Chapter Text
The owl arrived with the kind of casual confidence Harry had come to expect from his family. It swooped in through the open window of the Gryffindor common room, disrupting several games of Exploding Snap and sending Ron’s half finished essay flying into the fireplace.
It was his mother's tawny owl, elegant even as it landed on the armrest beside him, one leg outstretched. A thick envelope, sealed in wax and unmistakably written in his father’s script.
His heart thumped once, loud and hard.
He peeled it open quickly, scanning the words.
Harry,
We’re coming back.
The tide is changing. There have been signs, not just from within Britain, but from the other enclaves, too. The Spanish Ministry has openly condemned Riddle's regime. The Germans are growing wary. Even the Americans are pulling trade.
We’ve decided to return to England. Not just for you, though believe me, that’s half of it, but because we think this may be the moment. Dumbledore agrees. He’s coming with us. As are a few of our other friends.
Be ready. Keep your ears open. Watch Tom Riddle. I don’t trust that he's simply teaching for nostalgia’s sake.
Tell no one. We’ll be in contact soon.
Dad.
P.S. If you’ve managed to get yourself into trouble already, I’m not surprised. Be smart. And don’t flirt with danger
or
with your professors.
Harry reread the words three times before setting the parchment down.
They were coming back.
They were coming back.
A grin spread across his face.
He shoved the letter into his pocket and leaned back, arms folded behind his head, and tried not to think about the implications of the rebels' return.
-
The courtyard was mostly empty, save for a few Ravenclaws warding their books against the snow and a lone enchanted broom sweeping the cobblestones without purpose. Anton was flicking frost off the rim of the fountain with his wand while Leonie sat perched beside him, half-lost in a Transfiguration text.
Harry didn’t say anything as he approached. He just pulled the letter from his cloak and held it out.
Leonie took it first. Her eyes moved quickly, then slowly, then stopped altogether.
“They told you not to tell anyone,” she said without looking up.
“I never said I was good at following instructions,” Harry said lightly, “Especially when they’re about sitting quietly and waiting for things to explode.”
Anton took the parchment next, scanning it with a frown, “They’re really coming back.”
“Looks that way,” Harry said, rocking back on his heels.
“Your parents. And... Dumbledore?” Leonie asked.
Harry nodded once, “He’s alive. He’s coming with them. I’ve known for a while.”
Anton let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell, mate. That’s-”
“Potentially the start of another war? Yeah. It is.”
Leonie lowered her voice. “Do you think there’ll be fighting?”
Harry was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know. But the castle feels different, doesn’t it? Tighter. Like it’s bracing for something.”
“I thought that was just the weather,” Anton muttered.
“No,” Harry said. “Patrols have doubled in the last two days. Teachers are jumpier. Riddle’s more... intense.”
“You think he already knows they’re coming?” Leonie asked.
“I think he suspects something. He hasn’t said anything outright, but he doesn’t need to. The pressure’s there. He’s waiting for someone to make the first move.”
Anton leaned forward. “And you’re going to be that someone?”
Harry gave a thin smile. “Not yet. But when the time comes... I’m not staying out of it.”
Leonie looked at him, serious now. “You know we’ll back you. Whatever you choose to do. Whatever side you’re going to fight on.”
“You don’t have to-”
“We do,” Anton cut in. “You’re not in this alone.”
Harry looked between them. For once, he didn’t have a joke ready. Just a knot in his chest that eased, a little, at their words.
“I appreciate it,” he said quietly. “I’m not asking you to pick a fight. But if things go sideways, I want to know who I can count on.”
Leonie reached out and squeezed his gloved hand once, firm. “Always.”
Anton nodded. “If this is the start of something, then we’ve already chosen our side.”
Harry exhaled slowly, watching his breath mist in the cold. Then, as if the mood had grown too still for his liking, he added, “That said, if we are fighting a war, I reserve the right to dress dramatically. Cloaks. Hair spells. Maybe some war paint.”
Leonie rolled her eyes. “Of course you do.”
-
The storm broke just after midnight. Not an actual one, though the windows of the castle groaned with wind, but something more dangerous. Something sharper. It started, as it often did, with a look.
Harry hadn’t planned to be out this late. He’d been following footsteps on the map- new patrols shifting in odd patterns, odd gaps in coverage- and then Riddle had appeared in the hallway ahead like a shadow uncoiling from the wall.
“Mr. Evans,” he said, voice all silk and suspicion.
“Professor,” Harry replied, smooth as ever. “You’re out late.”
“You’re tracking patrols,” Riddle said flatly. “Sloppy, if you expected not to be seen.”
Harry tilted his head. “Did you follow me?”
“No. I intercepted you.”
“That’s a word men like you use when they’re avoiding the word chased .”
Something flared in Riddle’s eyes, something not quite anger.
Harry took a step closer, “You’re rattled.”
“And you’re reckless,” Riddle returned, closing the distance like it offended him to let Harry have the last word. “You don’t even know what you’re playing with.”
“Oh, I do,” Harry murmured, eyes locked to him.
There was a beat, a pause so tight it hummed.
Then it shattered.
Riddle shoved him back against the stone with a force that knocked the breath out of him. Harry barely had time to smirk before a hand was fisted in his collar and a wand was pressed hard under his jaw.
“Are you trying to die?” Riddle hissed, eyes wild, voice low.
“Trying to win,” Harry breathed.
They were inches apart. Heat coiling between them, anger and something else- something rawer- curling inside Harry’s chest like flame. He should have hexed him.
Instead, he grabbed Riddle by the front of his robes and yanked him forward.
The kiss was violent and desperate, all teeth and breath and too many unsaid things.
Riddle broke first, gasping against Harry’s mouth, his hand still trembling against his jaw.
“Foolish boy,” he muttered.
“Foolish man,” Harry shot back, before pulling him in again.
It wasn’t tender nor romantic, and Harry hadn’t wanted it to be anyway.
The kiss broke like a snapped spell.
Riddle pulled away first, his breathing uneven. His hand was still gripping Harry’s collar, but the threat had drained from it, replaced by something much worse: hesitation.
Harry’s back hit the wall again, this time not from force, just inertia. His lips were still tingling, his jaw aching faintly from where Riddle’s wand had pressed into it.
“Well,” Harry said, voice light and annoyingly unaffected, “that escalated.”
Riddle’s eyes darkened. “You think this is a joke?”
“No,” Harry said, straightening his robes. “I think this is a mess. But you started it.”
“You kissed me. ”
“You slammed me into a wall first,” Harry pointed out, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder. “Seemed like you were inviting something.”
Riddle looked furious. Or maybe flustered. It was hard to tell in the low light, but his jaw was set too tightly for a man in control.
Harry grinned. “What, didn’t like it?”
“You’re playing a very dangerous game, Potter.”
“I’ve always liked dangerous games,” he replied breezily. “They make the boring ones feel like a waste of time.”
Riddle stepped back, running a hand through his hair like he could smooth this out of existence. Harry watched him with a slight tilt to his head, arms folded.
“I’m not going to apologise,” Harry said. “In case that’s what you’re waiting for.”
“I’m not,” Riddle said sharply.
“Good.” He cocked a brow. “Because you definitely kissed me back.”
A pause.
Then Riddle turned, walking toward the door. “Go back to your dorm, Evans.”
Harry lingered.
“Unless you want a round two?”
Riddle turned sharply.
Harry raised both hands in mock surrender. “Kidding. Sort of.”
“Leave.”
“Alright, alright.” He moved toward the exit, pausing just before the threshold. “But for the record, if you ever want to talk about your feelings- or do something more productive with your mouth- I'm usually free after curfew.”
Riddle didn’t reply.
But he didn’t hex him either.
Harry considered that a win.
He moved down the corridor at a leisurely pace, hands stuffed in his pockets, grin still playing around his lips. It felt reckless, euphoric, like he’d just stolen something valuable from someone who deserved to be robbed.
He had kissed Tom Riddle.
And lived to tell the tale. Probably.
His footsteps echoed lightly off the walls. The castle was quiet at this hour. No prefects, no professors. Just the sound of wind and old stone, and the adrenaline still coursing in his veins.
Gods, it had been intense. That look in Riddle’s eyes like he wasn’t sure whether to hex Harry or drag him closer again was addictive. That fine line between threat and desire, between rage and restraint... It was dangerous. It was thrilling.
And it was starting to mess with his head.
He turned a corner, slowed his pace.
For a long moment, he just walked.
Then, quieter: What are you doing, Harry?
Because this wasn’t just a game. Not anymore. Not if Dumbledore and his parents were coming back. Not if the rebels were preparing to strike.
He’d told Leonie and Anton he was ready to fight. Had even meant it, at the time.
But now?
Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Was there a point to this war? Really? Riddle ruled with control and fear, sure- but things were stable . Hogwarts still stood. There were still classes. No public executions, no bloodbaths in the hallways. The system was cruel, yes- but it functioned.
What was Riddle doing that deserved a revolution?
Was the regime truly unbearable... or had the rebel cause become more myth than necessity?
And if he could talk to Riddle, touch him, kiss him, did that make him a traitor? Or just someone who saw the world in shades of grey instead of red and gold?
His parents would never understand. Dumbledore certainly wouldn’t.
He wasn’t even sure he did.
What if this whole infiltration was just an excuse? What if, deep down, he didn’t care about victory or freedom or justice?
What if the truth was simpler, and much more pathetic?
What if he just liked the tension?
The sneaking. The secrets. The games. The way Riddle looked at him like he was the only unsolvable problem in the world.
He stopped at the top of a stairwell and leaned against the banister, letting the cold seep into his skin. For a moment, he felt hollow. Not sad. Not guilty. Just... suspended.
Caught between the boy he was raised to be, and the boy he'd become in Riddle’s world.
Caught between flirtation and fire.
Then he pushed off the railing and headed back to Gryffindor Tower, still smirking, still in control.
But with one more fracture in the mask.