didn’t know what it was.

“I think,” Lestrange added with mock wisdom, “you’re developing a crush, Riddle.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” His tone is so sharp that they both pause and look at each other.

“I could be wrong.”

“Maybe he just wants to see how many secrets are stuffed in that pretty little head.”

“Or get head,” murmured a twin, avoiding a book thrown at him by merely an inch. 

Before Tom could snap back, footsteps echoed down the stairs behind them.

Harry came into view with his robe slipping from one shoulder and his hair even more of a mess than usual. 

He yawned like he hadn’t slept in weeks, even though last night he fell asleep as soon as he hit his bed. (Tom had to close the curtains to stop the others from looking at him.)

“Morning,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

The twins straightened immediately. Lestrange gave Tom a meaningful look, and Rosier bit down a grin.

“Morning,” Tom said carefully.

Harry rubbed his eyes. “Did we clean up last night or…?”

“Mostly,” Rosier said innocently. “Nothing too scandalous was left behind. Well, we haven’t checked upstairs.”

Harry blinked at him. “That sounded like a loaded comment.”

“Did it?” Lestrange asked. 

“Don’t listen to them,” Tom muttered as he stood. “They’re trying to be funny.”

“I’d be worried if they succeeded,” Harry said around another yawn.

Tom stepped beside him, brushing his fingers down his sleeve as if to straighten the fabric. Harry barely noticed, still half-asleep.

They walked toward the Great Hall with the others trailing close behind. Tom stayed just slightly ahead, just slightly beside, stealing glances out of the corner of his eye.

Chapter Text

His body didn’t even have time to get used to the cold of the dungeons before the warm fumes of the potions chambers permeated through his clothing, and it almost made him dizzy.

His feet had started to lead him to his usual table, which he shared with Abraxas, when the words on the board made him stop in his tracks.

That’s when he realized that Slughorn was calling names and creating new partners.

Why was he doing that? To be a bother.

He had gotten used to working with Malfoy, who loved to take control of the entire potion. 

“Mr. Dumbledore,” Slughorn’s booming voice bounced off the stone walls, making Harry jump. “You’re paired with Mr. Black this fair morning. Let’s see what fresh sparks you two can strike together!”

(Corny.)

Harry slid silently into the bench beside Orion. Orion barely nodded, already arranging his neatly labelled vials with the kind of calm focus Harry envied.

“Slice those,” Orion said quietly, flicking a glance at the shrivel fig leaves.

Harry bent over the instructions, his fingers tense around the pestle. 

He had never liked potions. 

Well, that was a lie. He wanted to like potions before his first class with Snape, then his unadulterated hatred towards him made him change his mind. Afterwards, he regarded potions like something he had to do. 

During the summer break he made Albus teach him potions to not embarrass himself. 

But still he felt nervous, the pressure felt like a boulder in his chest. 

He ground the root, slow and steady, stirring clockwise. Orion’s low muttering was a steady rhythm, but Harry’s thoughts scrambled.

He leaned to add the dried leaves–

A hand gripped his wrist and tugged just as he was opening his hand, the leaves falling on the floor. He turned and was about to complain when he noticed the twisted expression on Tom's face. 

“Stop,” Tom whispered, voice low enough that only Harry could hear. “Stir again before the leaves go in. You missed a step.”

Harry’s face flamed. 

He looked back at the book, saw the line clearly now, and mouthed a quiet “Thanks.”

Tom’s lips twitched into a smile.

Harry quickly returns to the cauldron and follows the steps carefully reading multiple times before doing it. They finish with time to spare. 

Slughorn swept over.

“Excellent work, boys! Mr. Dumbledore, your potion’s color and consistency are exquisite. I daresay you’ve inherited your father’s precision.”

Harry blinked, wanting to protest. Orion had done the hard work. But a quick glare from Orion sealed his silence.

“Well, thank you,” he said quietly.

“I hear you’re quite the duellist, too,” Slughorn added, voice thick with intrigue.

Harry’s cheeks burned red, even Abraxas smirked at the reaction.

“No, not really-”

“He is,” Tom said smoothly, stepping beside them. “Sharp spellwork.”

Harry nearly choked.

“It only took him three minutes to disarm me,” Tom added offhandedly.

Slughorn let out an impressed hum, turning to praise Orion’s flawless measurements.

Harry shuffled his things, face hot and head spinning.

His bag slipped from his shoulder, books teetering.

Before he could catch it, a hand settled on the strap swiftly pulling it up before it hit the floor.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered, reaching for it.

But Tom had already hoisted the bag over his shoulder.

“I’ll carry it,” he said simply. “We’re headed the same way.”

Harry hesitated, not used to this kind of attention. “I- thanks.”

Tom didn’t meet his eyes. “You’re welcome.”

They walked side by side down the corridor. Tom makes small talk on the way to the Great Hall, his voice would tremble just a bit every time their arms touched before he would regain his voice and continue. 

Still, he saw the little specks of red on his cheeks, and it made his own face warm up. 

The Great Hall buzzed with noise, silverware clinking, soft laughter. They walked towards their table and Harry pretended not to notice the amused exchanged stares, or the chuckles when they say. 

He also ignored Lestrange leaning into Tom's space and whispering something, followed by the Slytherin yelping and rubbing his chin.

What he could not ignore was Albus ‘stare coming from the professor's table. 

The icy blue eyes pierced into his thoughts. Harry had to push him away lightly, and noticed the way he seemed both impressed and annoyed. 

Great. 

Harry sighed into his soup. 

---

Harry knew he had to see Albus as soon as possible, so he wandered to his room right after dinner. 

The Slytherins didn’t even argue with him this time, and let him go without much fanfare. As he walked, he lazily greeted the people looking at him, dumbfounded as to why they even bothered, but still felt something warm fill his chest at the gesture.

“Lemon pop,” he whispered the password and entered.

Albus was crouched under the table, examining something on the underside of the tabletop. 

He looks around, his eyes darting till they land on Fawkes, who shakes his head in greeting but makes no noise. 

Oh, so they were being quiet.

A smile slowly creeped on his face.

“HULLO!” He yelled as loudly as his lungs allowed. 

Albus jumps from beneath the table, crashing his head against the wood with a deafening noise. 

“Fuck!” It's yelled followed by cries. The man comes from beneath the table and looks at him through tearful eyes.

“Don’t you have manners?!”

“You shouldn’t have given me the password if you wanted me to knock.”

“Who raised you?”

“You.”

Albus sighs and rubs his head.

“Hey, if you wanted a formal son, you adopted the wrong sprout.”

“I didn’t have much choice in choosing. “

“Welcome to parenthood.”

Albus sighs and stands up from the floor, patting the dust off of his robes. Harry peers at the table for a second, then turns back to his father.

“So, what is my disruptive little sprout doing here?”

“Ew.” He deadpans at the ‘sprout’ comment, then sobbers up. “You looked annoyed."

“Ah, yes, indeed.”

There’s a brief pause.

“You’re making friends.”

“I mean… yes, that was a given I’m very likeable.”

“Likeable people don't call themselves likeable.”

“Well, you used to call yourself the most powerful wizard of our generation, so explain that.”

Albu's face ignited with a blush, the color rivaling that of his hair. "I have not! And I will not do that! Or will ever do that! I doubt I was the one spewing those statements!”

"You didn't stop them, though."

Albus sighed and began tying his auburn hair.

"Anyway. I wanted to ask about your ties."

Harry looked up at Albus's hair, then quickly shook his head, understanding the double-meaning wasn't intentional. "I don't wear them," he stated, looking down at his own untucked shirt.

"Not that type of tie," Albus started, dismissing the notion, "but Dippet has received complaints about that. You have to wear your tie."

Harry cursed softly and slumped back in his chair. "Fine."

"I meant your friendships."

"What about them?" he asked, feigning ignorance, though he knew exactly what was coming.

Albus gave him a chance to explain himself, a space, but Harry didn't take it. He just stared back at his father with a lazy smile. 

Finally, Albus sighs, “about him.”

He could pretend he didn’t know who ‘he’ was, but the look of annoyance on his father’s face made him give up his russe. 

“What about him?”

“You two seem really friendly.”

“I’m friendly.”

“Harry.”

“What?”

“Why are you-?”

Albus pauses.

“I can sense some closeness between you two.”

“We’re…” Harry began, wanting desperately to call themselves friends.

They could be friends. Tom was always so nice, always friendly, always helpful. Harry wanted to be closer to him- to perhaps have what he’d had with Ron.

A part of him, a particularly large part, felt odious for thinking that way; twisted and broken. Given who Tom was, comparing him to Ron had to be the biggest offense to his late friend. No one could ever replace Ron or Hermione.

But a very small part latched selfishly to the very idea.

Not that it mattered, he thought, looking at the professor in front of him. Albus wouldn't let that happen. Not ever.

“You are…?” Albus insisted, his patience clearly wearing thin.

“We’re housemates.”

Albus finally looked up, meeting Harry's eyes. “Be careful with him.”

The words landed like cold water on his skin.

Harry didn’t flinch. “We’re not- doing anything. Just talking.” 

Albus said nothing. His expression didn’t change.

“He's nice. Takes his position as a prefect very seriously actually. Likes to make sure we all have our work done and helps when we don't understand.” He has warm eyes, whose corners crinkle whenever he smiles. And the flush of his cheeks always seem to trail down his neck, then descend past his collar and shirt. “He’s not that bad.”

But nothing is said back. 

Harry frowned. “You think I don’t know who he is.”

That made Albus blink. A fraction slower than usual. A pause long enough to say so you do without him needing to.

Harry shifted. “I know enough.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” Albus said quietly. “You, in fact, can't tell me. But you do need to be careful.”

“I am.”

Albus leaned back slightly, folding his hands. His voice, when he spoke again, had changed– it softened. Less the headmaster. More the father he was trying to learn to be.

“I know I haven’t made this easy. For either of us. And I know you don’t trust easily. But you must believe me when I say I do care what happens to you.”

Harry looked down, cringing when his face warmed up at the affection. 

“Tom is… dangerous. Regardless if he shows it or not.”

“He’s also lonely,” Harry said, still not looking up.

“That,” said Albus, “is often when people are most dangerous.”

That was bullshit. 

Or he felt like it.

But then he remembered the loneliness of last year, how his isolation had burned a bright, searing hole into his chest and led to awful thoughts. His solitude had made him wish he could strike at Albus; to sink his teeth into the man's neck and rip his throat.

And it made him swallow down his defense. 

Silence stretched between them. Long and thick.

“You don’t have to explain,” Albus said, gently this time. “Just… be careful. Please.”

There was something so quiet in his voice that Harry looked up again.

He wasn’t being warned by the headmaster anymore.

He was being advised. He was only trying to protect him.

“I will,” Harry said finally, a little hoarse.

Albus nodded. “Thank you.”

Harry stood, ready to leave, when the older man added, softly: “You’ve done well in class.”

That made Harry smile. “I almost ruined my potion.” Then, maybe it's his awful personality, or his unrelenting need to prove something, but he adds, “Tom helped me. He made sure I didn’t die, or worse: fail the class.”

Harry left with a quiet “goodnight,” his eyes darting one last time to the lonely table. 

Albus sat alone, eyes on the door long after it had closed.