Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s the first day after winter break with snow quietly falling outside the large, gothic windows, though you can hardly get anyone to go out into the cold, especially this early in the morning. For the past week, Harry had been trying to scrape together all his supposed bravery that let him get into Gryffindor, and the current peaceful atmosphere of the mid-breakfast Great Hall really isn’t helping his nerves right now.

“Hey, Hermione?” he casually asks over the buttered toast on his plate he hadn’t touched since Ron put it there. His hands are cold and wet and shaking and he hates it. “Do you think I have any living relatives outside the Dursleys?”

There. It’s out in the wild. Now he just has to wait for an answer.

Hermione looks up from the book kept next to her plate of eggs and toast. Her gaze penetrates him, as if she knows he wasn’t just idly wondering.

She is right, of course. She always is.

“Statistically, you should. Why?” she asks, not looking back to the book.

Ron too turns to him and even puts his sandwich down, which, wow. They must have found his sudden question really suspicious.

“I just...” Damn it, their combined scrutiny is burning a hole through his nonchalance. He really should have planned this out better. “Could we speak somewhere else? After breakfast, I mean.”

Really, it isn’t like they have to have this conversation now. It can wait, Harry can wait until they find a suitably abandoned classroom. Or for a few days, even. Or if they only have time next week, then—

...Shit, he really shouldn’t have brought this up.

“Sure, mate,” Ron answers after exchanging a concerned glance with Hermione, which is, quite frankly, rude. Harry is fine. Really. “But eat a bit more, ‘kay?” he adds, shooting a look at Harry’s plate. That is untouched.

And Harry tries to, he really does, but the lump in his throat makes the task quite hard.

After finishing their breakfasts, they search the castle for a place to speak. It wouldn’t do for anyone to overhear their upcoming conversation, after all. Though eventually they have to take their search up to the seventh floor because somehow every nook and cranny in the damn castle is occupied by couples in various states of undress.

Harry really wants to wipe those pictures from his memory.

Finally, just when he’s about to give up, they stumble upon an unused storage room on the seventh floor filled with junk. It’s drab and dusty and full of cobwebs, though he can’t see spides anywhere, so Ron should be good.

A fitting setting for revealing my traumatic backstory, Harry thinks. And isn’t that a jarring thought.

They file in and clear up some space on the floor to sit. Really, maybe he should find some pillows for the cold floor, it wouldn’t do for them to catch a cold just because—

“So, what brought this on?” Hermione interrupts his thoughts, gaze steadily trained on him. She had already plopped down, sitting cross-legged with her robe draped around her instead of neatly tucked under her legs like he expected.

“Yeah, out with it, mate,” Ron says, also sprawled out on the floor while Harry had been lost in his head.

And now that they are all here, safe and unable to be overheard, Harry...

Harry freezes.

This was a terrible idea. He shouldn’t have opened his mouth. Ever. This is going to be a disaster and his friends will leave him because he was just too much and they will be right to do so and then—

His breaths start to come shorter and shorter and his head is spinning. He can’t draw in enough air to make his lungs properly work and there are dark spots in his vision, and Ron and Hermione already looked spooked enough before this and—

...Shit, this is a mess. (He is a mess.)

He only notices his friend’s panicked shouts on a subconscious level, but when Ron yanks him down he goes without any resistance. It’s not like he could have done anything in the face of their worry anyways, so he lets his trembling form be sandwiched between two small but warm bodies. Hermione takes his hands in hers while Ron puts an arm around his shoulders, and Harry is really going to cry now if they keep doing things like this.

They stay there in silence until he calms down.

...Crap. Crapcrapcrapcrap. He will have to start talking now.

No, no. He can do this. Or... he can at least try. Probably.

“I— Sorry, guys. I didn’t...” he trails off, not knowing where to begin.

It’s just... How do you tell your friends you’d rather get offed by the supposedly already dead Dark Lord than go back to your loving relatives?

Hermione doesn’t let him stay quiet for long. “You scared us there, Harry. What made you so upset?”

He can tell that she is nervous from the way she is tugging at her hair; she only does that when something had upset her. And Harry doesn’t like to be the cause of it.

“I...” Hermione squeezes his hands in comfort. It feels nice. It helps. “I’ve said that I live with my aunt, uncle and cousin, yes? And they...” Well, here goes nothing. “Well, they don’t really like magic. So I was wondering if— Maybe if there were others I could stay with, then...”

Harry tries to look down at his lap, but Ron catches his gaze. His eyes aren’t smiling like Harry is used to seeing.

“Does this have anything to do with the scars on your back?” he asks seriously.

...Bloody hell. How did he—

...

...Oh. He must have seen them when they were showering. And here Harry thought he had been so careful...

“It’s... it’s alright, Ron. I just—” He tries for a smile. He isn’t sure it has the intended effect by the way both of his friends tense. “I’d rather not go back if there was another option.”

They fall into a heavy silence, Harry looking anywhere but at his friends. He doesn’t want to know what they think of him now. It’s not his fault that he has those scars, or at least it isn’t supposed to be his fault, he knows that, but... Sometimes knowing something isn’t enough.

Hermione, of course, can’t have that. She grabs his face and makes him look her in the eye. “There’s the Restricted Section of the library; we could sneak in. There must be some spell or something that will tell us if you have any other living relatives aside from them.”

Ron snorts, the first happy-ish sound Harry hears from him since he noticed the large chunk of ham on the table at breakfast. “Really? This coming from you?”

“Kindly shut up, Ronald.” Harry wonders how her glare doesn’t make Ron burst into flames on the spot, but he must have started to develop some kind of immunity a while ago. Maybe with a bit of magic though... “And Harry? If this doesn’t work out, I can always kidnap you. Or we could just run away to Ron’s if my parents remember I exist.”

Ron grimaces. “I’d rather you not. Ask the twins how Mum gets when angry.”

...Huh. So he wasn’t the only one with a tragic backstory unlocked today. Good to know.

“You really mean it?” He asks. No one has... So far, he can’t remember anyone telling him that he can go if he wants to, and they won’t take him back to the Dursleys. Not the teachers, not the police officers, not Mrs Figg when he was only able to limp around when she asked him to get the cat food from the bottom drawer.

His friends grin at him and squeeze him tightly in a hug. It’s long and warm and happy, and Harry loves it. He doesn’t let go.

It sure feels nice to have friends.

Harry can’t believe they are sneaking into the restricted section. And it’s Hermione’s idea too!

Ron and him are such a bad influence.

“Watch out!” she whisper-shouts and yanks them back from where they almost collided with a suit of armour.

Harry squinted at it. He doesn’t remember it being there a moment ago.

“Thanks, ‘Mione,” he says. It never hurts to be polite. It usually makes her glare go away.

She lets them go with a huff, frowning at Harry’s face. “We need to get you new glasses. Merlin knows you could as well not wear them if you just keep stumbling into every wall, statue and suit of armour while wearing them. When did you last have your eyes checked?”

Harry blinks at her under the invisibility cloak. “I... don’t think I ever had? Aunt Petunia fished these out of a charity bin.”

Great. Now Ron is looking at him strangely too.

“You make me want to bundle you up in a blanket and hide you away in a pillow fort,” he admits. Hermione, the traitor, nods approvingly.

Clearly, Harry has no respect here.

“Could we get a move on, guys? We don’t have all night,” Harry pleads. His friends jokingly poke him in the side (which he sadly can’t avoid within the confines of the cloak while they squish him between them) but at least they go on their way again.

They reach the library in a few more minutes, miraculously avoiding the patrolling prefects. Harry wonders why they are even in front of the library’s entrance so often.

Maybe to keep the protesting ravens out, he thinks and chuckles. They sure put up quite a fight before curfew.

Fortunately, they come in perfect time for patrol change, thus they can walk through the door freely. And not even the librarian is there! It’s empty and dark and just perfect for sneaking in undiscovered.

They take off the cloak and hurry to the gate of the restricted section, that is...

...Closed. Even after Hermione’s muttered Alohomora.

Damn it.

They stand there for a long minute in silence.

“...Ron, do you know a spell to open it?” she asks, but he just shakes his head.

And its... not ideal, per say, but... Magicals usually only brace themselves for magical attacks, right?

So Harry grins. “My time has come,” he says and steps forward, stealing a hairpin from Hermione’s head that makes one side of her hair jump up into the air. She kind of looks like a lion with half its mane shaved.

“Wha— Harry! You can’t just—” she starts to argue, but then they all heard a click and the lock falls to the floor with a clang. “...Dare I ask why you know how to pick locks?”

Harry sheepishly scratches his head. “Sometimes Aunt Petunia would forget to feed me so I kinda needed a way to get out of my cupboard and raid the fridge.”

Both Ron and Hermione stared at him. Harry wonders if he said something strange.

“...Never mind, you are not going back there. Ever.”

Hermione opens the gate and steps into the restricted section properly, Harry and Ron quickly following after her.

Honestly, it doesn’t look any different from the public part of the library, aside from the gate with the heavily lock that was supposed to lock it away. Shelves packed with books just the same, only he can’t see anywhere to sit. But really, that’s all. Nothing special.

Harry wonders why they had it closed off. It’s not like they would store anything dangerous in a school, right?

Then he thinks back to the Cerberus and the troll and... Yeah.

He follows Hermione’s example and starts looking at the books. Hmm... Not history, he doesn’t think he would find what he needs from that section. Potions, maybe... He would be happier with a spell, though. Transfiguration, no...

His search is interrupted by a thud and Ron’s swearing. Hermione glares at them both when Harry laughs.

“You will get us caught, idiots!” She gestures towards the closed gate with a leather-bound book in her hands. “Oh, if we get points docked because you couldn’t—”

“It’s not my fault a bloody book decided to bludgeon me, ‘Mione,” Ron interrupts her with a grumble.

She huffs. “Well, get to work, then. We have no time to lose if we want to finish with at least a part of it until sunrise.”

Ron groans and chucks the offending piece of literature into Harry’s hands. It lets out a large cloud of dust that makes them both cough.

“Oh, bloody— Here. Maybe the ruddy library will like you better.” And with that, he wonders off to peruse another aisle.

Harry lets him get to it with a solemn nod and looks down at the book in his arms. He can’t really read the faded title in its entirety but the word ‘Rituals’ is still recognizable on the cover.

He opens it up and subsequently proceeded to cough his lungs out at the dust that action creates. Again.

Great. The antient tome is already trying to kill him.

He searched for the table of contents but naturally, there isn’t anything like that. It’s just someone’s spidery crawl he’s unable to read properly, and then the book dives straight into some boring theory.

Harry sighs. He will just have to go page by page, then.

He plops down onto the floor and leans his back against a bookshelf. He will be here for a while, after all, even if the bloody book proves useless in the end.

...Ugh, it’s just different bonds. Fealty bonds, no... Not the marriage bonds, ew. No, wait, what is this—

“Guys!” he shouts. Well, whisper shouts. They shouldn’t get the prefects attention if they can help it.

Hermione is just around the corner, so she immediately runs to him, but Ron has a harder time getting there, being buried as he is under a mountain of... Are those cookbooks? Anyway, he is just fine once they free him.

“So, what did you find?” he asks Harry, wiping at his robes to get the dust off them. Suffice to say, he doesn’t succeed, as most of the bits of dust that remain on his robe start to coalesce into the form of a bunny.

Harry... isn’t going to question that last bit.

“The book that tried to brain you, it’s about all kinds of rituals. Look at this! I’m no genius at Latin, but even I can guess that ‘Familia’ means family.” He points to the relevant section. “I can’t understand the rest, though.”

Hermione grabs the book from his hands. “Give it here, I took a crash course in it. Let’s see... Familia Cognatus Ritual... Cognatus means related. Maybe... Yes. This could be...”

“Nice, we’ve lost her,” Ron groans. Hermione cuffs him on the head for it.

“Oh, shut up, Ronald. We could have been done with the search ages ago if you didn’t just throw this at Harry. Next time you would do well to listen to what the castle wants you to do!” From her satchel she plucks out a roll of parchment and a quill, and starts to transcribe the instructions of the ritual. Because taking it with them would be a very bad idea. It wouldn’t just be suspicious, but straight up incriminating if anyone found it on their person.

And then they both process what Hermione just said.

Ron looks towards the ceiling, alarmed. “You aren’t saying that—”

“The castle is sentient? That’s exactly what I’m implying. Now—” She put the book back on a shelf and pockets her tools. “—let’s get out of here.”

A few days later they congregate on Harry’s bed with the curtains drawn to discuss what they will do now. They lay out Hermione’s research on the blanket.

“So. I’m finished with most of the translation, and I think we’ve found the perfect ritual. Mostly. I’m not sure about this part, though...” She points to a particularly angrily drawn part of the ritual circle. “We only take runes from Third Year onwards and they can have different meanings depending on the combinations. I have cross referenced it with what I could find in the public section and in theory this should work, but if—”

“Hermione, do you really have a problem with this or are you just angsting unnecessarily?” Ron interrupts her, which earns him a pillow to the face from the irate girl.

She also burst into tears, the sight making the boys panic.

“Don’t make light of this, Ronald! What if we botch it up and suddenly I am short of my two best friends?! What will I do then?!”

That’s... well. It’s a possible, if not preferable outcome, but Harry feels like Hermione’s overreacting a tiny bit.

They wrestle the crying girl into a hug.

After some time, when Hermione has calmed down a bit, Harry knocks their foreheads together. “We trust you, ‘Mione. If you think this will work, then it will. You hear us?” He turns so he’s mushing his face into her neck. “We aren’t leaving you.”

It feels good to have someone so worried about him, and someone who he can in turn be worried for too. Even if she is crying into his hair.

Hermione just scowls down at the both of them holding her arms hostage. Her eyes are still a bit red and teary, but her voice is steady as usual. “As I was saying, I am mostly sure about the point of the ritual. It’s only about that bit that... Well, it feels a bit strange, I suppose.”

“Not dangerous though?” Harry asks. It doesn’t matter if it’s strange; he can bear the side effects. He will never do it though if Hermione has just the slightest inkling that they will get hurt as a result.

“...No, I don’t think so,” she admits cautiously. “There’s something else, though...” she trails off, not looking them in the eyes, as if she’s afraid to upset them.

“Just rip the bandage off,” Ron advises, tugging at an unruly lock of hers. Which there are many of. Harry is quite certain that Ron is just making it worse.

“...We need a sacrifice.”

Harry doesn’t really get why that makes the boy look so alarmed. “A what?! Hermione, rituals like that—”

“I know! I... I know. But we don’t need a human for it, anything bigger than a worm will do if I read it right,” she tries to argue.

Harry sees Ron gearing up for a fight and decides to interrupt him before he could start. “I’m in.”

“What?! Harry, you can’t just—”

“Sure I can. If Hermione says it’s not dangerous, then I trust her. And I can’t just... I need to get out of there, Ron. I can’t go back.” He looks his friend in the eye, hoping to make a point. That he’ll see in his eyes that he’s serious enough to try this, even with a... sacrifice. For whatever reason that alarms Ron. “I can’t.”

Ron must see something in his gaze from how his eyes soften. He brushes a hand through Harry’s unruly hair. “...If you are sure,” he hesitantly says, making Harry smile.

Hermione too has a triumphant look on her face that fits her much better than uncertainty. “So good of you to agree. Now, what we need to do is find something to sacrifice and a place to do it. I was thinking of that room Harry had a panic attack in—”

“I didn’t have a—”

“—and then we can juts draw the circle and say the lines,” she finishes, completely ignoring Harry’s spluttering.

Ron grimaces. “Take Scabbers. I don’t care how fond Percy was of the ruddy rat, it’s a bloody menace.”

“Bit you again, did it?” Hermione snickers. Ron’s only answer is a glare.

“When will we do it?” Harry askes, snuggling deeper into the crook of Hermione’s neck. Her hair tickles his nose, but it also has a calming effect that makes his eyelids droop a bit.

“...I was thinking Imbolc,” she says and yawns. Harry doesn’t know what that is and he must have made a confused noise because she raises an eyebrow. “Have you never heard of the Wheel of the Year? The pagan festivals of witches and wizards?”

“Oh, I did—” Ron exclaims, a yawn cutting him off as he too mushes his face into Hermione’s neck. “Mum hates it, though. Says only dark wizards celebrate it.”

“Well, if it strengthens the ritual, I don’t really care. And we are already planning on killing your rat, no? Can’t really get darker than that,” Hermione shoots back with a huff.

“...If you keep the twins from finding out, you won’t hear a word against it.”

Harry closes his eyes. It doesn’t look like they will move for the rest of the night, which means that they will have to sneak Hermione out the morning. Again. Maybe they should just stop sneaking her in...

...Nah. She feels too warm for that.

They arrive early before the unused storage room in the evening of January 31, intending to clean it up a bit, but it looks like the door has disappeared.

“Are you sure this is the right corridor?” Ron asks sceptically as they pace up and down before the empty wall, which is kind of offending. Harry has perfect orientation skills!

“We could have taken a wrong left somewhere—” But just as Hermione started to speak, the door reappears. Harry would have thought it cool if it didn’t put them behind schedule. They still have things to prepare and he really doesn’t want to wait until the next important date Hermione deems adequate for doing the ritual.

And then there’s another complication.

They open the door, expecting mounts of junk and quick sneezing fits caused by the accumulated dust, but they instead step into an eerie looking stone room complete with torches on the walls and a large empty space in the middle of the stone floor.

“...And we are sure this is the right room? It’s just, I seem to remember it a bit differently, if you know what I mean,” Ron mutters, inspecting an intricately carved pillar. It has vines and thorns and strange stone roses with eyes in the middle for some reason. Which, fair. But really, is a shape-changing room that strange in a magic castle with moving staircases and sentient armoury?

“Well, you know what they say. Beggars can’t be choosers.” With that, Hermione plops down onto the ground and starts inspecting it. “I think if I make it this big... But no, we won’t all fit then—”

Harry’s head snaps up at that, startled. “What?!”

Hermione just gives him a look that practically screams she thinks him an idiot (momentarily. She doesn’t actually think they are stupid, sometimes their braincells just seem to collectively migrate over to her). The raised eyebrow makes quite the point. “Did you really think we’ll let you do this alone?”

“But— The ritual says—”

“I know perfectly well what it says, I translated it after all,” she cuts him off. “It’s also for adults to perform, not for a lone first year. So I modified it.” She plucks a small bowl and a knife out of her bag and puts them onto the ground before her. “Arm, please.”

She gestured invitingly to Harry while he looks at her suspiciously. “How, exactly, did you modify our very ancient ritual that’s written in ancient latin with the writing half faded?”

“Oh, you know.” She plucks up the knife and waves it around, the light from the sconces ominously reflecting in the gleaming blade. Harry takes a step back. “We’ll just need all three of our blood to lessen the pressure on you. We are very fortunate that Ron has already offered up his rat, because a few bugs really wouldn’t have been enough for this. Oh, and I also changed a few runes, just so you know. Did you know that—”

“Alright, ‘Mione, you know what’s best,” Ron hurries to interrupts her before she could dive into the details and they run out of time. “But if this goes awry, my ghost will stuck to yours like a bowtruckle to its tree. And then you will have to live with my endless ‘told-you-so’-s. So.” He sends a dubious look at the knife. “Let’s not muck this up.”

Which is... a good strategy. Not muck this up. The easiest thing in the world.

Really...

“Look on the bright side, Hermione!” Harry jokes. “They can’t expel us as ghosts.”

She rolls her eyes and blows away a stray lock of hair that keeps falling before her left eye. “Incorrigible, the lot of you. Now come here.”

And without waiting she grabs Ron and strips him of his robe so he only has his shirt in the way.

The boy screams in surprise.

“’Mione, my modesty!” He covers his chest with his arms for emphasis like a blushing virgin, and Harry’s laughing on the floor in seconds, having Hermione’s disapproving glare trained on him. And on Ron too, because he’s the cause of his laughing fit that just won’t stop.

She huffs and goes to stand above the bowl.

“Honestly. Sometimes I don’t know why I even put up with you lot,” she grumbles.

“It must be our charming personality, I’m sure,” Ron says, blinking innocently. Harry’s side is starting to hurt.

They both freeze when Hermione makes a long gash on her arm and lets it bleed into the bowl for a while. When she judges it enough, she wraps a white cloth around it that the room helpfully provides, and then she turns to them and raises an eyebrow as if saying ‘Who’s next?’

...So they are really doing this.

Ron, pale as he is at the sight of the blood, bravely steps forward and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, takes the knife in his hands and does as Hermione instructs him. He only stops when the bowl is around two-thirds full, passing the knife to Harry who mirrors his actions and fills up the bowl.

“That will be enough, thank you,” Hermione says while she stirs the contents together. “Now stand aside and let me draw.”

They obey and watch as Hermione paints the ritual circle onto the floor with their blood. With her own fingers.

Harry’s nose scrunches up. It’s really messy and finicky work, so he’s glad he doesn’t have to do it. Doodling and drawing is fine, but he really wouldn’t want to doom them all just because he drew a rune upside down or something.

He turns away to survey the chamber. He already noticed the carved pillars, but at a closer look it looks like there are runes inscribed on them along the climbing stone vines. Maybe it’s just a trick of the light from the torches, but they seem to... glow, somehow.

And then he notices that they are missing a critical part of the whole ritual.

“...Hey, Ron? Where’s Scabbers?”

He looks left and right, but can’t see the rat anywhere.

Ron’s head snaps up from the ever-growing complicated drawings on the floor. “Hm? Oh, I had Hermione petrify him a while ago. She has him in a cage in her bag.”

...Well, that explains it. Still. “And are you sure we can—”

“Mate, it’s fine,” Ron interrupts him. “I’m not that attached to the rat, and it’s been acting really weird lately too. Maybe this will give it a kinder end than slowly wasting away after all the years Percy had it.”

He shrugs and looks back at Hermione, who is just finishing up her task. She stands up from where she was kneeling on the floor and surveys her work, then nods approvingly and turns towards them with a wide grin and a glint in her eye.

“Let’s see if this works,” she says and points towards three circles just wide enough to fit them while sitting. Barely. “Choose a circle and stand there.”

“...Err, ‘Mione?” Ron hesitantly asks as they took their places. “How will the ritual know whose family we are interested in?”

She answers while levitating the still petrified Scabbers into the middle of the circle. “It’s all about intent, Ron. Think strongly about helping Harry and you’ll be good. Now, ready?” She waits for their nods and continues. “Good. Harry, you’ll have to slit the rat’s throat. Or stab it, I guess. It doesn’t really matter, from what I’ve read.”

Harry grimaces when she undoes the Petrificus Totalus and Scabbers starts to squeak loudly. “Where have you read about animal sacrifices, anyway? Seems a bit gory for the general audience.”

She has an amused smile on her face as she recast the Levitating Charm. “The Slytherins are quite informative when you aren’t sneering at them every minute of the day, I’ll have you know. And I guess Parkinson must have found it funny to corrupt a lion.”

“Wha— Hermione! You have been fraternising with the enemy?!” Ron shouts, Harry looking at her equally incredulously. And she just huffs.

“Oh, come on. It’s not like she could snitch on us, else she also incriminates herself. She doesn’t even know what I needed the information for.” She cuts off any further arguments with a glare. “Now sit down inside your circle, clasp each other’s hands and begin saying your parts. It’s time.”

They obey her sullenly. They will have time later to give her a piece of their minds.

Harry is the first to speak, carefully enunciating the Latin words Hermione beat into his mind, something about family and wanting to belong somewhere. He forgot the exact translation, but the meaning must come across, judging by the strange power that surges around them, his friends joining in after a while.

With a meaningful look from Hermione, he lets their hands go and lifts the knife.

Really, it should be harder for him to sacrifice his friend’s pet rat, but in contrast to the threat of returning to the Dursleys at the end of the year, it’s an easy decision to make. And Ron was right. He’d rather give the poor animal a quick death than have it slowly waste away if it had already started to act strangely. And it’s not like Ron will be heartbroken about it. They will just have to come up with a believable lie for Percy.

He strikes quickly, wishing to spare the animal from most of the pain.

The power he felt at the beginning intensifies tenfold, the animal’s death truly activating the circle. He lets the knife drop onto the floor and takes a hold of the other’s hands again, as their chanting gets faster and stronger, their voice filling the chamber and echoing off from the stone walls. They hold onto each other tightly, not letting the sudden wind produced by the ritual tear them apart.

And then Harry’s sight starts going black at the edges, which he knows isn’t a good sign.

Shit, maybe they shouldn’t have done this... There’s only a few sentences left from their chant though, and then they will be done. He must endure until then, or he might just doom them all.

Harry closes his eyes and wishes from the bottom of his broken heart for this to work as they finish their last words.

The ritual doesn’t end as it should have.

It feels like something’s changing inside him, like someone’s playing puzzle and the pieces don’t quite fit so they decide to melt the whole thing and start anew. His skin is itchy and his insides sting and his mind is going fuzzy, which is just straight up badbadbad and he’s going to bloody faint at this rate.

Harry just hopes his friends will be alright when he wakes up.

If he wakes up.

He sees his wand shoot a sharp beam of light towards the middle of the circle along with Ron’s and Hermione’s. He looks at them for the last time and sees the panic in their eyes, probably mirroring his own.

Their wands explode.

Everything goes black.

Harry doesn’t know anything after that.

Chapter Text

Harry wakes to the sound of fire crackling and paper shifting. Everything feels strangely muted, like the rare times he oversleeps and his brain needs some time to properly function.

He slowly blinks his eyes open and sits up so he can look around. He’s in a cosy room, which is... weird. Shouldn’t they still be in the ritual chamber? He supposes that someone could have moved them while asleep... But then he probably should have woken up in the Hospital wing, not lying on a fluffy rug, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito.

...It’s warm and comfy though. And the light’s so soft too, maybe he could just lie back and go back to slee—

Harry shakes his head. He has to make sure everything’s alright first.

He continued to survey his surroundings. He’s on a rug, and there’s a fireplace opposite him on the wall, which explains the crackling noise. And next to him... Oh, more burritos. Those must be his friends then.

Harry snickers. He can’t even see their heads!

He goes to wake them up so they could discuss their battle plan. Because really, waking up in a different room than you fainted in isn’t a very good sign. Or at least he hopes they just fainted and this isn’t some messed up form of whatever type of afterlife witches and wizards get.

That would suck. Or not. He likes the blankets.

He pokes one of the cocoons with a finger and it lets out a loud snore, indicating that Ron’s its sole occupant. He tries nudging him stronger, but that still doesn’t work.

Hermione must have heard his efforts because she burrows deeper into her blanket.

Harry huffs. They aren’t going anywhere at this rate!

He’s about to give them a piece of his mind when a huff startles him from behind. That is... They should have been alone. They were alone during the ritual. So how—

...Shit.

He doesn’t dare move. Damn it, he didn’t notice anyone else at his initial check of the room, but it looks like they got caught on their nightly excursion. The noise makes Hermione snap out of her daze though, so at least he’s not facing possible detention (or, worst case scenario, expulsion) alone. She also elbows Ron in the gut and thus makes him give a wounded cry, but, like, they are all awake now, so.

Harry turns around to see which professor had the audacity to laugh at their misery.

...

That’s— That’s a stranger. It’s a young man sitting in an armchair with a stack of parchment on a side table next to him, but still a stranger that Harry has never met. Ggranted, he hadn’t really interacted much with the upper years, but that’s not the point, he would remember this man. He’s currently looking at one strangely familiar parchment too and—

...That’s Hermione’s handwriting.

...Double shit.

The man has amusement written on his face when he notices Harry apprehensively staring at the parchment in his hand. He drops it on the table and fully turns towards them.

...Damn, he’s very pretty. He’s even prettier now that Harry can see his entire face. This must be what Aunt Petunia has in mind when she’s sighing over the celebrities on the telly.

The man with his high cheekbones and elegant face looks like he just about stepped out of the cover of a magazine, wavy hair that Harry can’t decide is dark brown or black parted on the side and dark eyes dancing with mirth when he looks at the three of them, even if his mouth isn’t smiling. He’s wearing simple black trousers and a white shirt, just like the school uniform, but on him it somehow looks different than on the students.

...Maybe he’s a prefect? But no, he looks older than the seventh years...

Harry shakes himself out of his daze. This is so not the time to admire the stranger who probably caught them red-handed! Literally. He doesn’t remember Hermione washing her hands after she finished drawing the ritual circle.

“...’Mione, which is professor that?” he whispers from the corner of his mouth, not wanting to let the man out of his sight.

 “Not a professor. I would remember seeing him at the head table,” He hears her say in a low voice.

“Maybe he only teaches part time?” Ron suggests, and when Harry glances at him for some clarification, because since when did they have part-time teachers here, he—

Wait. Why does he look like...

His head snaps to Hermione. She looks the same.

...

...Bloody buggering fuck. They look— They look like—

His friends give him confused looks, but those quickly turn dumbfounded when they notice the appearance changes.

Great. Harry wonders how he must look now. Judging by hid friends’ new looks, he suspects he kept the dark colour of his hair, though for what else had changed...

His musings are interrupted by the man’s sudden chuckle.

Well, Harry isn’t having such a good time, thank you for asking.

“Err... Hello? Where are we?” Ron asks him, looking around as if he only just now realised that they aren’t in the ritual chamber anymore.

The man gives them a smile that’s strangely... kind. Warm. And even though Harry doesn’t know him, there’s just something in his eyes that urges Harry to trust him. Not in a forceful way though, not like... Not like Professor Dumbledore at the room he kept the Mirror in. At that time, Harry felt seen, and not in a good way. It felt like standing bare before his relatives and waiting for the reproachful words he knows to expect every time they open their mouths. This, though... this feels familiar somehow. Like he doesn’t have to hide away because this man has already seen him at his worth and doesn’t hate him for it. And if he’d really found them after they fainted...

Harry’s still on the fence though. He’s not going to trust someone just because they seem friendly; a lesson learned through trial and error.

The man gestures to the fluffy rug they are sitting on. “You have found quite the magical room, I have to say. I wished for somewhere you could rest comfortably, and the room changed itself. Truly, Hogwarts at its finest.”

...Sure, Mister. That isn’t going to quieten the alarms of Stranger Danger blaring in Harry’s head though, if only because of how much he’s not freaking out.

Yes, it’s really confusing, he knows it.

Hermione must be thinking the same, for she instantly narrows her eyes. “Well, thank you for taking care of us. But that doesn’t explain why you are here or who you are, does it?”

“That’s... Complicated, to say the least. But I commend you for the great observation.” The man sighs and looks Harry in the eye. “Can you recall the foreboding feeling before all this? That was me.” ...What. “For the past week I’ve been trying to project into your mind how much of a bad idea this is, but of course you didn’t listen to me. I don’t even know why I was even trying.”

...Is this guy serious?

...

...Shit, he looks like he is.

Harry plasters his confused puppy face on. It usually works on the adults who don’t know him. “I’m sorry, Sir, but you will have to expand on that.”

His friends followed his lead and also bombard him with puppy eyes. It earns them another huff.

“I’ve been trapped in your scar for the better part of your life. Do you really think your juvenile coercing technics will work on me?” A smirk stretches out on the man’s face, transforming it into something Malfoy wishes he could become years from now. Maybe in his dreams, in Harry’s opinion. He still kind of wishes this was either Dreamland or the afterlife. “No, I think you should work this out for yourselves.”

A second goes by, and then another.

Harry glances at Hermione. She looks like she just had an epiphany and didn’t like the results.

“Harry’s scar. The scar that he got the night You-Know-Who attacked him.” She points at his forehead. Harry goes cross eyed as he stares at her finger. “That scar?” She does a double take. “...Wait, where’s your scar?”

Harry just looks back at her, dumbfounded. “...On my forehead?”

“But it’s not there.”

...Ah. Now that does sound concerning.

Harry looks between his friends. “Should we... should we ask—”

He can’t finish that sentence because Hermione yanks him behind her, and Ron also pushes him a bit farther back and away from the man whose identity Harry really doesn’t want to contemplate.

The ‘trapped in your scar’ part sounds mental enough, thank you very much. He’s happy to swim in the lukewarm lake of denial for a bit longer.

His friends glare at the man.

“If you want to hurt Harry, you’ll have to get through us first,” Hermione threatens, followed by Ron’s enthusiastic nods.

The man, still unidentified, sends them a sceptic look. “You know, like, ten spells, and half of it would be useless in a duel,” he points out.

If he wanted to offend Hermione, he’s on the right track. Nothing makes her angrier than someone questioning her academic prowess.

“First,” she grits out through painfully clenched teeth, “I know a lot more than ten. Second, I could levitate that table and drop it on your head. See how you fair against brain damage.”

If looks could kill, the man would surely already be dead. It doesn’t seem to phase him though, because he just keeps smirking.

“With a burnt-out wand, no, you couldn’t. But I admire your viciousness,” he says, and has the gall to point at the completely useless wands on the table, wood blackened and the individual details lost to the damage. “First rule of Ritual 101, sweetheart: You don’t use your wand.”

...Well, there goes their undeveloped attack plan.

“We’ll snitch on you,” Hermione continues with clenched fists, glaring even harder in the face of their... Saviour? Keeper? Kidnapper?

Oh, whatever. For once, Harry doesn’t want to think with his still slightly mushy brain.

“The only reason you wouldn’t get expelled for this is that the old man doesn’t want his Chosen One out of reach.” The man leans forward in his chair and looks them all in the eye one by one. “And I won’t hurt any of you.” He must see how that didn’t convince them, so he adds with a sigh, “You have grown on me throughout these years and months, I suppose. Like mold.”

Oh, cool. No violence, then. Now they just have to—

Ron falls back onto the pile of blankets. “I can’t believe we resurrected the Dark Lord,” he moans.

...Damn it.

Harry sends him a dry look. “Did you have to say it? Now it’s real. Thanks, mate.” He turns to, presumably, bloody Voldemort. Because life just can’t be easy for Harry Potter, can it. “What were you even doing in my scar?”

“Believe me, it wasn’t a conscious choice,” he admits, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Blame the main soul, he was the idiot who tore his soul into too many pieces.”

Tore his... soul? Into many pieces?

“YOU DID WHAT?!” Hermione shrieks, which, ow. That was a very high pitch and way too near to Harry’s ears.

The man looks honestly offended. “He did, not me. I wasn’t a separate piece back then.” Seeing Hermione’s disbelief, he sighs and adds, “The memories get more and more muddled after the first split. I mostly just remember the traumatic childhood and the actual soul splittings. You can hardly consider us the same person.”

“But if you were... made... later, how come you only remember what happened early on?” Hermione sounds confused, a novelty in their school career so far. “I don’t understand.”

...Ouch. That must have hurt to admit.

The... the man (not Voldemort, not Voldemort, he didn’t have bloody Voldemort in his head—) grimaces. “It’s probably from the decreasing amount of soul in the body that made the memory retention worse as time went on and... Well. You get it.” He shrugs. “That’s my best guess anyway. It’s not like there’s been much research done on the subject for understandable reasons. And about how I got stuck in Harry’s scar... Well, I suppose that the main soul was already very unstable. And then the first Killing Curse hit Lily Evans, which probably activated some kind of ritual that then made the next one rebound and I... I think I split at that moment?” He frowns and turns to Harry. “The memories are... I’m not sure. The only thing I know is that the woman’s death did something and then things happened and I was stuck in your head.”

That is... wow.

So maybe Harry’s willingness to try dodgy rituals is kind of inherited.

Hermione doesn’t seem satisfied with that explanation. “But—”

Harry grabs her arm so she would look back at him. They have the perfect pieces laying in front of them to make something in their messed up life work, and he needs to make her see it. “He said he is fond of us?” He glances at... Voldemort? Original-slash-redeemed Voldemort? Harry glances at him, searching for a sign that he isn’t digging himself into a bigger hole than they already are in. “If he wanted to hurt us, we’d already be dead anyway.”

Because on the one hand, this is the murderer of his parents, an undeniably dangerous and insane megalomaniac. And he must have been quite charismatic too, to become a leader in the war. Harry is experiencing it right now, so he can attest to whatever he’s doing very much working. But on the other... He did say he was only a small part of the Dark Lord. And that he didn’t really remember most of that time. So maybe... Maybe Harry could work with this.

Ron comes as their saving grace as usual.

“Why did you— why did he split his soul?” he asks, eyes fixed on their... temporary roommate?

Merlin, they really should clear things up, this is just unnecessarily confusing.

Anyway, Harry makes a mental note to hug Ron extra tight after they somehow get out of here. And Hermione too, because she’s amazing and she ought to know it.

For a moment, the man doesn’t say anything, just stares at his hands clutched in his lap with a frown. His eyes slide to the fireplace crackling away. “He... Well, we, I suppose, grew up in wartime. In a dingy orphanage, to top it all off.” He briefly glances at Hermione and Harry. “You have learned about how bad the second world war was. And they sent the muggleborns back to that hell every single summer, even when I— we—” He unwraps his hands and taps on his knee once, frustrated. “Let’s just stick with first person for now. Every year, I asked to stay at Hogwarts for the summer, and they denied me. A quick solution to my mortality seemed all too tempting at that time, you can imagine.”

...Alright, considering everything Harry knows about World War II, he supposes he can’t really blame him for wanting to just stay alive.

He can’t imagine what it would be like to grow up in wartime while also being an orphan. Like, he can imagine the orphan part just fine, he is one. The war, though... Really, his only point of reference is better-or-worse than living at the Dursleys. Which is already terrible. He wouldn’t want war and country-wide famine on top of it.

He glances at Hermione, her expression telling Harry that her mind is already miles away.

“But...” she wonders, “how did you become the Dark Lord? If you only wanted to make sure you stayed alive, then...”

He glances at them again with, dare Harry say it, faint regret in his eyes. Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking on his part, a trick of the light. “I went too far, not caring about the side effects. I also had very strong opinions about how the world should work when I was younger, and... The slow descent to insanity twisted them until they were nearly unrecognisable. I did not want all that death and destruction and... Well. I can safely say I would do things differently if I had the chance.”

...Oookay? Well, not okay, but... At least he’s kind of regretful? So they can at least avoid future bloodshed at the rate this conversation is going. Probably.

Hermione frowns. “I’ll give it to you, you seem surprisingly stable compared to how small part of the... main soul, your body must contain now. It’s... it’s really strange. Logically, you should be even more insane than—”

“Ah,” the man answers aptly, blinking at her like she’s managed to catch him off guard. “I... well. As I’ve said, I had a decade to kind of stabilise myself? Or, not stabilise, but—” His eyebrows draw together and he runs a hand through his hair. “It’s... There’s also the complicating factor of Lily Evans’ presence in the nursery and whatever kind of ritual she did that made me... trapped there. In Harry’s scar.”

“But—”

The man lets out a groan. “Look, I hardly know more than you. The best chance we have for knowing exactly what happened would be to summon Lily’s ghost, and then there’s still the whole soul splitting thing—”

“To what?!” Harry screams, and he doesn’t even realise he said it out loud until everyone’s head snaps to him.

The man covers his mouth with a hand. “...Oh. Right. So, just you know, while ghost summoning rituals were deemed too dark by the Wizengamot and banned for the last... roughly fifty years I think, I can do it sometime later if I find something that works. No one has to know.” His eyes get a bit misty, just like Hermione’s previously. It’s really strange to see it on someone that is... not Hermione. Very, very strange. “I think Deus mentioned that he had a book in their library with something like it... Or was it Corvus? Hmm...”

...Alright, Harry’s convinced. They are keeping the slightly amnesiac Dark Lord.

“So... you don’t want to be immortal anymore?” Hermione asks carefully after no more words are spoken for a while. And, like, thanks, ‘Mione, that’s really a crucial thing they have to clear up because it’s one thing to have one former(?) dark lord you didn’t know was in your head of out of there and somehow trying to keep him in check from now on, and it’s another to have said dark lord run around re-splitting his soul and causing mayhem.

The man lets a self-deprecating smile stretch out on his face and looks Harry in the eye. “I’m pretty sure I had enough time to make peace with my mortality stuck inside your scar.”

That... Okay. Okay. That’s... That works. Now that they have all this information that he will really have to think through later, the only question left is—

“But how did you get out?”

Thanks, Ron.

The man lifts a regal eyebrow, and Harry suddenly feels like when Hermione catches him and Ron doing something stupid. Which is really surreal, because the man is looking at all three of them. Which includes Hermione. Who doesn’t usually participate in stupid ideas, or at least fixes them so they won’t end up in the hospital wing.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because three first years decided to experiment with unsupervised ritual modification? On Imbolc, none the less.” Oh, wow. That’s very Pot calling kettle from him. “Congratulations, by the way. You have successfully erased every familiar bond you had outside the four of us.”

...

...Wait a minute.

THE FOUR OF US?!

“What do you mean four?!”

He can’t mean what Harry thinks he means. He just can’t.

...Right?

...

...Oh, who is he kidding.

“But— but that wasn’t what the ritual was supposed to do!” Hermione bursts out, clearly upset that she has apparently made a mistake. “I checked it in the books and—”

“And you have neither taken Ancient Runes yet, nor have you thought about all the other contributing factors, like performing the ritual on a sabbath, changing a few runes and lines and directing your intent,” the man cuts in. “It is a miracle in and of itself that you hadn’t blown yourself up. Which reminds me—” He wandlessly summons three vials, which Harry has to admit, looks really cool. Grudgingly. “Drink these.”

...He really hopes it isn’t poison. Or their latest work from Potions.

Ron pulls a face. “What’s in it?”

“Blood replenisher,” the man answers wryly and pointedly levitates the vials closer to them. “Wonderful what this room can get you, isn’t it.”

...Ugh, fine. But if Harry throws it up, he’ll make sure to aim it onto the man’s shiny shoes.

He downs it in one gulp to minimize the taste, but sadly isn’t successful.

“So, how are we related now?” he asks after a bit of gagging. Honestly, can’t magicals invent any potion that doesn’t taste disgusting? It can’t be that hard. Maybe if they—

He looks up after hearing a sigh.

“Well, I did say intent matters a lot in these things, yes? And... It looks like what you all wanted was a... family.” It sounds like even saying that is painful to him. But what blows Harry’s mind are his last words. “So now I’m a father to triplets.”

...

...Bloody hell.

Harry falls onto the still sprawled Ron in astonishment, Hermione following shortly after.

Their new... father, apparently, gazes at the limp pile of stunned children he can now call his own, alarmed, which is just wonderful, straight up amazing, just what Harry bloody needs at the end of the day, a—

...Wait just a minute.

His gaze snaps to his shiny new, very much alive parent. “Does that mean I don’t have to go back to the Dursleys?!”

Like, yes, please. Take responsibility for what you’ve done.

The man startles. “I— Of course not. You are never seeing them again.”

And oh, wow. Harry can now see how this man became a dark lord. The murderous aura he produces at those last few words is no joke.

The blinding smile Harry gives him for it snaps his friends out of their stupor, at least. They shoot up with lightning speed.

“Murder is illegal!” Hermione shouts, making the man smile again.

“I’m not an idiot, sweatheart.” Not anymore, at least. “He’s legally mine. I can just take him.”

“You— you can’t ‘just take him’! Kidnapping is illegal too!” she argues immediately and crosses her arms for emphasis.

“And if you are taking him, then you are taking us too!” Ron adds.

Did Harry say he loves his friend? Or siblings, now.

...Merlin, he has siblings now.

...

...Holy shit, he’s a triplet.

Their new... dad (now that is going to take a while to get used to) raises an eyebrow. “I just said that he’s legally mine, with the whole surprise blood-adoption and whatnot. And won’t your parents have something to say about it?”

Hermione frantically shakes her head. “My parents are dentist. They aren’t very keen on the supernatural; I won’t be missed.”

Cool. More tragic backstory unlocked.

Their new... parent (He has a parent! That is alive!) just stares at her for a moment. “...That sounds really alarming and I hope you know it.” He turns to Ron then. “What about you?”

The poor boy startles so bad he falls again. He gets up quickly though, if only to share his disbelief. “Wait, you want me too?! Actually?!”

“Of course I do, why wouldn’t I— It’s the middle child syndrome isn’t it,” the man says with a resigned sigh. And, hey, things are really taking a strange turn.

But. But now Harry has a way out. And... He isn’t alone in this. None of them are.

He looks at his friends who were only waiting for his nod; it looks like they are in agreement. They move their messy pile onto the man in the armchair, who freezes from the sudden positive attention.

Wait, no, that may have just been because of this being his first time experiencing physical contact in, like, ever.

...Oh, Harry is seeing so many cuddles in their future.

Fortunately, the man gets himself together quickly and carefully moves them so they have less of a chance of dragging him to the ground with them when they eventually fall from his lap. His expression practically screams how little he knows about what to do about this situation.

Harry doesn’t really care. He’s very, very touch starved, it turns out.

“So, what should we call you now?” Hermione asks him in her usual straight-forward manner, regally perching on the arm of the chair like she was born for it.

And really, that’s a very good question, isn’t it?

The man contemplates the question for a moment. “My original name was Tom Marvolo Riddle. It’s as good a name as any, I suppose... Or at least I find myself loathing it less than I did in my school years. But...” He looks them in the eye with a bit of hesitation. “I won’t make you call me anything you aren’t comfortable with in private—”

Yeah, no. The sooner they tie him to themselves, the better. Affectionate nicknames will just fasten the process.

Harry cuts him off by poking his clavicle with a mischievous grin. “Dad,” he says, immensely enjoying his new parent’s expression at hearing that word out of his mouth.

Hermione and Ron immediately mirror his expression, and Harry knows that they are going to have so much fun playing house. Like, really, a lot. Or at least Harry will, now that he has a parent and siblings.

He has always wanted a sibling. And now he has two, even!

Maybe he could somehow nab a smaller one from somewhere after a while? Like, there has to be other kids with less than stellar family lives just waiting to be picked up and—

“You are taking this far better than expected,” their new father says incredulously. “Are you sure the ritual didn’t give you brain damage?”

Rude.

Hermione slaps his arm for that comment and lets out a huffs. “Just get us a mirror, will you? I think it’s a safe bet that the boys aren’t the only ones with a new appreneance. I want to see what I look like now.”

He reluctantly obliges and probably asks the room for a full length mirror, because that’s what appears before them a moment later.

...

...Huh.

“We look like—”

“Me. You look like me,” he interrupts Harry. None of them take their eyes off their reflection.

“Well, yeah,” Ron adds as he leans closer to the mirror, almost toppling onto the rug. “Except the eyes.”

And truly, the only thing they kept from their original appearances seem to be their eye colours. Otherwise they are like peas in a pod, excluding Hermione having longer hair than them.

...Wait, not exactly.

“Actually, I think my eyes match yours,” Harry adds, leaning closer to the mirror and startling... Tom. The former Dark Lord. Who is called Tom. Like the barman of the Leaky Cauldron and Harry’s science teacher from primary school who once lit the teacher’s desk on fire with a manic grin on his face.

“They aren’t supposed to,” Tom, their new dad, exhales with wide eyes. He looks like he’s staring at a ghost.

...Oh, well.

Harry shrugs. “Well, it’s not like you can do much about it,” he states, falling back into his chest, and essentially knocking the air out of him.

...Wait. He doesn’t have his glasses, but he can see his reflection better than he ever remembers. Which means...

He can see without his glasses!

Best. Day. Ever.

“Ugh. My skin is so white it’s blinding,” Hermione complains, sceptically observing her own face in the mirror as she tugs at a few strands of hair falling over her shoulder. “And the texture of my hair is completely different. Now I’ll have to learn another hair care routine.”

“It probably matches mine, so I can at least help you with that,” Tom says and runs his fingers though her identical waves. Harry can see how much Hermione tries to fight the instinct to nuzzle closer, but she ultimately loses the battle with herself.

She opts for psychic damage instead. “Do you think we inherited your Vitamin D deficiency too? Does this mean I’ll burn if I go out into the sun?”

“I’m not a vampire.”

“With all due respect, you are pale enough to be one.”

“I mean,” Ron interjects carefully, “your new skin colour could be from me? If we all kind of mixed our looks...”

Tom shakes his head. “No, I’ve always been pale. The only thing that’s different is the eyes. I didn’t...” He takes a deep breath. “Those are Lily Evans’ eyes.”

“...Well. You did say that Mum was the unknown factor back when you... split, right?” Harry asks and stifles a grimace. That last sentence sounded like he’s the divorced dad that came back for the kids a decade after he went out for milk.

“It’s not like we’re going to get an answer anyway,” Hermione comments, though her dissatisfaction is clear. “The question is, what are we going to do now? We can’t go to class like this. People would ask questions and we can’t just say ‘Sorry, we accidentally messed with forbidden ritual magic. Also, the Dark Lord is alive and providing us with child support. He’ll bring brownies for the bake sale.’”

Tom sobers up at that. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m withdrawing you effective immediately.”

...WHAT.

They all share a disbelieving look before Hermione blows up. “You— you can’t just do that! What about our studies?! What about—”

He holds up a hand to stave off any more arguments. “You do know that homeschooling exists, don’t you? I’ve excelled at every course I took, surely I can teach you the basics this year. You can start the next somewhere else.”

“But Hogwarts—” Ron starts, but he too gets interrupted.

“Is too dangerous. What if someone finds out?” Tom scowls. “No, you’ll do better elsewhere. And anyway, we can’t really explain your new appearance, you are right about that. We will need new identities.”

New... As in, Harry won’t be Harry Potter anymore?

That... He’s a bit ashamed to admit it, but that doesn’t sound so bad. He could do without the fame, that’s for sure. No unreasonable expectations, no starry-eyed stares for managing to not die when his parents did, no strangers trying to touch him against his will...

Tom adopts a low voice, as if hearing his new children’s turbulent thoughts. “We don’t have to choose new names for a while yet, but we do need to get a move on if we want to get out of the castle safely. Do you need anything from your dorms that wouldn’t be suspicious missing?”

Harry thinks about his meagre belongings. He... he can’t bring his broom, no matter how grateful he is for Professor McGonagall for buying it for him. And it’s not like he bought himself anything at Diagon Alley when Hagrid took him there for school shopping, afraid that the money in his vault won’t last until he finishes school, so really, it’s just Hedwig he refuses to leave, but she will find him anywhere he goes.

She’s a good girl like that.

“I have my cloak with me,” he ends up saying. “I don’t really have anything else...”

Tom’s eyes take on a determined glint. “Something to fix in the near future, then.”

“Our school supplies!” Hermione exclaims, followed by a groan from Ron. “We will need our books and quills and—”

Tom interrupts her with a hesitant pat on her head. It looks like he’s improving. Now they just have to get him to voluntarily provide them with cuddles. “We can buy those later. We wouldn’t want them to think you have run away, after all.” At their confused looks he adds, “We will make them think you were kidnapped by Quirrel.”

...Harry’s not sure that they are thinking of the same stuttering mess of a professor.

“Do not take this the wrong way, but Professor Quirrel is—”

“Housing the insane main soul piece of Voldemort on the back of his head, so really we are doing the school a favour,” their dad states with a smug smirk.

...

...WHAT.

“HE’S WHAT?!” they all scream at the same time.

How the bloody hell did that not get discovered until now?!

“You did get those awful headaches around him, didn’t you,” Tom points out, sending a meaningful look at Harry’s very much empty forehead.

Which, like, he does have a point, Harry has to give him that, but it’s the principle of the matter. Evil megalomaniac soul shards aren’t supposed to possess his teacher and cause him constant migraines for half a year! That’s— that’s not how school should work.

Harry pouts. “Well, what’s our plan, then?” he asks, poking the smiling man in the chest. “You are the adult here, so it’s your job to get us out.”

“I suggest we sneak out through a secret pathway no one knows of,” their new dad shares with a conspiratorial grin, then pauses for a moment. “Harry, do you think your owl will find us by herself?”

Ron snorts. “As if she would let her chick slip away in the dead of night.”

That comment justly earns him a show from Harry that almost lands the both of them on the floor as Tom ignores the mini wrestling match on his lap.

“Up then, Mini Me-s; relinquish ownership of my legs and get going,” he commands, and they scramble off his person to stand next to him.

Harry wonders how they will get out of the castle. A path that no one knows of sure sounds interesting, though hopefully it’s still traversable. Who knows how long ago their new dad went to school here. He might as well be ancient, for all they know.

“Stand beside me,” the man continues when they reach the door and turns to Harry with a mischievous smile. “You will have to don your cloak and take a look at whatever’s outside. We wouldn’t want anyone to see us, right?”

They shake their heads and wait for him to open the door slightly. Harry is just about to stick his head out when two very familiar looking redheads barrell through the door, straight into Tom’s chest.

Suffice to say, they land in a heap on the floor.

For a moment they all just stare at each other dumbfounded, until the Weasley twins (because honestly who else would stumble upon them in the middle of the night while they are about to sneak out of the castle) get themselves together.

“You’re busted!” they shout triumphantly. Only after that does it register for them that they are basically staring at four strangers.

...Uh-oh.

“Did we get the wrong door, Gred?” one of them whispers from the corner of his mouth, squinting at the children.

“...I don’t think so? The map shoved them disappearing here,” the other answers in the same manner.

Hearing an exasperated sigh, their gazes snap to Tom. The poor man’s facepalming on the floor.

“Get. Off. Me,” he says, thoroughly enunciating every word. It has the intended effect, because the twins practically throw themselves to the side. Harry’s snickers unfortunately draw their attention back to them though.

“...Ron?” one of the twins (probably Fred, going by the pattern of his freckles) asks hesitantly, looking at Harry’s friend who still retains the cornflower-blue eyes of the Weasleys.

He sighs into Hermione’s shoulder. They are screwed.

“Who’s Ron?” the boy asks, which, kudos to him, is a bold move, though entirely ineffective if Harry goes by the doubtful expressions of the twins.

Tom gives another longsuffering sigh and gets off the floor. “Close the damn door at least,” he orders, glaring down at them all. Harry kicks it shut with his heels and gets a thank you for it at least, which makes him preen.

Positive attention sure feels good.

“I suppose you won’t let us get away without a moderately acceptable explanation, yes?” The man continues, and Harry wonders why he didn’t yet start threatening the twins into submission or attempted to bribe them for their silence, but he’s grateful they didn’t have to dissuade him from the more... permanent measures. He doesn’t think Ron would like that route.

George is the one who answers this time. “Well, yes, we would like to know why the Troublesome Trio looks almost as identical as we.”

Them neglecting the twin-speak so far shows how much they aren’t amused by the developments.

Now, what to tell them... Harry can see that Ron and Hermione had already started to furiously think about possible lies, but in the end, he decides that ripping the bandage off is the way to go. It’s not like they are going to dupe the Weasley Twins. And their new dad did say they needed an ‘adequate explanation’, right?

So he summons his most innocent smile and states, “We accidentally resurrected the Dark Lord and now he’s going to kidnap us to play house.”

Suffice to say, the twins are left speechless. And then they are glaring at Tom, though their efforts are in vein. Like, what did they think they will do, glare him into submission?

But then they swiftly move to stand across him so they essentially count as a buffer for Harry and his friends, lifting their wands in sync and preparing for an attack. Which is kind of sweet of them, and Harry appreciates it, really, but it’s entirely unnecessary.

Their dad pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “That is not what happened and you know it. Or did you forget that you three were the ones performing a modified illegal ritual and then passed out, which left me to clean up all the blood?” They shift guiltily at that. Tom lets out a sigh and looks the twins in the eye, ignoring the wands still trained at his chest. “Thanks to their little extracurricular project, they are mine now, and I’m not going to just sit and watch them run into any more Cerberuses and assassination attempts, so they are coming with me. Any questions?”

The twins exchange a glance before looking back at him. “What about the Dark Lord part?”

“Ah. About that,” Tom says, almost as if he already forgot about that teeny tiny detail. “I... May share some similiraties— Yes, children, similiraties,” he emphasizes with a glare, hearing Ron’s snort, “with him, but I assure you, there will be no genocide and bigotry in the future coming from my side. Does that suffice?”

The twins stare at him for a long moment, then turn to Ron. “Mum will flip, Ronniekins.”

“Not if she doesn’t know,” he shoots back. “And technically not my mum anymore, right, Mister Dark Lord?”

He blinks innocently up at Tom, who just raises an eyebrow, the twins laughing at the picture they make. It calms Harry, seeing them with crinkled eyes and grins that spell trouble again, at last getting some mirth back into their voices.

“You sneaky little shit. How did you avoid Slytherin?” Fred asks, wiping a tear from his eye. His grin, however happy, shoves too many teeth to simply call friendly.

Ron grins back at him as he always does when it’s the twins making mayhem. With a noticeable break in his voice and fists clenched at his side, but still standing his ground as he looks his brother straight in the eye. “Harry didn’t want to go there and Mum would have disowned me on the spot.”

And really, that’s all the explanation that question needs, isn’t it?

George pouts and punches him in the arm. “Honestly, how come you get to escape before us? I thought we went in age order.”

“So you aren’t mad?” he asks, glancing at them hopefully, truly relieved that they are taking this so well.

Which is kind of strange, but, eh. It’s the twins.

Fred’s eyes soften, George nodding along as he says, “Ronnie, if you can run, then run. We’re happy you have the chance to be free so soon.” They grin, identical rows of pearly white teeth mirroring the red light of the fireplace. “But hitch us up with some fun parent too if you have the chance, ‘kay?”

Ron lets a wet chuckle escape his mouth and wipes at his eyes. “Got it,” he says, and then immediately tackles them in a hug.

They stay like that until they hear Tom clear his throat. “I don’t want to interrupt, really, but we would do well to get going soon. You can write to each other when we are safe.”

And then he turns to open the door, and the room decides to drop a tiara on his head. He curses.

“Language!” Hermione reprimands him, making his jaw drop.

“You understood?!”

Harry wonders if he’s questioning their maturity level or basic understanding of the English language. Either way, he’s offended.

“I will have you know I’ve heard worse from Dudley,” he blusters, crossing his arms. Ron nods along, still clinging to his brothers. His other brothers, now that he has Harry too.

Tom looks up towards the ceiling as if asking for patience. “That was Parseltongue,” he explains, shrinking and pocketing the tiara. The resident Weasleys gasp in understanding, but it doesn’t really say much to Harry. Or Hermione, going by her next words.

“What’s Parseltongue?”

 “The bloodline ability of Slytherin’s line is to speak the language of snakes. Take the one from the Zoo for example,” their dad finishes, looking at Harry.

...So not every wizard can talk to snakes. Good to know before I cause mass hysteria.

Hermione still seems sceptic. “And no other witch or wizard has been able to find a way to mirror that ability? One would think they would be more... innovative.”

Tom sighs. He looks pained as he speaks next. “With time, you will see that most magic-raised adopted the ‘If it ain't broke, don't fix it’ philosophy. Half-bloods and muggleborns are the most upset about the stagnation and the ones actually moving research forward usually. And with Parseltongue being so rare in Magical Britain... No, no one here has made any progress with it. India, maybe...” he trails off, eyes clouding with thoughts of possible research, Harry guesses. “Most families keep such bloodline abilities secrets among themselves, anyway. Knowledge is power, after all.”

Looks like his new dad’s also a nerd, then. Hermione must be weeping teras of joy inside.

A sudden idea occurs to him then. “Do you know what this means?” he asks, exchanging a glance with his new siblings. At their questioning looks he adds with a grin, “We have our own secret language now.”

It earns him a snort from Ron and an amused huff from Hermione.

“What about the tiara?” she asks, staring suspiciously at Tom, who just scowls at a random patch of wall.

“Diadem.”

“Whatever. Why did the room decide to belt you with jewellery?”

 “I...”  He has quite a peculiar look on his face. “...I’ll tell you later.”

Yeah... Not the least bit suspicious. But before they could ask any more questions, Tom waves his hand and suddenly Harry feels like someone broke an egg over his head. He doesn’t like it, and a quick glance at the other’s quickly disappearing face tells him that—

...What.

He looks down at his hands, or, like, where his hands should have been, and sees nothing. His head snaps up at the smugly smirking perpetrator.

“And that, children, is how a perfectly executed Disillusionment Charm looks like. Cheaper than a cloak, that’s for sure. Now, grab each other’s robes and follow me; we will escort the twins back to the Tower to minimise the chance of discovery. Harry, I’m going to hold onto your cloak for now, alright? You’ll get it back when I deem us appropriately safe.” And with that he stuffs the invisibility cloak and the diadem into a his satchel and steps out of the room without any more jewellery colliding with his head.

They file out after him like invisible little ducklings and spend the walk to Gryffindor Tower in contemplative silence.

...They are really doing this, aren’t they? They will sneak out in the middle of the night, leave Hogwarts forever and fake their deaths. It all sounded so inconceivable to Harry, as if he’s living the plot of one of Aunt Petunia’s telenovelas. Just, like, preferably with a happy ending.

He doesn’t have long to think before they reach the entrance of the common room.

With the Fat Lady gone and the hallway deserted, Tom drops the charm and fixes the twins with a stern glare. “Avoid looking Dumbledore in the eye from now on. I don’t care if you stare at the hair sticking out from his nostrils, but for Merlin’s sake, keep away from the eyes. Understood?”

They salute.

“Got it—”

“—Your Darkness.”

“Why—”

“—though?”

Tom sighs again. “He can read minds. I will send you some books about the Mind Arts, those will answer your questions. Don’t let anyone see them.”

He turns to go, but Fred stops him by grabbing his sleeve.

“Take care of them,” the boy rushes out, unusually serious.

Tom’s only answer is a solemn nod and a recast Disillusionment Charm.

He leaves the twins waiting for the portrait’s occupant and leads them away from the common room’s entrance door.

“We will take a detour to capture Quirrel and then head towards our exit. You will wait for me in a secret passageway nearby, do you understand?” Harry can practically feel as he looks each of them in the eye, though he wonders how he manages that, what with them being invisible. “I’ll try to be quick, but things could quickly get out of hand. I don’t want any of you to get injured.”

...Oh. That’s sweet of him.

Harry decides to try to keep out of trouble for his peace of mind. It’s not like he purposefully looks for it, after all. Trouble just seemed to find him at the most inopportune moments.

Hah. Inopportune.

Hermione is rubbing off on him.

They grab the edge of each other’s robes again and walk in silence until Tom stops at a seemingly innocuous stretch of wall next to a pair of sleeping armours. Harry looks on curiously as he twists the top of their spears and reveals the entrance to a shadowed hallway.

Cool.

“Don’t go too far in, I’ll be back in a moment,” Tom states and closes the passage on them after dismissing the Disillusionment charm.

Which leaves them in the dark. Because he forgot to cast any kind of lighting charm or give them a lamp at least, and they are currently unable to cast Lumos or summon Hermione’s bluebell flames without their wands. That had been destroyed. And they can’t just effortlessly do wandless magic like Tom, can they? Not yet, at least. But Harry will make sure he’ll be able to do cool wandless magic eventually. Probably phrase it in a way that will convince their new dad that they absolutely need to learn it for his own peace of mind.

“...So, how do you feel mate? About all this, I mean” Ron asks him awkwardly.

“Yes, Harry. How are you holding up?” comes Hermione’s voice too from somewhere to his right. “You did say you don’t mind it too much, but I— I’m sorry. If only I hadn’t mucked things up—”

Oh, no.

Harry decides to interrupt her before she could burst into tears. “Honestly, I’m surprisingly okay with it. He seemed pretty sincere when he said he won’t hurt us. And hey, I got you two out of the whole thing!”

He hopes his happiness gets through his tone, but Hermione stays silent. She isn’t crying though, probably, so Harry takes that as a victory and squeezes her hand.

“...We’ll have to keep him in check. In case he...” she starts, but can’t seem to find the right word.

“Goes insane again and starts planning our violent murder?” Ron tries to help, stealing a small chuckle out of her.

“Precisely. Thank you, Ron. And Harry? We go wherever you do. And...” She hesitated for a bit, but in the end decides to continue. “...You are right. Things may turn out better this way. At home I— Well. Let’s just say, there’s a reason I’m an only child. I won’t miss my parents and they won’t miss me.”

...Oh.

Poor Hermione. Harry doesn’t think they hurt her, she hasn’t given any sign of it, but... You don’t necessarily have to be in physical pain to get to the point you’d rather disappear.

He’s just glad they are all in this together.

Harry puts an arm around her shoulders so she could lean against him, then turns back to where Ron stands. Presumably. He can’t see anything. “How about you, mate? Won’t your family—”

Ron shakes his head, standing so close his flying the strands tickle Harry’s forehead. “Why do you think both of my of-age brothers left Britain? Mum’s a nightmare to live with if you deviate even a little from what she thinks is right. And Dad is— he doesn’t interfere. That’s really the problem. And...” His voice trembles. “They have all the others to care about. They won’t even notice I’m gone, believe it.”

That is... sad. Very sad. And Harry can see how it affected Ron.

His friend has been insecure since the day they met. They all have, if he’s honest, though until now he didn’t understand the reason for Ron’s insecurities. Hermione kind of came off as a know-it-all at first (and second and third time), and he knows how kids like that are treated amongst their age. And Harry was... Harry was Harry. But Ron? Funny and clever Ron, no matter how much he doesn’t believe it about himself? With a warm home and the loving arms of his many siblings and kind parents to welcome him home? To Harry, it all seemed so strange, the pieces he had not quite giving him the right picture. Why would Ron doubt anything about himself? What would make him? He was loved, he was cared for, he was wanted.

Or at least that was what Harry thought. Now, he isn’t really sure about anything.

“I... I’m sorry, guys. But... Now we can make sure we have a proper, healthy home life, right?” And then a thought occurs to him. He blanches. “...Oh. Oh, no. Guys. We will have to give the shovel talk to his eventual spouse. How the hell will we manage that?!”

Shit. Who do former dark lords even date? And he’s so pretty, too!

...They are in big trouble.

“Harry. Harry!” Ron bodily shakes him out of his brief mental breakdown, almost knocking their heads together. “Mate, calm down. He will want to focus on us for a long while and we can map the dating pool under that time, got it?”

“Yes, and even if he brings home some useless lump, we can just chase him out of the house,” Hermione adds dryly. “Though I do hope he has a good taste in man, else we will really need to do the heavy lifting.”

Oh, good. That’s good. Hermione already having a plan is—

...Wait.

“Is— is he even gay?”

“...I mean, I hope so. Stepmothers have a statistically higher chance to be mean to us.”

After a moment of stunned silence, they all burst into hysterical laughter. Which is also the picture their dad opens the entrance to.

“...Children?” he asks hesitantly, as if afraid to even think about what they got up to in the brief time he left.

“Coming!” they reply at the same time and step out of the passageway.

Harry looks him over, just in case he notices something out of place, but he can’t see any obvious sign of injury. He knows that it’s probably unnecessary since being a former dark lord must come with knowing lots of combat spells... Harry hopes at least. Though he did say he can only remember things until a while after his Hogwarts years...

Well, let’s hope he’d learned a lot at Defense then, unlike them so far.

Something doesn’t seem right though. Harry already concluded that he isn’t injured, and his attire is perfect too, not a wrinkle or a cut anywhere. He is...

He’s alone.

...How strange. Shouldn’t he havea stunned Quirrel floating behind him or something?

Hermione voices what they are all thinking. “Where’s Professor Quirrel, Dad?”

It’s funny how he looks so taken aback at being called ‘Dad’ again. Well, he better get used to it soon, because they aren’t about to stop.

“Oh. I... I just transfigured him into a paperweight; it’s in my pocket. We can finally get out of here, come on.” And with that, invisible again, they all trek to... the second-floor girl’s bathroom?

...Maybe they are lost? Hogwarts is like a maze on a good day, so it’s perfectly possible that they could have taken a wrong turn somew—

Aaand nope, their new dad goes in.

Great. Just fantastic.

Harry exchanges a doubtful look with Ron and Hermione before he asks, “Dad? are you sure this is the right—”

Tom speaks ‘Open’ at a faucet, and now that Harry is paying attention, that really sounds rather hissy.

Also, another secret entrance appears. With a slide.

...Cool.

Tom gestures at the slide in a dramatic manner after shooting a bunch of charms at it, possibly to clean it going by the sudden strong citrusy smell that hits Harry’s nose.

“After you,” he says with a smirk.

And Harry has the best slide of his life.

He goes up and down and even in spirals at breakneck speed, all the while hearing Ron’s whoops from in front of him and Hermione’s terrified shrieks from behind. He lest out a delighted laugh when their descent suddenly speeds up at a steeper part of the slide, and then he’s spat out of the pipes into a cavernous chamber.

They end up forming a grumbling pile of course, because Ron forgot to free the exit.

Harry hears a chuckle from behind and winces at the crack his neck makes at the speed he snaps his head towards it. The sound of course came from their new dad arriving at the end of the slide where he safely slows down, stands up and begins elegantly walking forward into the darkness with a tiny orb of light floating in front of him.

Harry and his now-siblings hurry to follow him, though with much less grace.

The darkness surrounding them in the flooded passageway really gives their trip a sinister feeling, as if they are up to no good. Which, they are, if he’s really thinks about it. He doesn’t think sneaking out of Hogwarts in the middle of the night with a kidnapped professor is on the approved list of activities, but oh well. It’s not like they have any other choice.

They walk amongst cracked stone walls, puddles and the occasional statue until they reach a large, carved door. It has two snakes entwined on its surface, green jewels shining in place of their eyes. Tom hisses ‘Open’ again and they slither off to the side, the large doors opening to let them step into... another soaked chamber.

Tom has a bright grin on his face though when he looks back at them.

“Welcome, children, to the Chamber of Secrets,” he says with much flourish as he gestures around. And though Harry has no idea what he’s talking about, Hermione gasp in recognition.

“The real one?! I’ve read about it in Hogwarts: A History and it said that no one knows where it was!” She furrows her brows. “And that only the Heir of Slytherin could open it.”

Heir of...

Oh, come on.

Tom’s grin widens. “Technically, anyone possessing the ability to speak Parseltongue could do it if they found the entrance. But then again, they would also have to deal with a territorial Basilisk.” He glances at the ugly statue at the far end of the chamber. “And Medusa is very picky about her Masters.”

...Did he just—

“Basilisk?!” Ron yells, frantically looking around as if he’s expecting to see a large snake slither out of the shadows. Or, well, Harry guesses that it’s large. He doesn’t really know what Basilisks are, but Ron grew up in the Wizarding World, so Harry will follow his lead in this.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Tom waves off his concern. “She won’t eat you, seeing that I’m the most recent heir of her first master. And she likes children, anyway. The poor dear was so devastated when we had that little accident...” he trails off, eyes clouding over for a moment until he shakes his head. “Regardless, we’ll have to put off the introductions for another time. The outside entrance is this way.”

With that he walks over to one of the intricate carvings on the stone wall to their right, the one resembling a meticulously carved forest landscape sandwiched between another in the form of the lake complete with a small giant squid swimming in it and some kind of corridor Harry remembers passing a few times. But their new dad only shows interest in the middle one, and so they follow after him through the ancient stone floor, avoiding puddles left and right as they go.

And then Tom hisses at it, the shifting of stone parting the forest landscape in two and revealing another corridor.

They follow the little light bouncing forward in the air, the passageway growing colder and colder as they go deeper. The road leads upwards after a while, and just when Harry starts to get bored from the silence, they arrive at a dead-end. After another hiss it changes into an archway to the forest surrounding the school, which, now that Harry remembers, is strictly forbidden to traipse alone. Especially in the middle of the night.

...Good that they have a responsible adult with them, then. As much as the amnesiac soul shard of a genocidal dark lord can be called responsible, that is.

Tom transfigures their school robes into winter cloaks, so at least they don’t freeze to death. They walk quietly for a long time again, accompanied only by the moonlight and the sounds of the night. And though the forest in all its snowy glory must surely be a beautiful sight in the morning, currently it makes Harry feel uneasy.

He hopes they will get to their destination soon. It would be a terrible thing to suddenly stumble upon the centaur herd that is supposed to live here. Or, like, anything else that’s alive. Which begs the question...

“Dad? Where are we going?” he asks quietly, not wanting to get the attention of whatever hides amongst the trees. He really hopes it’s just an owl or something. His ratty sneakers are not built for running for his life anymore.

“Hogsmeade. Just a bit more and— Ah, yes. There it is,” Tom says, coming to a stop at the edge of the treeline. Harry goes to stand next to him and—

...Wow. Is that— is that Hogsmeade?

It’s a small village nestled inside a snow-filled valley, the rising sun creating a beautiful backdrop for the idyllic place, some of the picturesque cottages having lit windows while a few people are already walking the streets.

...How early is it? They must have slept for a while back in that strange room, so Harry’s sense of time is a but messed up at the moment.

He just hopes they don’t run into anyone. That would be... bad. Very bad. He doesn’t yet know their backstory.

Hermione bites her lips anxiously. “Are we sure this is a good idea? If someone recognises us...”

“Sure, ‘Mione,” Ron snarks back. “Because my mug just screams Weasley.”

Harry can already see that she’s gearing up for an argument, but fortunately their dad interrupts them before they could truly get into it. “We will walk to the edge of town and call the Knight Bus.”

...Wizards have public transport?!

...Alright, in hindsight it’s obvious that everyone can’t just hop onto a broom and take to the skies, but. But! Why isn’t there a Wizarding Culture class taught at Hogwarts? This is some very basic information he was missing all along. Or is this some public knowledge everyone failed to tell him about again?

Well, never mind. He will just ask his shiny new family members to start explaining things from scratch later if they actually want him to masquerade as a functioning member of magical society.

Harry looks at the village stretching out before him, at his bickering... family. Who are about to sneak him away into the morning light, never to see the castle again, the people in it again. All because he asked them for help and they decided that he’s worth running away with.

He realises that this is it. They are at the treeline, only a few minutes away from freedom. From leaving the questionable safety of Hogwarts School of Witchraft and Wizardry, leaving Harry Potter behind.

He takes a last look behind him, etching the glittering image of the snowy castle into his memory. He will never forget it, the first home he ever had, the first friends he’s ever made, that damning moment at the end of a forbidden ritual that forever changed his life.

He doesn’t shed a tear as he turns his back on the castle and follows after his new family.

They reached the road leading into the village and stand a bit further away from it (because Tom would rather have them walk a few metres more than get hit by a vehicle moving at the speed of sound, which is understandable).

Harry looks left and right but can’t see any bus stops nearby. He’s about to ask if they are even at the right place when Tom lifts his hand in the air and a purple triple-decker appears with a loud bang that makes him jump.

Tom gives the purple-uniformed conductor a bland smile. “Four tickets to Diagon, if you would,” he says as the man swings halfway out of the bus and grins down at them.

“Sure thing. Basic or with hot chocolate?” he asks, gesturing to a hanger by the driver holding a few patterned mugs. Harry wonders where they get the drinks for it from. And hopes that hopefully they abide to the basic hygiene standards.

“The basic ones will do. Forty-four sickles, right?” Tom produces a pouch and counts the required coins into the man’s hand. Again, Harry hopes he got the money from the room they woke up in and didn’t just pick-pocket the Weasley twins.

“Yep, you got it right.” The conductor stands aside to let them get on the bus. “Choose a seat, dearest passengers. You’re in luck today; you will be our only ones for now.”

Harry and his friends exchange a dubious glance, but they do pick out a floral patterned three-seater.

Tom, of course, choses an armchair. Funnily enough, it has tiny snakes curling around on the upholstery, stealing a small smile out of Harry.

“Everyone found a place? Great!” The conductor continues without waiting for an answer. “Go, Stan!”

And with another bang, they are on their way to London.

Chapter Text

“I’m never using that death trap again,” Hermione moans as she staggers off the Knight Bus, her face a sickly green. Ron and Harry aren’t far behind her.

That was... an experience Harry isn’t very keen on repeating. Like, ever.

He looks back at their new dad, who’s either unaffected or pretending well enough. Honestly, he doesn’t know how anyone would be able to stomach a ride like the one they‘ve experienced with the... the Knight Bus. And he really doesn’t know how they didn’t hit anyone.

Tom waves his hand in the air, a simple action that wouldn’t have been anything alarming were it not for the conductor’s and the driver’s eyes glazing over just before the doors of the Knight Bus close and the violently purple vehicle disappears from sight.

...Did he just—

 “Did you just wipe their minds?” Ron asks with an incredulous look.

“What? They won’t even notice,” Tom waves off his concern like he didn’t do just that. And, like, since when could people do that?

Harry groans. And to think he started school wanting to be a good little student...

A dream that died a quick death on their first Potions lesson.

“Well, come on, kids. Our next stop is Gringotts,” Tom continues, ignoring the glares he gets from his new children. Still, they follow him through the Leaky Cauldron, where Tom the barman is just serving breakfast to the few early patrons he’s got. They don’t garner much attention, thanks to Tom (their dad) waving his hand again and using some spell to make them less conspicuous.

Harry will really have to ask him about the spells he knows, the ones he’s seen so far seem perfect for... research purposes, shall he say.

They, like the obedient little ducklings they are, hurry along behind their dad as he opens the brick wall behind the pub and steps into Diagon Alley proper. It still looks so very magical to Harry, even at this early hour with so few people out and about. Sadly though he can’t gawk for long, because after quickly cutting across the street they already arrive to their destination.

Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

Tom gives a tiny nod to the guards standing before the burnished bronze doors, them children hurrying to mimic him.

“Hagrid didn’t do that,” Harry remarks curiously as they step into the white building. The lobby is all its intimidating marble and gold glory it was when he previously visited, though with much less wizards and witches crowding the place.

Must be that it’s not the peak of back-to-school shopping time, he concludes reasonably. Although it’s not like the Dursleys took him to any muggle banks, so he wouldn’t really know.

His dad lets out a sigh. “You will do well not to take after an uneducated half-giant in your manners. Fortunately, we will have time to rectify that, as well as your lacking education,” he grumbles as they reach one of the tellers.

“Hey, Hagrid’s nice! Don’t mock him!” Ron shoots back in a low voice, offended on the man’s behalf, though it only earns him a raised eyebrow.

“I didn’t say he isn’t. But he’s also a fool with his undying loyalty to the old meddler and his excessive love for animals, disregarding all safety precautions. And he left Harry alone in the middle of the Alley to go and drink.”

...Well. None of them can argue with that, so they just bombard him with glares. Harry doesn’t think it affects him much.

Tom greets the teller with another nod. “Greetings. I have urgent business with my vault manager.”

“Which one,” the goblin asks, not even looking up from whatever he... Err, she? is writing. The goblin seems different from the one Harry met in the summer, but he can’t quite put his finger on why, so he decides to stick with she for now.

It’s probably the bun, if anything. And maybe that her uniform is a slightly different cut. He thinks? It’s mostly covered by the teller desk.

“Garkar,” Tom swiftly answers as Harry focuses back to the conversation, making the goblin freeze mid-stroke. She slowly lifts her eyes to his face, eyebrows climbing higher and higher as she does.

“Really,” she says, perfectly still. And here Harry thought goblins were all about the ‘time is money’ philosophy.

Tom gives her a bland smile. “He will throw me out of his office anyway if he finds me a fraud. Are we free to go?” he asks, the ‘we’ shaking the goblin out of her disbelief. She tilts her whole body just so she can look around, and then seems to notice the children behind him.

Her eyebrows manage to climb even higher.

“May the Darkness help us all,” she says towards the floor, voice flat as it can be.

Harry doesn’t think it gives her any useful advice.

She waves them off with another goblin who escorts them through the confusing hallways of Gringotts. They take so many lefts and right at seemingly random corners that it’s entirely impossible to make a mental map of the way they travel. At least for Harry. He suspected some kind of foul play, designed to mess with uppity witches and wizards.

Their escort drops them off in an ostentatious office after crossing more winding corridors. “Garkar will be with you shortly,” he says and closes the door on them without another word.

...So they are just leaving them there. Great.

Harry looks around in the room to find something interesting that will hopefully stave off the boredom for however long they will have to wait here, and, wow. There’s gold everywhere. The office keeps to the uniform Gringotts look with its white marble floor and fancy velvet wallpaper, furnished with expensive-looking wooden furniture. Harry doesn’t exactly know what kind of wood those are from, but he would bet they cost a fortune with all the intricate carvings he can notice on them.

Oh, and the golden details on everything should also be mentioned. As he’d said, there’s a lot of gold here.

Harry and his new siblings (Siblings!) plop down onto a fancy three-seater sofa while their dad chooses to sit in a matching armchair. And it doesn’t even squeak, unlike the ugly one Uncle Vernon has!

Harry squirms. Is that... is that velvet they are sitting on?! Real expensive one?!

Holy shit, the goblins know how to live.

They sit there in silence until Hermione can’t take it anymore. “Why did she react like that?” she asks, crossing her arms and pinning their dad with a look.

And yay, Harry guessed right! That was a female goblin!

He swings his little legs happily (because they don’t reach the floor).

“I would guess my much less sane self has left an... impression, so to say,” Tom says with a grimace. “Nevertheless, I should still be able to gain access to my accounts, so you don’t need to worr—”

A very angry, very old goblin throws the doors open before he could finish that sentence, making them all jump in their seats. Even Tom, who tries to look very dignified after it.

“Tom, you rascal! You have spawned?!” the goblin shouts, not taking his eyes off their dad as he marches to his desk.

“Good morning to you too, Garkar. And no, not exactly. This,” Tom gestures towards them, “is quite a recent development.”

The goblin’s thunderous expression doesn’t let up. “You better have a very good explanation for why you have left me alone to deal with your accounts for a decade, you miscreant,” he grouches, hopping onto his leather office chair that makes him appear taller than them. It’s... Harry would guess a power play, though in his opinion it’s unnecessary. Their dad appears coved enough that—

“I was stuck in his scar,” Tom answers and points at Harry’s forehead.

...Or not.

Harry tries to look apologetic, which is very hard to do with Ron sniggering next to him. He jams his elbow into the boy’s stomach.

“He has no scar,” Garkar points out slowly, as if Tom is a misbehaving toddler telling him an outrageous lie. Which isn’t exactly unfair, per say. Harry does not have a scar currently, and his new dad did just appear out of thin air with triplets apparently, so he doesn’t blame Garnak for his doubtful expression.

“Well, not anymore,” Tom insists. “But surely you’ve heard of Insane Me’s unfortunate demise by the hands of one Harry Potter, no?”

And... yeah. He could have phrased that in a gentler way.

For a long moment, Garkar just sits there, stunned. Then the next thing they know he nails their dad in the face with a tissue box. A quite fortunate choice of projectile, because next to it on the grand office desk lays a bejewelled dagger that would have surely hurt more.

“You will explain that. Now.”

The goblin’s tone doesn’t leave it up to the imagination what will happen if he doesn’t hurry, and Tom clearly gets that because he gets on with explaining their precarious situation pretty quickly.

“So, the original Tom Riddle decided to dice up his soul like you would a loaf of bread and then promptly went insane—”

“Hold on, he did what—”

Tom marches on, ignoring Garkar’s spluttering. “—and technically I am the last piece he made, quite unintentionally, might I add—” Oh, they managed to stun Garnak. Just wonderful. “—and then I was stuck in little Harry’s scar until a few hours ago. So really, for once this is not my fault,” Tom finishes with a victorious look.

Garnak stares at them in silence. Takes deep breath. Narrows his eyes.

“It really doesn’t look like that,” he spits, which makes Tom puff up in righteous indignation.

 “Excuse you, they were the ones experimenting with unsupervised ritual modification without prior experience. I’m just the fortunate result of that mess.”

“That’s arguable,” the goblin shoots back and ignores Tom’s offended squawk as he opens a box on his desk. “But from what you have kindly shared, I have decided not to care how much of Tom Riddle is actually inside you so long as you take my financial advice. I assume that you would be more willing to take an inheritance test than him?” He raises an eyebrow as he looks Tom in the eyes. “Or will I have to stick it down your throat?”

On second thought, their dad’s predicament is extremely funny.

“...I will gladly take it,” he grumbles, losing the staring contest.

“Finally.” The goblin levitates a piece of parchment onto the coffee table before them and throws the dagger after it from his desk. The rubies on it gleam in the light, so unlike the plain silver knife Hermione brought for the ritual from her potions kit. “Go on, bleed on it, young man.”

Tom makes a tiny nick on his index finger and lets a few drops of blood fall onto the parchment with a glare. Garnak quickly snatched it back.

“What’s this for?” Harry asks curiously, mesmerised by the quickly developing blood-red lines turning into elegant cursive he can just sneak a peak of.

Garnak answers him while inspecting the parchment. “There’s magic in one’s blood, child. This piece of parchment,” he inclines his head towards it, “was soaked in a special potion in order to display your father’s rightful inheritance.”

Cool. So Snape wasn’t kidding with that “bottle fame, brew glory” bullshit on their first Potions lesson, at least not at the be—

He’s wrenched out of his musings when a sudden thud echoes through the office due to the goblin faceplanting his desk.

“Are you trying to kill me, you scoundrel?!” he grumbles into the hardwood, but they can all hear him clearly.

Tom’s eyebrows draw together. “Is there a problem with my results?” he asks, reaching for the parchment. Garnak doesn’t protest when he pries it from his hands.

Harry, Ron and Hermione materialise around him and stick their little faces closer to better see what put the goblin in that apoplectic state.

The name is okay, so Harry skips to the birth date and... Huh. He sure doesn’t look that old. The age has a bunch of question marks, which is understandable. Parents’ name... Harry doesn’t have a clue, but Tom isn’t surprised so that must also be right. Next is...

...Lordships?

“Magicals have nobles too?” Harry asks, baffled. He would understand if some of the English nobility had magical members, but...

“Yes,” Tom answers immediately, seemingly happy to info-dump now that the conversation topic isn’t his backstory. “Many of your peers at school are part of the noble families of Wizarding Britain. Some come from ancient lines, tracing themselves back to Merlin and the Founders’ time; they make up the Ancient and Noble houses, amongst them my ancestral family, the Gaunts. While them and the rest used to serve King Arthur under Merlin’s jurisdiction, other families joined them later, and thus they couldn’t add ‘Ancient’ to their title. Take the Malfoys, for example, or the Potters. Both families immigrated from abroad, and then later bought themselves a noble title, which also came with seats on the Wizengamot and thus influence in the Ministry and the governing of our country.”

...Oookay. That’s... a lot to take in. But at least he knows now why Malfoy is so insufferably proud of his heritage, even if he doesn’t really show it in in the... right way. In Harry’s opinion.

“Is that why most of the Slytherins are so obsessed with blood purity?”

Their dad purses his lips. “I... yes, I would say that that’s one of the reasons. Like their muggle counterparts, Wizarding Britain’s noble families are proud of their long history and traditions, not to mention the different family magics that they guard like nesting dragons. Some of them just get a bit... too into it. It’s not just the Slytherins though; you can find the sons and daughters of these families in every Hogwarts house, it just so happens that most of the more... hardcore ones tend to go to Slytherin.” He grins, vivid green eyes lighting up with pride. “Ambition, resourcefulness, determination and cleverness, though not always what makes a politician, are definitive traits that most of them possess. You don’t have to be a blood purist to belong to Slytherin, and don’t not have to be one to go anywhere else.”

...Harry supposes that he’s right. He did notice a pair of older Ravenclaws making some... questionable comments, now that he thinks back to that time one of the Hufflepuff firsties went over to them to ask why they were glaring at her and her friends. And he did see an older Slytherin boy give directions to the same little girl with a gentle smile on his face.

Malfoy’s still a git though.

“But... But why? I mean...” He takes a moment to organise his thoughts. “Malfoy started with telling me he could show me who’s the ‘right and wrong sort’.”

Tom pats Ron on the head when he sees his face flush with anger at the memory. “It’s more like... Look. The Malfoys and the Weasleys have a long-standing blood feud since one of them left the other one’s family member at the altar. The boy probably grew up hearing that all the Weasleys are untrustworthy and—”

“We aren’t—”

“And that he shouldn’t associate with them, especially considering Molly Weasley’s well-known beliefs about wizarding traditions and certain members of the population. Though however she developed them while growing up a Prewett, even if not of the main line, I will never know.” Their dad shakes his head. “That’s not to say that the Malfoy child couldn’t have started your acquaintance with not insulting your first friend, but,” he shrugs, “It’s not like we can do anything about that. If he’s anything like his grandfather, he probably just wanted to attract your attention with how cool he is. At least that’s what Abraxas admitted after drinking more Butterbeer than he should have consumed.”

“But,” Hermione continues, eyes trained at his hand that’s still patting Ron to keep him in place. “But. The others... I heard them say some not very nice things about muggleborns. Especially the older Slytherins.”

“Well. I’m sure that the whole ‘the muggleborns are destroying our traditions and Dumbledore keeps endorsing them’ thing isn’t helping the situation, nor is the plainly stupid superstition that they are also stealing the magic of pureblood babies and thus turning them into squibs that was such a popular theory back in my school days, but I will admit that the... The war did make everything worse. To start with, until Grindelwald there wasn’t such a divide between the magic-raised and the newcomers, because everyone had to take a mandatory course to get them on the same level, even with those stupid tales making rounds amongst the less accepting. After Dumbledore became headmaster though... I can only guess that the missing course, amongst many other things, is his doing.”

Hermione gasps. “Wha— He cancelled courses?!”

Tom gives her a commiserating nod. “Right? Truly a travesty. Anyway, I can see that Garnak is getting antsy. I will explain everything later, alright? Let’s get back to the test.”

And... alright, fine. Harry’s starting to get convinced that Professor Dumbledore isn’t as... well, good, as he shows himself. It’s just... Harry doesn’t understand it. Why would he cancel a subject that helped muggleborns fit in? He himself would have given half a leg for any help at the start. He still would. And to just take it away because... because why?

He just... he doesn’t understand it. It’s illogical. It’s... always like he doesn’t want muggleborns to know things that would make their lives easier and cause less arguments between them and the magic-raised, like he wants them to arrive unprepared and uninformed and stay like that.

He shakes his head to clear it. It’s... he’s sure they will discuss that whole mess later. They will have to, if their new dad plans to address his immense hatred towards the headmaster. He hopes he will

Suddenly an idea hits him, and he pulls a face.

“Just... Does that mean we will need to take etiquette lessons?”

It earns him a lifted eyebrow. “Absolutely. I will not let you make yourselves into a laughingstock.” Tom nods at Ron, startling the boy. “You should already possess the necessary knowledge, the Weasleys being a noble house too.”

“What?! But we— we aren’t like—”

“Regardless of your financial situation, though I don’t understand the reason for it with your father being a Ministry employee and your household being almost self-sufficient from what I’ve heard, you still have a noble lineage.” Tom grimaces. “I have found my uncle in a shack that I only reluctantly would dare call a house, filthy, uncultured and only able to speak Parseltongue. He was a prime example of why English magicals shouldn’t take inbreeding too far. But,” he cocks his head to the side, watching Ron’s expression, “I see that your mother must have not put much emphasis on the ways of nobility. No matter; you will learn.”

Hermione pulls at his sleeve with stars in her eyes. “Will you give me books on it?”

Tom lets out a short laugh and nods, making a pleased smile appear on her face.

She must feel very satisfied with her new, sufficiently nerdy dad. Harry just turns back to the parchment and momentarily ignores the upcoming threat of having to learn to curtsey.

“So you can then claim the Gaunt lordship...” At another glance, he notices that that isn’t the only one written there. “Wait, Peverell too! Which one’s that?”

Tom’s head snaps back to the parchment. “I can what?!” He looks at Garnak who’s sitting upright again. “How come I have claim on two?!”

The surly old goblin huffs. “Honestly, you humans and your inadequate records. It’s obviously because you are the only viable heir to both.”

It earns him a glare from the former dark lord, though not holding much heat. “I know that. I’m asking how it’s possible. Shouldn’t noble titles be unable to... merge or stack?”

Garnak lets out a tired sigh. “Under normal circumstances, you would be right. However,” and here he glares back at the wizard, “you have successfully adopted the only Potter heir out of existence. Does that ring a bell?”

“But surely a distant relative—”

“There are no distant relatives because your other self decided to kill them all. Maybe next time you should think before you launch a nation-wide genocide, else you land yourself with more titles.”

Tom, suitably chastised, glowers down at the parchment. Harry doesn’t understand why this is a problem.

He tugs at his dad’s shirt. “Dad? Aren’t two titles better than one?”

Ron sneaks a glance at the test. “Three if you count Potter. And hey, shouldn’t you have Slytherin there too?”

Tom facepalms. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” He seems really done with the situation, so Harry tries to provide emotional support by nuzzling into his arm. He gets a pat on his head too for his efforts.

Tom looks Ron in the eyes. “Politically speaking, yes, the more titles you have, the more power it provides in the Wizengamot via votes. The titles also come with money, heirlooms and properties, so that too isn’t such a bad thing. The problem is,” here he pulls a face, “you have to manage it all. And that’s enough work with only one household, I don’t even want to think about how many problems three will bring. About the Slytherin lordship though...” He pauses for a moment. “It simply doesn’t exist. The founders of Hogwarts weren’t nobles themselves, only very smart and powerful people.”

...Huh. So that whole Heir of Slytherin thing Hermione mentioned back in the Chamber is complete bullshit. Good to know.

Garnak draws their attention back to himself with a cough. “If I may, due to the specific rules of inheritance, you will have to temporarily assimilate the now defunct House of Potter into Peverell if you want to access the estate.”

“Thank you, Garnak. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.” He valiantly ignores the resulting scowl on the goblin’s face. “But that still leaves the question, how am I able to inherit all those lordships?”

Garnak fishes out another parchment from the box on his desk. “Bleed on this and find out,” he snaps and thrusts it at Tom, followed by the dagger again.

The wizard does as told without any complaints and soon they are staring at a very complicated family three.

“...Are we looking at it the right way or should we just flip it?” Ron ponders, confusion clear on his face.

“There are several circles,” Hermione adds with a frown. “Is that really...”

“We are very inbred. All of Magical Britain is. Don’t worry too much, magic fixes most of the damage unless you marry your sibling or parent-slash-child. Or grandparents and grandchild, I suppose,” their dad says matter-of-factly. Which is... not exactly fine, definitely not that, but Harry would rather put that information out of his mind entirely.

He decides not to comment and goes back to studying the family tree. Gaunt, Gaunt, more Gaunts, many more Gaunts, Sayre, Boot, Potter, Black, Gaunt, Gaunt, Slytherin... Yes!

“There’s Peverell towards the top!”

They all look at where he’s pointing, and truly, there’s the name Cadmus Peverell written down clear as day.

“...Alright, considering Grindelwald’s pursuit of every existing Peverell, maybe there’s a miniscule chance that somehow every other viable heir has died and I’m the only one able to inherit,” Tom says sceptically. “But that still doesn’t explain the Potter lordship showing up out of nowhere on my inheritance test, unless it’s because of you.”

Garnak clears his throat again. “The Potters are descended from Ignotus Peverell,” he states, leaning back in his chair.

They all blink at him for a moment, and then look back to the parchment.

“...Huh,” they says in unison, heads cocked to the side. If Harry wasn’t so stunned, he would pat himself on the back for peak family behaviour.

Garnak quickly loses his patience with them. “Oh, for the love of everything you deem holy, go back to reading the inheritance test before we all die of old age in my office.”

They wisely choose not to annoy him more.

Tom takes the test in his hands again. Harry looked down and...

Vaults. As in, plural.

...Hoooly fucking shit.

“We are rich?” he asks, gobsmacked.

“Nevermind that, you were already rich,” Ron exclaims. “But are we richer than Malfoy?”

Hermione shoves them both aside so she can take a closer look. “Honestly, boys. Dad, are you okay?” she asks in concern, seeing him... Well, frozen.

At least it shakes him out of whatever came over him. “Hm? Oh, oh, yes. I just— The poor little orphan deep inside me decided to riverdance on my sanity.”

Hermione sends him a strange look, but in the end doesn’t say more on that matter.

They looked back down to see exactly what they own now.

Each lordship comes with at least three vaults: one for storing money, one containing different artefacts, and a trust vault belonging to the heir of said lordship. Harry guesses they did it like this for better organisation. He looks up at the others and sees them all deep in thought, though Hermione quickly says what’s on her mind.

“Do the children outside of the heir not get anything?” she asks with furrowed brows. And really, that’s a good question, though Harry doesn’t really want to compete for that title. As far as he’s concerned, he’s just happy to get out of the Dursleys; he doesn’t need a vault full of galleons for his escape plan anymore.

Tom shakes his head. “From what I remember my roommates telling me, in case of additional children they all get a vault opened for their use that they can keep after getting married and leaving the main line.”

...Oh. That makes more sense.

“We will get money too?” Ron cries out in surprise, making Tom stare at him in disbelief.

“Of course you will. What do you take me for?” he asks, probably offended that Ron would think he wouldn’t be willing to provide for his three new children.

The poor boy splutters. “I didn’t— I just...” He looks down at his scuffed shoes in embarrassment. “Mum never really gave us any pocket money, so... And I’m not complaining! I know we didn’t really have... I just...” He trails off, not looking them in the eye.

Harry and Hermione decide that can’t stand and tackle him into a hug. Their dad just stares in apprehension at the furiously cuddling children on the floor, making the goblin chuckle.

“There’s no escape for you, I assume,” he says with a mean grin. Tom glares back at him in retaliation.

“Shut up and get to work.”

Garnak happily obliges, also ignoring the cuddle pile on his office floor, and from a different box than before he produces a hefty heap of paperwork. The dread on Tom’s face is clear as day, but he begins going through the pile when it’s thrust before him.

With a scowl, of course. Have to keep his image up, no matter how tarnished it is.

Harry looks at the smugly smirking goblin. “Does that mean that the vault I visited in the summer isn’t lost, then?” he asks curiously.

“There are no lost vaults at Gringotts, young one. Unclaimed and stagnant ones don’t bring in any profit, after all,” Garnak answers him pleasantly, in a much better mood than before.

Huh. Maybe goblins just like children more than adults in general? They got less sneers in the corridors too, now that Harry thinks about it.

They climb back onto the sofa while they wait for their dad to finish the paperwork. He has to do a lot of reading and signing, which makes Harry exhausted even just to watch. Or, who knows, maybe it’s because of their little nightly adventure that landed them here in the first place.

...No, definitely the paperwork.

After a long while of them dozing on the sofa, Tom shoves the paperwork back onto the goblins desk, who then checks it over and sends for... tiny boxes?

...Oh, oh, ring boxes! So signet rings are still in fashion, then.

Tom puts all three on the fingers of his left hand, Gaunt on the index finger, Peverell on the middle and Potter on the pinky. The rings shrink to the appropriate size and glow for a moment, likely signifying his acceptance as lord of all three houses.

Harry takes a closer look at them while the man is busy signing more paperwork. The Gaunt ring is a clear nod to Salazar Slytherin with a snake curved around an ornate ‘S’ from some green gemstone, biting its own tail; probably made of silver, if he goes by house colours. The Peverell ring on the other hand is from some kind of pitch-black stone, bearing a strange symbol in the shape of a triangle containing a circle and a vertical line halving it. And at last, the Potter ring is gold with deer antlers in the middle, three small stars carved above them.

They all look really cool, even if Tom quickly assimilates the House of Potter into Peverell, and at the end the golden ring just... disappears from his finger. Like, it turns into mist and poufs out of existence.

...Strange. Not ‘accidentally-resurrecting-the-Dark-Lord-and-emotionally-manipulating-him-into-paying-child-support’ level of strange though, so Harry supposes it’s not that strange at all.

“It didn’t cease to exist,” Tom clarifies as he notices Harry’s eyes stuck on his hand. “I just don’t fancy wearing more than strictly necessary, and also wouldn’t like to get lynched if somebody on the streets recognised it.”

Harry wonders if he expected him to burst into tears. He smiles instead, intending to reassure his dad. “It’s okay; I’m all for efficiency. And hey, we kept the contents of the vaults!”

Tom doesn’t really seem convinced of his nonchalance, but Harry can’t really do anything else to set his mind at ease, so instead he changes the topic. “What else is on the inheritance test?”

“Hm? Oh, properties.”

Great.

...Wait. Properties, as in, plural? Hell, yes.

They crowd around their dad once again to stare at the parchment. And oh, there’s lots to see.

It looks like when the members of the houses die without children (or possibly didn’t have the chance to name an inheritor), their assets are returned to the closest relative. Which being the case with every other member of Houses Potter, Peverell and Gaunt, means that they have a lot of assets. And Harry is only speaking about real estate; he doesn’t even want to touch the other material possessions yet with a ten-foot pole, lest they truly never get out of here.

He surveys the list of houses. Or he says houses, but really, they have castles, chateaus, manors and even simple cottages and townhouses to choose from. They are lucky the list also depicts the size and type of the buildings and how many bedrooms and bathrooms they have, so that at least helps them filter their choices.

...Hmm. They will need a place removed from muggles, preferably. It’s not like he doesn’t want any contact with them, but he would prefer using magic without being on edge all the time. That already disqualifies the townhouses and apartments.

Hmm...

 “Dad? What are you looking for exactly?” Ron asks, yanking him back to the present.

The man in question has a thoughtful frown on his face. “Definitely something smaller than Malfoy Manor, I think. We don’t need 20 sitting rooms and 50 bathrooms to drown ourselves in.”

Harry lets out a snort. Yeah, maybe they shouldn’t go for an enormous mansion, even if having their own quidditch pitch does sound awesome. (They will need to check out some of these. One mansion in particular has a spa written next to it for some reason, and another an underwater cave. Allegedly.)

He doesn’t want to just choose a cottage, though... And Hermione wouldn’t agree to any place without a library, anyway.

His eyes lock onto one of the buildings under Peverell.

“What’s a mini castle?” he asks, pointing at the property in question. It’s listed with five bedrooms, each with its own ensuite according to the parchment.

“Garnak, what do we have on... Stygian Retreat?” His dad asks with a head tilt, making Hermione huff.

“Well, they sure liked to be ominous.”

...Well, yes. Harry just hopes that it’s homier than it sounds. If it’s supposed to be a retreat, then it also should be removed from muggles, right? That would make it just about perfect for their needs. Even if it doesn’t have a quidditch pitch.

The goblin rummages around and eventually manages to produce the necessary portfolio. “Let’s see... Stygian Retreat, located south to the magical community of Fairbrook in Devon county with two floors and a half-basement, containing five bedrooms with their own ensuits. Unplottable. You also own the forest it’s in with all its flora and fauna and— ...Oh.”

 “Is there something wrong?” Tom asks, eyes narrowing as Garnak drums his fingers on the top of the table.

“Not wrong, per se, but it served as the home of the main Peverell line since the beginning of our records, apparently. They let a herd of thestrals roam the forest though, so I would understand if you chose ano—”

“We will take it.”

The goblin raises an eyebrow. “Not much for superstitions then, I take it.”

Tom shakes his head. “On the contrary; they are my favourite creatures. Now, is the house still intact or will you be housing us until we fix it up?” he jokes with a grin, which just earns him a scowl in return.

“The structure should be in pristine condition due to us sealing it off upon the death of the occupants, restricting access to anyone but the rightful owners according to the last ones’ will. Whatever was inside the property though would have had no one to supervise it if it decided to run rampant. I trust that you know how to use a Portkey, so you might as well clear out of my office now. The activation word is the estate’s name,” Garnak bites out and throws a shiny stone at Tom, which he easily catches, unlike the tissue box previously. Or the tiara.

“Right away, we will just take a trip down to the carts. Could you compile a file detailing the contents of the artefact vaults?” Tom asks and stands up, the children hastily following his example.

Garnak waves him off with an exasperated sigh. “Sure, sure. It will be ready by our next appointment. Which better happen in less than a decade.” He emphasises it with a glare. “Which reminds me, I don’t suppose you would know of any reason Bellatrix Lestrange would give you access to her personal vault?”

Tom pauses in the doorway. “...I will have to find that out later. Thank you for your time, Garnak.”

And with that, he closes the door.

There’s a goblin waiting for them in the hallway, sizing them up like they are wanna-be thieves, which is just insulting. Harry only thought about how stealing from here would even work on his first time visiting!

The goblin leads them to the carts and takes them down into... Well, the mines. Or, not the mines, but the vault part of it. Still, Harry whoops in excitement as they ride, after all it’s not every day you zoom around in a mine cart.

They go down, down, down deep until suddenly the goblin stops their descent.

“Which one is this?” Harry asks as they climb out and go to stand before one of the vault door in this part of the cave system. Strangely, it looks different than the ones he’d seen before in the summer, with the sign from his dad’s ring intricately carved into it.

“The Peverell Vault containing money,” His dad answers while they wait for their goblin escort to open it. And when he does...

…

...That’s— A lot of gold. Way more than Harry had seen in his supposed vault before.

They all kind of just gape at the literally glowing mountains of galleons until the goblin impatiently clears his throat.

Tom hesitantly takes a step closer to a smaller pile. “...Right. I’ll just...”

The goblin gives an irritated sigh and massages the bridge of his nose. “I’m so not paid enough for this,” he mutters and takes out a money pouch, a box similar to what was on Garnak’s desk, a glowing gold credit card for some reason and a cheque book from the bag hanging on his side. “Garnak sent this. He already detracted the cost from your accounts.”

He gives each of them something to hold. Harry ends up with the money pouch, so he helpfully holds it out for his dad, who starts showing coins into it. Against all logic, the pouch gets neither full nor heavier throughout the process.

Their dad must see their bafflement when he finishes because he says, “It has an Undetectable Extension Charm applied, so it’s larger on the inside than you would expect. A Feather-light Charm too, which lets it stay, as it’s in the name, light.”

They nod in understanding and leave the vault, but then just before climbing back into the carts, Hermione exclaims, “Wait! What about our wands?”

And, like, that’s a good question. A great question. An extremely vital question that Harry doesn’t know how had missed his mind.

Tom freezes mid-movement and turns back to them. “Ah, yes... Would you be content with choosing heritage wands from the Peverell artefact vault for now? If there are any in there, I mean. The Gaunt one was most likely depleted by my predecessors, I would guess.” He cocks his head to the side. “Or maybe not, if sanity was one of the inheritance requirements.”

Harry, Ron and Hermione exchange a look and nod in agreement after coming to an understanding. Heritage wands are better than no wands for the foreseeable future. They wouldn’t want to get Ollivander’s attention, after all, not yet at least.

Their goblin escort opens the vault next to the one full of money. They step in and—

...Well. It looks like magicals like hoarding stuff, judging by the number of different things he can see. There’s a lot of furniture, paintings, varying kinds of decorations...

Are those skulls? Nope, not going there.

Harry takes a few steps away from the mentioned display and looks around to see... his dad following a glowing orb to a cabinet full of wands.

“Found them!” he shouts. Harry sees Ron and Hermione arrive from different directions, the latter clutching a book to her chest. Tom just raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on her looting the vault. “Come closer and see if you find your match. Or they find you,” he adds with humour and accepts the box and the cheque book from Ron and Hermione.

Harry approaches the cabinet cautiously, recalling his, quite frankly, explosive time at Ollivander’s, mirrored by his new siblings.

Looks like he isn’t alone in his experience, then.

He sees wands made from all kinds of wood, varying in length and design. They all look so beautiful and detailed he could marvel at them all day if they had the time. Sadly though, they don’t, so he tries to feel... Well, something.

He thinks back to the sudden warmth that coursed through him upon touching his poor burned out holly wand. Maybe he should search for something similar? But no, they are all changed from how they were before, completely made anew by a strange ritual on a sacred day... So no, he doesn’t think the same feeling will suffice. There will have to be something different, now that—

His eyes get stuck on one of the wands far off to the right, just low enough so he can reach it on his tip-toes. The wand is pitch black with claw-like details separating the handle from the shaft, though he can also see some kind of shiny white stone peeking out in streaks running through the wood. The peculiar stone appears between the claws too, as if they have an orb in their grip. He so wants to take a closer look, just a few more inches and—

...Oh. Is this what truly bonding to a wand feels like? And better question, why did nobody tell him?!

He grins madly as a kind of icy, electric feeling fills the air, like shivers during a thunderstorm. A thick black mist shoots out of the wand and surrounds him, forming two snarling dogs running circles around him. He pets the dogs, strangely solid where his fingers run through their hide. He doesn’t want the feeling to ever end, but eventually the dogs nuzzle his legs and the fog dissipates, also taking the electricity in the air with it.

Harry can’t stop grinning.

“Well, that’s you done, then,” he hears Tom say as his hair gets patted by large hands. He looks up to see him practically beaming, which actually somehow suits his face. Quite strange, seeing that this man was a dark lord once (even if he doesn’t exactly remember that time).

And then he also gets assaulted by his siblings.

“Mate, that was so cool!” Ron shouts excitedly as he tackles him onto the floor with Hermione, who mirrors his wide grin and squeezes them both tightly.

 “Did you do something like this at Ollivander’s too? Oh, that looked so magical! Do you think you will be able to replicate it? Oh, oh, maybe if we learn to conjure and manipulate fog somehow—”

Their dad interrupts her by ruffling her hair. He’s quickly getting the hang of this positive reinforcement thing. “Have you found your wands yet?”

“Have you?” Hermione shoot back with a glint in her eyes.

Their dad just lifts an imperious eyebrow and reaches up for a wand in the topmost row. The moment he touches it inky black and velvety green swirls burst out from the tip, combining into snake-like shapes. Harry kind of expects them to try and take a bite out him, but instead the snakes curl around them in a circle and swim around in the air like dangerous but affectionate noodles. He’s kind of sad when they dissolved in chuckling hisses.

He sneaks a glance at his dad’s new wand and huffs. Of course his wand would have a snake curling around the full length of the dark wood. He doesn’t even know what he expected. Tom at least seems happy with it by the soft smile on his face, so he doesn’t comment on how stereotypical it is for him to get a literal snake wand.

Harry turns to Hermione then, who’s furiously glaring at the wand display. He kind of expects it to burst into flames in any moment now, but no, the cabinet remains unlit. At last, she steps closer and hops up to nab a dark wand from definitely higher than she could comfortably reach.

And then there is only fire.

Harry is starting to worry they will burn down the whole vault by the time the flames disappear. He sends a sheepish look back at their goblin guide, the poor Gringotts employee pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Better not summon any more fire, then.

He turns back to his smugly smirking sister to actually view her new wand. Suffice to say, it’s lovely, made of some kind of dark wood with intricate carvings along its length. The handle and the shaft are separated by a short section showing a bluish-purple stone, maybe periwinkle coloured if he sees it right. Several smaller pieces of the same stone dot the handle and the beginning of the length.

Harry gives her a smile. He likes seeing her happy. What he doesn’t like is the hesitation he can see on Ron’s face.

“What’s the matter?” Tom asks him, a frown appearing on his face that Harry is tempted to poke.

For a moment Ron just searches for words, but then he looks away from their faces. “I don’t... What if none of them choose me? I mean... You are all so strong, and your wands also match you so well. I just...” he trails off, not knowing how to finish his sentence.

And oh, Ron.

It looks like all three of them are about to get into an offended rant about how great Ron actually is (even their new dad, which Harry is proud to notice) when one of the wands decides to do that job itself and flies at him at lightning speed. Ron splutters as he tries to catch it with his hands, but the wand makes his job easier by suddenly stopping a few inches away from him and nuzzling his face.

“I think someone likes you,” Harry says with a smile. It earns him a huff from the rest of his new family members.

Ron stares at the wand in wonder. And he has every right to; it’s beautiful. The length of it is made from some kind of light wood, but the handle is covered in a pretty and sparkly light blue stone. Opal, maybe? Or something like that. The gold details also make the wand look very regal to top it all off.

Harry thinks that the enthusiastic wand suits Ron well, especially when he touches it and bright gold and blue glitter erupts from the tip.

He snickers. Due to a sudden mysterious breeze, none of them escape the wave of glitter, so they kind of look like they fell for one of the Weasley twins’ pranks.

Tom leaves them to bask in happiness for a moment longer before he vanishes the sparkles (though Harry can still see some stuck in his hair, but he won’t be the one to bring his attention to it that’s for sure). “Alright, if that is all then we should be on our way. I want to get you situated as soon as possible.”

They follow him out of the vault but stop as the goblin clears his throat.

“One of the past owners instructed us to give one of these to anyone who gets chosen by a wand from here,” he says and holds out four envelopes. Tom pockets them with a nod and then they climb into the carts and travel back to the surface.

They are about to enter the lobby when Harry asks, “Excuse me, err, Mr. Goblin?”

“Karluk, child,” the goblin says with a raised eyebrow.

Harry nods in thanks. At least he got the gender right. “How come the vault doors looked different than the one I’ve seen before in the summer? I’ve visited Vaults 687 and 713, if that matters,” he clarifies, and Karluk’s expression clears up.

“Ah, that would be because a different goblin designed those,” he explains while opening the door.

Oh. That makes sense, Harry supposes. Though he didn’t know goblins had designers for the vault doors, in hindsight it makes sense. Not all of them can work as tellers and bank managers, after all.

He... feels really stupid for assuming.

“...If they are still alive, could you tell them they are really pretty?” Harry asks quietly, scratching his head in embarassment.

The goblin stops for a moment but quickly answers with something that could be called a smile in some circles (if you are generous with the meaning of the word). “Sure thing, youngling.”

They say farewell and leave the bank entirely, again nodding at the guards at the entrance.

“Where are we going now, Dad?” Hermione asks as they stroll back down Diagon Alley towards the Leaky. No one seems to pay them any attention, so Tom must have reapplied the charm he cast on their way to Gringotts. Harry didn’t even notice, busy as he was gawking at the shop windows all around.

“Breakfast, I think,” their dad answers as he herds them out to Muggle London, which is a wonderful idea. Harry is kind of getting hungry, now that he cares to notice the rumbling coming from his stomach.

It should be... what, ten o’clock? Eleven? Time spent at Gringotts is quite strange, as if it’s its own world, removed from the constricts of the outside world.

Or who knows, maybe that’s the case with all banks. Harry wouldn’t knoe. Uncle Vernon never took him to any, as he’d said.

They walk on the sidewalk in silence until they reach a—

...A McDonalds.

...Their new adult, who was possibly-unknowingly-definitely a dark lord wouldn’t, would he?

But they go in.

And Harry is inside a McDonalds for the first time in his life.

“...Dad, are you sure we are in the right place?” he asked hesitantly. Will the former dark lord really buy them—

Tom stops next to a row of tables and looks back with a raised eyebrow. “Red meat, leafy greens and sugar are good for blood loss. I expect all of you to choose a burger and some dessert, am I clear?”

Harry beams.

“Crystal!” they all squeak at the same time with enthusiastic nods and run forward to the cashier who smiles at them.

They must make quite the cute picture, the hot single dad and his three little clones.

“Can I get a Happy Meal?” Harry asks, throwing in some puppy eyes for insurance. It earns him an amused expression from his dad, who quickly checks all their faces and sighs.

“Three Happy Meals with cheeseburgers, orange juice and fries, and the same for me in the regular menu, please,” he tells the cashier. “Desserts, kids?”

Harry, Ron and Hermione choose a chocolate chip cookie, a brownie and a berry muffin, respectively (because Hermione thinks that’s the healthiest option, though Harry doubts that just going by its sugary scent). Tom also orders a cookie while he sends them forward to snatch a table, which they do, practically falling onto the benches. After a while he follows them with a chuckle and distributes his loot.

“The Dursleys never took me to McDonalds,” Harry comments as he takes a bite of his cheeseburger. It’s quite different to months of the Hogwarts feast, but his taste buds are satisfied.

“Why here, anyway? My parents said fast food is unhealthy and bad for the teeth,” Hermione adds, regardless happily munching on her burger and already eyeing her muffin.

Harry grins at her. “Well, it’s a good thing then that they aren’t your parents anymore.”

And it really is. He can’t imagine asking for better siblings than his two best friends.

Tom just shrugs. “I’m well aware of the Dursleys lifestyle, and rest assured, in no way plan to endorse it. Once in a while, though... I suppose we can sin a bit. And this was the first place I saw with food I was sure you would all eat.”

Their heads snap to Ron when they hear his moan.

“Why haven’t I known this place existed?! This is a lot better than mum’s corn beef sandwiches,” he says, stuffing a quarter of his burger into his face in one bite the next moment.

Tom warns them all to slow down, and they obey sheepishly. It wouldn’t do to not savour their first fast food experience, after all.

Between two bites, Hermione asks him, “How come you didn’t erase any of the goblins’ memories?”

“They have a strict privacy policy,” is Tom’s only answer.

Which, yeah. That kind of makes sense from what Harry had seen at the bank.

Ron nods at the bag at Tom’s side. “What’s the box Garnak sent you?” he asks, a bit slower in making his burger disappear. His second one, after Tom went back for four more burgers. Because they are very, very hungry, as it turned out.

Tom smiles at him, still happy to answer their questions. That’s certainly a new experience for Harry; probably for all of them. “Gringotts provides these letter boxes for the appropriate price to fasten communication. You put in your correspondence and after shutting the lid, it gets transferred to its companion on your account manager’s desk. He’s probably foreseen I won’t visit the bank frequently, especially after news get out about your disappearance.”

“Why not just use owls?” Harry asks, confused. Isn’t that what they are bred for?

“They use them too,” Tom says, finishing his burger. “For example when they send out notices and the like. I will have to communicate with him regularly because of the estate management though, so the letter box will make all our lives easier.”

They nod in understanding and go back to their late breakfast, taking a last bite of their (second) burgers and starting on their desserts. The sugar rush feels very good, giving Harry some much needed energy. He didn’t even notice he was drooping before, but oh well. He isn’t anymore.

They shortly leave the restaurant and go to their next destination, which is...

A convenience store.

Harry would never have guessed that he would see the fearsome Lord Voldemort ponder over what kind of pasta to buy for dinner, but this day is full of surprises.

They quickly get some groceries and search for an abandoned alley.

“Let’s get home before someone sees us. Touch the stone,” Tom instructs them and they hurry to do so. “Everyone ready? Good. Here we go. Stygian Retreat,” he says, and suddenly it’s like someone grabs Harry by his navel and pulls.

They disappear from the alley in a whirl of dizzying colours and nausea.

Chapter Text

Harry takes a deep breath and tries to not throw up.

Upon arrival to their destination, they all look the same as when they exited the Knight Bus; which is to say, green around the gills. Even Tom looks a bit nauseous, surprisingly not immune to all forms of magical travel.

Harry is beginning to think that magicals are simply incapable of inventing a comfortable way of travel, what with the Knight Bus and now the Portkey. He really hopes he’s wrong though... Or maybe he will need his new dad to concentrate all his smarts on making one that doesn’t make him puke back his breakfast. The man would have fun with it, he’s sure.

Harry strengthens himself with a few more deep breathes and looks up to find...

Trees. Like, lots of trees. He looks right: trees. He looks left: also trees. He’s starting to worry that they have the wrong address when Hermione turns him around and—

...Oh. That’s...

“Very castle,” is what he ends up saying.

Hermione lets out a huff. “Astute observation. I think it’s gothic by the way, if I remember right. Though it’s been a while since I read that one book about architecture,” she adds with a head tilt. “Much like Hogwarts, especially with how many times that castle has been renovated since its founding.”

Harry... isn’t going to argue on account of not knowing much about architecture. All he can say is that it looks like a castle. A teeny-tiny one. They even have a tower! And lots of ivy on the stone walls, which makes it kind of fairytale-esque instead of something out of a horror movie.

Ron makes a feeble gesture towards the entrance. “Should we just...”

“It’s not like anyone else will,” their dad says and goes to stand before the entrance door.

It’s a heavy thing made of dark wood and some kind of metal, bearing the same symbol as the Peverell lordship ring. And it falls open just before Tom makes contact with the handle.

“...Not at all ominious,” he says with a raised eyebrow and steps inside, followed closely by Harry and his siblings.

...Huh.

The interior is the complete opposite of what Harry expected. He thought they would see a small, gloomy version of Hogwarts, like a vampire castle or something, even with how much he liked the outside. And boy, was he wrong.

They step into a small entrance hall with dark brown wooden floor, and even though they do have stone walls here, the hallway visible through an arch before him has large windows facing the inner courtyard (They have an inner courtyard!), making the space feel light and airy.

Kind of. It’s a hallway.

He looks up and sees a vaulted ceiling, not unlike at Hogwarts, which is... strangely comforting.

They start to explore the house.

Harry looks through the door to his right to a nice dining room, eyes going wide when he sees the walls giving place to a beautiful mural of a garden with exotic trees and colourful flowers, small painted birds flying above their heads. The wall opposite him has a fireplace in the middle with large windows bracketing it on the sides, again bringing some light into the room. Around the antique white dining table are twelve high-back dining chairs with very pale blue upholstering and under it lays a long, cream rug with intricately embroidered flowers on it.

The whole room is really pretty; beautiful even, if only a bit... empty. But maybe they could put some flowers into a vase and—

...Oh, Merlin. The influence of Aunt Petunia’s home renovation shows is real.

Harry shakes his head and turns back, wondering if he should just see what’s on the other side of the hallway when Hermione makes a choked noise from his left. His head snaps towards the sound, only to see a similarly bright and spacious drawing room with fancy patterned beige wallpaper and soft, mauve settees with matching armchairs. It looks very... formal, for lack of a better word, probably to entertain guests if anything.

Nice as it is, Harry hopes they have a friendlier one somewhere.

Hermione disappears through the door on the other side of the drawing room, so they all quickly follow her, stepping into—

...Oh. Of course she would find the library in the first five minutes. And it’s big, even. Not as big as Hogwarts, naturally, but still. Harry is pretty sure it shouldn’t be able to fit inside the house just based on the look he got from the outside, so he guesses that there’s some kind of extension charm at the work. Or several.

The room is filled with books from floor to ceiling, only leaving a little patch of the stone wall free above the fireplace with a portrait hanging on it.

...Wait a second, there’s a portrait hanging on it!

Harry runs up to the three surprised men staring down at them from the painting. “Hello! Who are you?” he asked them excitedly. It’s not every day one meets the supposed portrait of his ancestors, after all. And they must be! Who else would have portraits of them inside the ancestral Peverell manor?

The tall, dark-haired men exchange a look as the others come to stand behind Harry. They don’t look as ancient as some of the people depicted in the paintings at Hogwarts; no, they don’t look old at all. The painter, whoever it was, seems to have captured them in their relatively early adulthood, barely even able to be called middle-aged but dressed in simple black robes that Harry is sure must have been expensive if they didn’t use any colour changing charms. Because he knows that black die was expensive back in the time the portrait must have been painted, going by the similarities in their outfits to the older ones at school. He read it in a history book as a fun fact while hiding from Dudley and his gang.

The one on the left is the first to speak. “My name is Antioch, child. These are my brothers, Cadmus and Ignotus,” he says with a gesture towards his companions. “And who might you all be? We thought all our descendants were lost, but the house wouldn’t have let you in then.”

Harry glances at Tom, who has quite a peculiar expression on his face.

“I’m... Tom Riddle,” he says, coming to a stop next to him. Harry is glad he gave them his real name; he hasn’t yet thought about what his new one is going to be. “These are my children, Harry, Ron and Hermione. And... Well, technically there are no Peverells left alive, if that is what you mean. But,” here he looks at the middle brother, the edge of his lips curling upwards, “it turns out I’m descended from you, Cadmus, if you will let us call you that. I rather think Mr Peverell will get old very soon.”

Harry nods along enthusiastically and locks eyes with Ignotus. “Yeah! And I was descended from you until we kind of illegally adopted him,” he points at the very much unintentionally alive former dark lord, “as our sole parent.”

The men just blink at them for a moment until the two elder ones burst into laughter.

“Hah! That one’s absolutely yours!” Antioch exclaims between two gasps of air, Cadmus enthusiastically nodding long. Ignotus just seems like he’s very much dying inside.

Which is kind of insulting. Harry didn’t say anything warranting a reaction like that!

...Or did he?

Cadmus gives them a bright grin when he stops laughing. “Welcome home then, our dearest descendants. We hope you will come to love it just as much as we did.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Tom says, glancing at Hermione who’s already twitching towards the bookshelves. “We shall find you again after we finish our tour of the house. Come along, children.”

Harry can just sneak a peek at the forest green study opening from the library as he herds them back into the drawing room. He envisions long hours of his poor new dad hunched over paperwork in the future.

They walk down the hallway, passing a small powder room in the middle, and then immediately through the door to their right is the kitchen. Now here, the builders kept both the stone walls and floor, but it contrasts nicely with the dark wooden cabinets. They even have a kitchen island! Everything is so much better than the Dursleys’ crowded little room, with lots of light and cooking space. There’s even a small table for six standing before the large windows!

Harry hopes it will see more use than the one in the formal dining room.

It’s not that he doesn’t like that one, it’s beautiful, truly, he just... He likes the smaller one more. It’s more... homier? He can’t exactly put it into words, he just feels like he'd rather use this one for everyday meals. They can use the formal dining room for events and whatnot, seeing that they are apparently nobles now.

And about the windows he spied at first glance... Well, the middle one turns out to be a door leading to a covered porch.

“Woah,” comes the understandable reaction from Ron, because truly, their first look at the manor grounds is breath-taking. And though Garnak did say that they have an entire forest to themselves, it’s only now sinking in what that really means.

“We are absolutely going to explore it,” Harry mutters under his breath.

Tom still hears him somehow.

“But not without supervision,” he adds, making Harry pout. It’s not like unsupervised exploration ever got him into trouble—

...

...Alright, maybe he has a point.

Ron doesn’t really seem to care. “We have a fountain! And glass houses. And hey, are those stables? Do you think there are still animals there?”

He leans so far out over the railing that Tom has to scramble to pull him back.

“Didn’t you have chickens?”

“That’s different! Chickens live in a coop. These are stables.”

Their dad lets out a resigned sigh. “We can take a look later. Now come on, we still have a few rooms on this floor, and then the upper floor and the basement.”

He leads them back and out of the kitchen, leaving the stairs for later and stepping into—

A living room, yes!

Smaller than the drawing room but no less bright due to the two large windows on each side of the fireplace mirroring the drawing room, it has light purple walls and a long, very comfortable-looking teal couch with orange armchairs. A bit of a colour shock after all the soft and subtle combinations until now, but Harry likes it. He can already imagine them sitting here as a family, getting beaten at chess by Ron or just chilling with Hermione as she systematically eats her way through the library.

“Have you also noticed the golden details everywhere?” Hermione asks, staring intently at the intricately carved coffee table. And, well, now that Harry thinks back, he really had seen a lot of gold. Just, they were so subtle about the designs that it didn’t come off as ostentatious to him. Not like at Gringotts where they probably wanted to make a statement.

And anyway, it looks good, so he isn’t complaining.

Gold is good.

Harry crosses the living room and opens the next door, arriving into... probably a music room, because it has a white grand piano. The walls are painted to a calming dark blue, which works well with the pale light blue seating area.

He goes to check the door opening from here, but only finds another entrance into the library, so he closes it and turns back to the others.

They surround the piano.

“Do you know how to play?” Hermione asks their dad, who only raises an eyebrow.

“Hardly. I was a penniless orphan at the time of the second world war. How much time and money do you think I had for entertainment?”

He pushes a key down to emphasize his point, the high note ringing through the air and making Harry jump in surprise.

Hermione lets out a huff. “You could have learned after Hogwarts,” she insists.

“Sure,” Tom relents, “but for one, I don’t think that was a priority to the me who got madder and madder after each horcrux, and two, I wouldn’t remember it even if I did learn. Now, are you ready to explore the floor above?”

They file out of the music room and go up the stairs. The upper floor landing only has a skinny table against an empty stone wall, the rest of the space similarly bare. There are a few landscape paintings Harry can see, but really, it’s clear that the space needs a little bit of... love. Maybe they could fill it? If not with photos, because they don’t have any, then maybe... maybe with more portraits of their ancestors?

But that’s a thought for later when they don’t have any more interesting rooms to explore.

There are two directions they can go: either straight forward with four doors to explore, or right with only one.

Harry turns right. And he steps into... another sitting room. They seem to have a lot of those, though the walls here are a pretty emerald green with plum-coloured couches around a coffee table made from dark wood. At a closer look, there are tiny wooden snakes climbing up its legs, which is... a sign for sure, he supposes.

He looks to the right and sees that this room also has a covered porch. The view is quite something in his opinion; he can see far above the treetops when he goes outside and over to the railing.

His eyes widen at noticing something. “Dad? I... I think we have a lake.”

“We what?” Tom hurries over, stopping to stare at the blue water clearly visible in the middle of the forest, the ice on its surface broken. “...There better not be a giant squid in there,” he mutters, making them snicker.

They go back inside, the promise of more interesting rooms driving them forward. Backward. Whatever, back to the door that doesn’t lead back into the hallway.

“...I think we found your room, Dad” Ron says, looking at the bedroom they step into.

It keeps to the colour scheme of the sitting room with the emerald wallpaper featuring some kind of fancy pattern. When Harry looks closer, because why wouldn’t he, he notices that the fancy patterns are actually just snakes and sparkles in a slightly darker shade of green, somehow not coming off as too busy or gaudy.

He plops down onto the edge of the plum-coloured bedsheets and does not slide onto the floor, which debunks another one of Aunt Petunia’s complaints about her ‘quality silk sheets’. From his position, he gets a great view of the inner courtyard through the big windows opposite the four-poster bed. He hops up and checks the two doors bracketing the bed too, and finds two walk-in-wardrobes. And when he looks back to the four-poster bed, the golden snakes curling around the columns give him friendly hisses.

 He so loves that everything magical is alive here. Can’t get enough of it, really.

The last door he spies leads to the bathroom.

“...Woah, that’s a big bathtub,” Ron states, eyes wide.

A big bathtub their dad will surely have lots of relaxing bubble baths in it, Harry thinks. He looks back at Tom’s face and, yep, he seems pretty content.

They leave the master suite and go to the hallway on the other side where there are three doors waiting for them.

They open the first one, and it’s... well, calling it a bedroom would be an understatement.

“The only free patch of wall I can see has clouds kind of the same colour as your wand, Hermione,” Harry points out jokingly. Because the walls are covered with empty bookcases everywhere. He doesn’t even see the bed!

Straight across them, there’s a seating area with a fancy periwinkle couch facing the fireplace surrounded by white bookshelves, and then a desk pushed against the only wall that shows the painting on it. It’s really pretty, the starry sky in soft pink and periwinkle continuing on the ceiling too.

Harry hopes the stars actually shine during the night. That would be awesome and totally something Hermione deserves, because...

Because it’s clear that this is a room made just for her, what with the rest of the walls covered by bookcases, the only break provided by the desk and the window-seat to the left of it. He wonders where she’s supposed to sleep though—

...Never mind. In the middle of the wall to the left are three stairsteps leading up to the bed, which is also bracketed by bookcases on the sides and has a translucent, light pink curtain providing additional privacy at the front.

Harry hums in thought. “It’s so...”

“Girly,” Ron says, scrunching up his nose.

“Dreamy,” Harry shoots back with a glare at the other boy.

Hermione runs her hands through the stars carved into the poles of the bed.

“I love it,” she whispers, eyes trained on the wood. “My parents painted my walls white, stating that it was neutral enough they’ll be able to use it for something else after I move out.”

...Ouch.

Seemingly in a daze, she goes over to one of the bookcases on the left wall and touches it, revealing a walk-in-wardrobe. She does the same on the other side of the bed, which opens into the bathroom.

Tom pats her head. “It’s yours then, decorate it as you want. Shall we see the others?”

Hermione gives a teary nod as Harry grabs her right hand and squeezes it, making sure she looks at him when he smiles.

They leave her new room and open the second door. It’s—

“Dibs!” Ron immediately shouts and throws himself down onto the bright orange seating.

And, well. This room is... colourful. Very colourful.

Stepping inside, Harry is surrounded by teal walls that slowly transition into the greyish blue of the ceiling that looks like a stormy sky. And the best part? There are quidditch players soaring across it.

This is, like, the coolest room Harry could ever imagine. No offense to Hermione with her secret bookcase-doors, but.

Quiddich.

Ron is still lounging on the orange... couches? surrounding the fireplace with some mist-like swirly pattern painted across the wall in white, light blue and gold and—

...That’s a conversation pit.

An orange conversation pit.

...Cool.

He doesn’t have his doors leading to his adjoining rooms hidden though, so that’s a point in favour of Hermione’s room. They are kind of a part of the design on the wall instead, the doorknobs being...

Uh, balls?

Like, there are lots of those balls attached to the wall for some reason, Harry just assumes two of those are doorknobs, and they do look fun, shiny and kinda opaque like—

...Oh, oh, like crystal balls.

Riiight.

He continues to survey the room, trying not to get distracted by the crystals (he likes shiny things, okay?). Straight across the door is Ron’s window letting the light into the space, and then next to it the only bookshelf in the room. It’s surrounded by comfy-looking beanbags though in the shape of different quidditch balls, which is a very fun idea, he hopes his room has something similar too—

Oooh, Ron has a cave!

Or, well. Not a cave per se, but his bed is on a platform that has stairs leading up to it, and the desk fits underneath perfectly, accessible through a curved opening.

So. Cave.

Looking at the room in its entirety now, Ron has lots of curved lines compared to Hermione’s room, which has all the edges you can hit your arms in. Or, maybe not Hermione, but any unsuspecting visitor.

Harry looks back at Ron and smiles at him indulgently. He likes seeing him happy, seeing both of his friends, now siblings, happy.

That’s what they deserve. What they should have had all this time.

“I guess that leaves the last to me,” he says nonchalantly and walks back out to the hallway.

He stops before the third door.

Until now, it hadn’t really sunk in that he would have an actual room to himself, one that he could really imagine living in and wasn’t just Dudley’s second bedroom or the cupboard under the stairs. But... now he will. And he will love it just for that.

He takes a deep breath and pushes down the handle, and... And then can only stare for a moment.

Just like in Hermione’s room, he’s facing the seating area, though it doesn’t look like any he’d seen before. The entire room doesn’t look like any he’d seen.

Like, sure. His blue couch seems pretty normal and looks very comfortable (note to self: stock up on fluffy blankets). His coffee table with its warm light brown wood though looks as if it’s growing out of the mossy meadow-like rug under it, and his beanbags look like shiny golden snitches! They are almost sparkling in the light his large window lets in through the sheer white curtains with tiny golden stars on them, the other, non-see-through purple curtains tying well into the entire colour scheme of the bedroom. Which is blue, purple and green (colours that made him think of magic well before Hagrid broke down the door to the shack on that island in the middle of the sea). Like, to his right is forest landscape spanning an entire wall, the trees just about letting the sky of every shade of purple and blue Harry knows peak through between vivid green leaves, and the trunks with golden veins running through them bracketing the fireplace made of... of the same white opal that is encased in his own wand, if he’s seeing right. And moss. There’s moss on the trunks too, soft to the touch.

It’s... nice. And nothing that a normal bedroom would have, so he loves it. Adores it, really.

At each side of the fireplace are two rustic, wooden doors built into the trees with the doorknobs as shiny geodes. Peeking inside the door to the left, he sees his wardrobe, which in a similar vein to the bedroom, looks entirely magical.

The cabinets of his walk-in wardrobe are the same warm brown with gold details as the rest of his furniture, also adorned with the geode doorknobs of the doors. In the middle though, straight across him stands a large full-length mirror with golden snakes gliding amongst crystals of every colour at the edges, hissing at him invitingly.

He’s tempted to step inside. Why shouldn’t he? It’s his now. His. No matter how hard it is to believe it.

But on the other hand... He knows that he probably wouldn’t leave very soon. Which... he hasn’t even explored much of his room, has he? So... he probably shouldn’t stop to stare at the crystals.

He’ll have time later. This is his now, after all. No one is going to take it away.

So instead of stepping inside and onto the moss-like rug laying in the middle, similar to the one in the bedroom (because, again, he isn’t sure that he would leave), he checks out the other door hiding the bathroom, running his hands along the edges of the fireplace while passing it (It’s sparkly. He likes sparkly).

And, like, wow. Straight across him, there’s a bathtub. A geode bathtub. Like, an enormous purple crystal that he can fill with water and bath in. And above it... a stained-glass window depicting a lily.

Did he mention that he loves magic? Because he does. He does so damn much.

Harry shuts the doors before the first tears could form, takes another deep breath, and turns around.

...Turns out, he too gets stairs for his bed. Encased in an entire wall of white opal.

He’s going to bloody faint at this rate. Or break down crying. Whichever comes first.

The left side of the stairs, close to the window, is left free while the right side has a desk curving straight until the door opening to the hallway. Above them on the opal wall (he just can’t get himself over the fact that he’s got an opal wall across his forest landscape wall) a few flat sections are jutting out, basically working as shelves. And when he looks up, glowing golden stars blink down at him from the dark blue night sky painted on the ceiling.

It, the whole room, should be overwhelming.

It isn’t. Not to him.

He loves every part he sees, every little detail that greets him as if stepping into a sweet dream he’s afraid to wake up from, afraid that he’ll be greeted by the sharp sound of the rapping on the door of his cupboard. But he won’t. Because this isn’t a dream and there’s no thumping of feet above roughly waking him or sharp screeches ordering him to get up or else. That’s in the past, and never going to happen ever again.

...Something doesn’t add up though. Like, his room seems somewhat... smaller than the others’?

He isn’t bothered by it or anything! He quite likes it as it is, prefers it actually, but he’s sure that the others won’t see it as fair or something equally strange and—

He goes closer to his bed, then up the stairs.

...Ah.

Nope, no smaller room here. His bed just spans the whole rest of the room.

He plops down onto the soft green comforter (he would have said it was moss too if it didn’t feel like plush heaven) and takes in his sleeping space. In the middle there’s his bed alright, soft and spacious. To the sides though he has even more space to roll out to, bracketed by bookcases made from opal in the front and then the bare wall at the back, the night sky depicted on his ceiling finding its way there too.

It’s everything he never knew he wanted.

As if reading his thoughts, Tom comes inside and sits down onto the topmost stairstep. He takes in the room with just as much wonder as Harry feels, then reached out and ruffles his hair.

“Do you like it?” he asks, and Harry can only nod, unable to find the words to express how much he does so.

Really, messing up that ritual was the best thing that could have happened to him, ever. It’s on par with getting his Hogwarts Letter.

Tom smiles and pokes one of the tiny glowing mushrooms attached to the moss decorating his opal (Opal!) wall. “If you see a circle of these, please don’t jump into it. I don’t want to bargain with the fairies.”

Harry lets out a few wet chuckles as they stand up. He would also prefer not to, though he can’t really promise anything.

„At least the others’ rooms looked mostly normal. I don’t think Aunt Petunia would approve of mine. It’s just, it’s so...”

“Magical?” Tom asks with a knowing gleam in his eyes, now an exact match to Harry’s unnatural greens.

He can only nod. It’s still strange to see his own eyes mirrored on someone else, but... This way even Aunt Petunia can’t say that only he has this freaky colour. Because it isn’t freaky; it’s beautiful. It was his mum’s and now it’s his new dad’s. And he loves it.

“Well then, how fortunate it is that she’s never coming near you again, right?” And with that said, Tom steps back into the hallway, leaving Harry alone in his new bedroom.

He shakes his head, wiping his face with his sleeves.

Tom is... He’s right. No more Aunt Petunia and her disapproving glares anymore. No more Uncle Vernon with his red face and clenched fists, no more Dudley chasing him around Surrey with his friends. No more being relegated to Mrs Figg babysitting him in her house smelling of cat pee while his relatives have the time of their lives and no more Aunt Marge getting her dog to chase him up a tree until the sun goes down and he’s left shaking from the biting cold breeze.

No more denied meals and hurting body and slaving away under ungrateful people that only ever show him scorn and never kindness.

No more Dursleys.

No more being Harry Potter.

He leaves the room behind with only a parting glance, because he will come back here. It’s his now, after all. His and no one else’s.

His new siblings are already waiting for him outside the door, bearing twin looks of understanding as he joins the line they form before their father.

Tom smiles. “I took a peek through this last door next to us; it leads up to the tower we spied upon arrival. From what I can tell, it used to house the owls of the household, but now it’s completely empty. You’ll have enough time to check it out when Hedwig arrives.” He gestures back towards the stairs. “I think it’s time we explore the basement, hm?”

He has to immediately jump out of the way as they almost bowl him over in their haste to race down the stairs to the main floor and then even lower, ending up in another corridor full of windows while he follows after them with a soft chuckle. Harry wins the race of course, elbowing both of his siblings in the gut to get downstairs first.

He opens the first door he sees.

“We have a sage-green guest suite!” he shouts over to them, still gasping for breath, and only gets glares for his efforts. Which, rude. His elbows aren’t even that pointy.

He runs to the next door and finds—

...A duelling chamber. They have a bloody duelling chamber.

By the time he shakes himself out of it, the others catch up and stand there with him, similarly stunned. And they have every right to; their two-storey duelling chamber looks awesome. The builders kept the stone walls and floor, making the whole room look quite like the Chamber of Secrets. Only with less flooding and more light, what with the big windows spanning the long walls.

“...How come they put so many windows into this room? Won’t they break often?” Hermione asks, going up to one and gasping.

It looks like these windows also function as doors. Like most ones here seem to do so.

“Well, I would imagine they had cast the necessary strengthening charms on them,” Tom theorises from the doorway. “Come on, we still have a few rooms to go.”

They go back to him with a pout and open the next door. It’s—

...Another corridor with even more doors.

“Ah, these must be for the house-elves,” Tom says nonchalantly. As if that clears things up.

“What’s a house-elf?” Hermione asks him with a frown.

Ron is the one to provide an answer this time.

“Creatures that serve under old wizarding families. I think muggles use other muggles as servants, right?” At Hermione’s cautious nod, he continues, “Well, house-elves cook and clean for magicals, and do other things too if ordered. Honestly, I don’t really know any more, just that some people treat them very badly but they can’t leave unless given clothes,” he says with a shrug. “Mum used to complain how easier life would be if we could afford to get one, but we... err. Couldn’t. For understandable reasons.”

It... hits a bit too close, Harry supposes.

Hermione’s face becomes alarmingly blank in a matter of seconds, making him reflexively take a step away from her.

He’s not stupid. He’s seen that expression before. It usually ends with her knuckles bloodied.

“Excuse me,” she carefully enunciates and, wow, are the ends of her hair crackling? It sure seems so, “but are you implying that Magical Britain not only has slavery legalised but is in fact an actual part of society?”

“Err... Who did you think washed your clothes at school?”

“I DON’T KNOW, MAYBE THE MAGIC OF THE CASTLE?!”

“Look, just because you don’t like it—”

“IT’S SLAVERY!”

“AND IT’S NOT MY BLOODY FAULT!”

Tom sighs and keeps her from launching herself at Ron with his hands on her shoulders. “Sweetheart, before you start raining your wrath onto half the Wizengamot, please consider the circumstances.”

“What. Circumstances.”

Tom spins her around so they can be eye-to-eye. “While yes, the way some families treat house-elves is abhorrent, Ron left out a crucial detail. They need to be grounded by family magic for a long and healthy life, otherwise their own magic gets out of hand and kills them. Do you understand?” He squeezes her shoulders. “It’s all well and good to champion for creature rights, but do so in possession of all the information. You can’t just free them all and pat yourself on the back while they slowly wither away.”

She purses her lips looks down at her shoes, but reluctantly nods.

Tom sighs and lets her go. “You can go into politics when you’re older and try to change the laws to your liking if you want to take a more direct approach. Just let me get out of the government first before you decide to burn it into ashes, please,” he adds, which makes her smile at least. A tiny bit, but that counts.

They continue to explore the house. The next door leads into an empty, windowless room; probably for rituals. It looks similar enough to the one in Hogwarts, anyway. Only without the strange eyes carved into the stone columns. After that they find a potions lab, which they could have done without if you ask Harry, and passing that, they arrive into another sitting room with large windows facing the courtyard and fancy leather sofas and armchairs littering it. The room feels very... adult-ish, for lack of a better word, unlike the rest of the house with walls of all the colours Harry could ever dream up.

So far it seems like every room in the basement has stone walls aside from the guest suite. They all have the nice dark brown wood floor too, except for the potions lab, the ritual chamber and the duelling chamber, which is a reasonable thing. Probably. Aunt Petunia’s house renovation shows didn’t exactly cover safety precautions to be taken when designing magical rooms.

They cross the basement sitting room and end up in a square -shaped space with a round table in the middle, currently seating six but probably capable of more if they get additional chairs from somewhere.

“What’s this for?” Harry asks, confused. The table is literally the only thing here, the room’s walls bare aside from the one with the large arch that make passage possible.

Tom hums. “Game room, probably, considering the next one is some kind of pub and the one after that contains a billiards table.

...Wizards have billiards?

...

...Fine, alright, that was a stupid question. Wizards have chess for goodness’ sake, they could have just taken every fun activity from the muggles and made it more... Well, magical.

“Do you know how to play?” Ron ask, bypassing the long bar and inspecting the clubs. Harry has never played billiards, but Uncle Vernon sometimes watched it on the telly and it seemed kind of fun, though he never really understood how someone won a match.

Tom picks up a ball to inspect it and grins. “I do, actually. Wouldn’t you know, the Slytherin common room had a table like this back in the day and Abraxas used to beat us all in it somehow.”

“Abraxas who?”

“Malfoy.” He laughs at their offended little faces. “I can teach you later if you want,” he offers, and really, there’s only one possible answer to that. Harry wants to beat Malfoy in billiards if he ever sees him again in the far future.

“Can we go outside now?” Hermione asks impatiently, already standing by the door and tapping her feet. Strange; Harry would have thought she would be all for shutting herself in the library, but it seems like for once her curiosity has won. Or she just wants to get the tour over and done with so she can hole herself up with a mountain of books, which seems like the more likely scenario.

“After you, dear,” Tom says with a chuckle, gallantly letting her lead them outside.

They cross the inner courtyard, which provides them with another seating area. Harry has to give it to the castle; they sure have many seating options. He just hopes that there are charms to keep the entire place relatively clean, because it’s... It’s big. Much bigger than Number 4 Privet Drive. And he really doesn’t want to know how long it would take to clean it.

He grins as he looks up and notices the line of lamps hanging above their heads that will surely be beautiful in the evening when the sun goes down, but it’s even better when they go through the open air pass under the living room and arrive to the backyard.

Which, wow. They have a fountain, and behind that five greenhouses. Five.

Oh Neville, where are you?

Harry looks to his left, seeing the stables that Ron has already run to check, and is now walking back from with a disappointed pout.

“Empty,” he says with a head shake.

Harry isn’t that bothered by that discovery. Like, sure, it would have been fun to see some most likely magical horses, but he doesn’t think that they would have had any idea how to take care of them, and their dad doesn’t seem like the type to clean a stable out of his own volition. So no, the stables are better left empty for now.

He sees a path leading into the forest though, so that must be how they can reach the lake. An adventure for another day, preferably in the spring when they won’t freeze to death on the shore.

He looks to his right, where he doesn’t notice any more surprises, only another path. He recalls seeing a clearing from the porch of Tom’s sitting room, so this one must lead there.

Again, a mystery for later.

Harry nods at the greenhouses. “At least you will have space for teaching us Herbology,” he teases his dad, who grimaces at the thought of dirt under his nails, probably. He seems like the sort to not have that as his favourite subject.

“We will have to look through them later this week, see if there’s anything in there. But for now...” He begins to walk towards the path to their right without finishing his sentence.

...It looks like that won’t be a mystery for long then.

They follow him into the forest, slowly trudging through the snow. Tom should be proud of them; they only have to stop once to separate a wildly grinning Ron and a soaked Hermione after their sudden snowball fight.

Her glare promises pain in the very near future.

They must have been walking for no more than twenty minutes when they arrive at the clearing. And it’s... a clearing. That’s it. Pretty is it is with the untouched snow covering it, there’s nothing more to it.

“...This is nice and all, but what exactly are we doing here?” Ron asks, looking around and seeing, you guessed it, trees. Trees and nothing else.

Tom takes out the paperweight from his pocket. “I thought we should deal with this early on,” he explains, and then transfigured it back into Quirrel.

Who isn’t moving.

...Shit.

Ron nudges it with his shoes. “...I think you fucked up.”

And, like... he isn’t wrong.

Tom looks confused for a moment, but then understanding dawns on him. “Oh, don’t worry, I have already absorbed the main soul. We just have to make the corpse disappear.”

...Did— did he say corpse?!

“You killed him?!” Hermione shouts, very much alarmed. Because there is a bloody corpse at their feet that they essentially helped make.

Tom has the gall to still look confused. “One would think you would be more chill with murder after killing a person yourself.” WHAT. “The rat definitely wasn’t a real rat, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t have a body without actual human sacrifice,” he explains further and pats each of their heads. “By the way, congrats on your first murder. I would appreciate it if you didn’t do it again without a quick and foolproof way to dispose of the evidence.”

...

...Bloody hell. They are murderers at eleven.

It’s a good think that they had already left Hogwarts and there’s no one to send them to prison.

“You didn’t answer our question,” Hermione states with a glare, quickly getting over what still has Harry reeling.

Like, come on. Corpse.

“Oh, about that.” Tom crosses his arms. “Technically, I just stood before the door and thought about how much I regretted ever being part of the main soul and making all the other horcruxes. Quirrel probably died when the soul piece left his body and then I just had to break in. His wards weren’t even that complicated, though I don’t know what I expected from such a disaster of a man under the influence of an insane wraith.”

...Well, that’s one way to go about it.

“So...” Ron says after a sceptical look at Quirrel’s very much dead body apparently, “What now?”

“Well I was thinking about burying it somewhere here but—”

The sudden appearance of five skeletal horses interrupt him.

Harry has to admit that they look very cool, all shiny black scales and leathery wings. Nightmare horses, but still. He likes animals (ones that aren’t Ripper, that is. That damn thing was sent by the devil and he won’t ever be convinced of the opposite).

...He really wants to pet one.

He’s about to get closer when his dad grabs his shoulder.

“Though they aren’t usually dangerous to us humans, we have to be very careful with approaching these skittish creatures— Oomph.” One tiny magic horse head-butts him in the stomach and knocks the breath out of him. Still, Tom starts to pet it after hearing his children’s snickers. “...Not so skittish then,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Are these the thestrals you talked about at Gringotts?” Hermione asks, hesitantly petting one too. “Garnak mentioned superstitions...?”

“A load of hogwash,” he says with a huff. “The ignorant believe that seeing them brings misfortune upon you, just because they remain invisible to everyone who hasn’t seen someone die.”

...Oh. You poor, misunderstood horseys, Harry thinks, hugging the nearest one. It licks his face. You aren’t unlucky, are you. No, you aren’t, no, you aren’t.

“Hogwarts has a herd of them; they pull the carriages you would have rode from Second Year onwards,” Tom adds, continuing to pet his tiny thestral, watching as two other ones give Ron a new hairdo. “They are carnivorous, so they eat... meat...”

His gaze slides to the corpse lying not far from them. As if reading his mind, the thestrals step closer to it and start sniffing around.

And then one just... takes a bite out of the corpse. Right in front of them.

...Maybe they should look into potential therapy sessions. Do magicals even have therapy?

“...Ah, well. That’s taken care of,” their dad states, unbothered by the gory sight happening not five metres from them as he takes the corpse of Scabbers out of his pocket and throws it in the general direction of the demon horses. One of them snatches it out of the air and swallows it in one gulp. “We can come back some other time, but for now I think we should get back to the library, hm?”

And with that he turns around and walks back to the house, Harry, Ron and Hermione scrambling to follow after him.

That’s quite enough trauma for today in Harry’s opinion.

The walk back to the library is spent in silence. Upon arrival they plop down onto the comfy sofas inside and just... stare into nothing for a moment.

Sue them, lots happened today.

“Why so tired?” Antioch asks them with a teasing smile from the painting above the fireplace. “Home’s too much for you?”

“We just saw a herd of thestrals eat our former DADA teacher,” Harry says, staring at the vaulted ceiling as the residents of the portrait are only able to blink at them for a long moment, caught speechless.

“...I think it’s time you expand on the particular circumstances that led you here,” comes Ignotus’ answer after a silent minute. It doesn’t sound like a request.

And... well, they have to get used to explaining their little story, right? If their dad will eventually wants a partner, they can’t just build a relationship on complete lies... Or at least not for forever.

Tom lets out a deep sigh and decides to just rip the bandage off. “I was an idiot in my youth and tore my soul apart, starting at fifteen.” Well, he isn’t puling his punches. “Then I became a dark lord and just kept going at it until one day I just... Messed up, I guess. I’m technically only the piece that got stuck in Harry’s scar, so thanks to the mental damage, the details of most of my life after Hogwarts escape me.”

Cadmus frowns down at his descendant. “I do hope you have learned your lesson.”

“Oh, I did, believe me. No horcruxes for me anymore. Or at least not after I absorb the remaining ones. Which reminds me—” He digs the diadem out from his satchel and drops it onto the coffee table, proceeding to glare at it. After a while a strange black mist flow out and into... Well, him.

It’s all very anticlimactic.

“...That’s it?” Ron asks sceptically.

“What, did you expect a complicated runic ritual and a fight for dominance?”

“...Kinda,” he admits, Harry nodding along.

Tom sighs again. “Kid, you have to understand that in normal circumstances, feeling soul-deep regret at creating a horcrux in the first place isn’t really possible when you have already gone ‘round the bend. I have the unusual advantage of being socialised by an abused kid for a decade and seeing firsthand what my actions wrought upon us. It puts things into perspective.” He leans back into the sofa, looking back up to the portrait of the three men. “Anyway, I’ve spent the last ten years inside Harry’s subconscious, only acquiring a body when these little menaces decided to experiment with ritual modification. They used Ron’s pet rat as a ritual sacrifice, who unbeknownst to them was actually human, though their identity will probably remain a mystery. After all, animagi stay in their animal forms if they die in it.”

Well, that did explain a bit more than he did in the forest. And at least no one has any evidence of their crime...?

But, err.

“What’s an animagi?” Harry asks, still a bit confused. It’s... is it some kind of sickness? If so, he feels a little bad.

“Animagi, plural for Animagus, are witches or wizards who have learned to transform into an animal,” Tom states. So not a sickness, then. “Professor McGonagall, if you think back on your first Transfiguration lesson, showed you this skill when she turned from a cat into a human. Though when you have achieved the transformation, you are obligated to register your form at the Ministry, lest they send you to prison.”

...Ah. Yeah, that makes sense. Except for the prison sentence, but Harry isn’t going to poke that with any sticks in the near future.

Just one thing though... Why was the rat with the Weasleys, anyway? He would like to know that? Please?

“So after waking up from our forced nap, we snuck out of Hogwarts and he did a bunch of paperwork at Gringotts. And now we are here,” Ron finishes their tale with a shrug, ignoring the elephant in the room.

Which is cool. Harry isn’t going to mention it if he doesn’t want to. Even if he’s curious. And concerned. So bloody concerned because apparently a person was living with his best friend’s family without their knowledge.

Ignotus looks quite distressed for some reason. “But... What about your families? Surely—”

“Please don’t make us open that can of worms,” Hermione cuts him off, her lips pursed into a tight line. “We are trying to keep our new father figure from murder, if possible.”

...Yeah. Though Harry doesn’t think they stand a chance at that, especially if he gets reminded of the Dursleys.

“I have already absorbed the soul piece that was possessing their DADA teacher, so we at least don’t have to worry about my dark lord-persona making a comeback,” Tom continues, unbothered by the commiserating looks shared between his kids. “And now I’m done with the diadem too, which only leaves four.”

...Excuse him, four?!

Their ancestors mirror Harry’s incredulous expression.

“How the bloody hell did you function?!” Antioch exclaims, eyebrows at his hairline.

“Barely,” Tom answers in a wry voice and puts the diadem into his bag. “Ah, I think we forgot about the envelopes.”

...Oh, yeah. They did get those.

Harry waits until he distributes each one belonging to the wands and carefully opens his, finding a letter written by... Oleander Peverell?

He drags his finger along the tiny stars and lightning bolts drawn alongside the edge of the paper and begins to read.

Hello there, my lovely descendant!

My name is Oleander Peverell and I will probably be long dead by the time you get this letters in your hands. Have no fear though!

I am, or was, I suppose, a wandmaker. And a seer too, to boot.

You might be asking yourself, what does this matter? Why, it means I was able to make you a personalised wand!

The fact that you are reading this letter means that one of my creations from the Peverell Vault chose you as their master. Congratulations! You have acquired a faithful companion on your journey to greatness.

Yours I made from fir wood and Grim hair, adding white opal to strengthen it.

If you want to know more about the particular characteristics, I do recommend opening my book Wondrous Wandlore. There should be a copy of it in the library.

May you break free of all control and turn into a wonderful wizard.

Sincerely,

Oleander Peverell

P.s. Have fun with the thestrals!”

He sounds so... nice. Such a shame they didn’t have the chance to get to know him.

...Maybe they should check out those portraits that lay in the artefact vault.

Harry looks up to see how the others are reacting and finds Hermione already out of her seat in frantic search by the bookshelves.

Typical.

He turns to Ron, who on the other hand has a strange expression on his face.

“What’s the matter?” he asks the boy, sliding closer on the sofa.

“I...” Ron starts hesitantly after snapping out of his daze, “It says mine’s a wand for champions. I— I don’t—”

Their dad interrupts him with a severe expression. “And he’s right; you are an exceptional wizard. You have produced magic well enough with an unfit wand, haven’t you?” At Ron’s uncertain nod, he continues, “There you have it. You are smart and strong; never doubt that. I don’t intend to make the same mistakes your previous parents did, got it?

And oh, Ron’s ears are red as he ducks his head down, but they do get a tiny nod out of him.

Harry checks and yes, he has tears in his eyes.

Poor kid.

He draws him into a hug for good measure.

They come back to themselves when Hermione drops down next to their dad and shoves a book into their faces. “Found it! Mine’s walnut and Graphorn horn and it says walnut is for intelligent witches and wizards, which, duh, but Graphorn horn is for aggressive and stubborn people and it says its unsuitable for begginers and do you think—”

“Slow down, dear,” Tom says with a chuckle as he takes the book into his lap. “Let’s see... Yes, I see what you mean. And though I do think the components suit you, you will have to earn its... compliance, shall we say.”

She chews on her lips. “But it will work, won’t it? If I’m unable to use it in a crucial moment—”

“Of course it will, you just need to master it properly. But once you do, I’m sure you will perform astounding feats of magic,” he says with a small smile that Hermione mirrors after a bit of hesitation, then turns to the boys.

“What did you get?”

“Red oak and Billywig stinger,” Ron says, already turning to the relevant pages. “And... Uh, Larimar, apparently? It’s the blue stone in my wand according to the guy that made it, not an opal as I guessed.”

Their dad gives a hum before answering. “Red oak for the hot tempered, quick-witted and adaptable; good for duelling. Billiwig stinger... Optimistic, but quickly bored.” He raises an eyebrow as he looks up at the boy. “Excellent with charms, especially levitation-based ones?”

Ron’s face burns as Harry and Hermione choke out exaggerated Leviosa-s between giggles.

“Fir and Grim hair,” Harry says when he’s finally able to breath. He glances at the book on his dad’s lap. “The survivors wand, huh? Sounds right. And... loyal, mischievous and protective? I do hope so.” He isn’t going to comment on the insecure and vulnerable part. “How about you, Dad? What did you get?

Tom turns a few pages and snorts. “Blackthorn; a wand for heroes, apparently. Or warriors, at the least. And I do tend to be competitive, I suppose...” He looks pensive as he reads further and then turns the page again. “Snooping Evil Venom. Great imagination, though the owners can be sadistic and play mind games. Well, that checks out.”

They read the book for a while more under the fond gazes of their three ancestors, learning a lot about wandlore. Harry wonders why he didn’t care when he got his holly wand. This is so cool, basically a personality test!

After a while though Tom looks up and, seeing the darkening sky through the large windows, stands up to... make dinner?

“Do you even know how to cook?” Ron asks, sceptic about his skills.

Tom sends him a mock glare. “I had to feed myself after graduation, you know.”

“Which you don’t remember,” Hermione adds helpfully.

“I remember enough,” he says as they step into the kitchen. “And you will be adequate help, I’m sure. Or Harry will at least. Now do get me the pasta from the grocery bag, please.”

He is right, in the end; he does know how to cook. And it’s fun to do it together as a family, not just Harry alone slaving away under his ungrateful relatives.

Hermione isn’t allowed to get near anything flammable again though, like, ever.

They are in the middle of consuming their big plates of delicious spaghetti when Ron asks, “Isn’t it cool how the house is perfectly to our taste? It’s as if someone designed it just for us.”

And yes, Harry also had that thought during the day. It’s really cool. Almost as if...

As if it read their minds...

...

He glares at a black curtains that mimic a decidedly unapologetic shrugging motion as Ron headbutts the table.

“Great. As if living in a sentient castle wasn’t enough, now we have a sentient house.”

Harry pats him on the back. “We are still in a castle, according to the portfolio. Just in a mini one. But... at least the staircases don’t move?” he tries to console him while their dad and sister just continue to eat, unbothered.

Wait, no, they are definitely smirking at them.

Shortly Tom charms their plates to wash themselves and they are sent up to bath. Fortunately for them, their dad is susceptible to puppy eyes, and thus they end up having a bubble bath in his enormous tub with Hermione still sporting her uniform’s shirt. Because apparently decides her virtue shall be protected or whatever.

Honestly, Harry doesn’t understand girls.

“When do you think they will discover us missing?” he asks while making Ron a beard from foam. It’s coming along nicely, though the tips of his moustache don’t seem willing to cooperate.

Hermione adopts a thoughtful expression as she leans her head on her hands. “Tomorrow for sure when we don’t go to class. I don’t know how much they noticed we weren’t present at any meals today.”

“...Mate, we won’t have any more classes this year,” Ron exclaims with wide eyes and gives Harry a wide grin. That action also gets the foam into his mouth, which in turn makes him gag and kind of ruins Harry’s work, but anyway.

Tom sighs and hands him a glass of water as he sits down at the edge of the tub. “Don’t cheer. I’m going to be your professor until you actually start school next year.”

“Bummer,” Ron says with a pout that Harry echoes, unlike Hermione who gives them a smug smirk.

They busy themselves with the bubbles for a short time, competing over who can make a bigger foam tower. The winner turns out to be Hermione, of course, with her superior understanding of physics, though Harry suspects some kind of trick at play.

It’s when during a heroic battle with the bubbles Tom gets ‘accidentally’ splashed that Harry notices the scars on his back through the soaked shirt. Scars that look eerily similar to the ones he still has, the lighting scar on his forehead the only one having disappeared after—

...Oh. Oh, no.

“Dad?” He can already feel the tears gathering in his eyes, damn it. “Did— did my scars appear on you too somehow? I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

Shit, he didn’t intend to do this. He was just happy that he—that he has a dad now, but he never really considered what living inside the scar on his forehead must have meant for him and now— If his dad got the scars he did then—

Damn it, he’s panicking. Again.

Tom lets out a line of hissy curses and draws him in for a hug, sokaig his shirt even more. “Shit, no, calm down. I’ve already had them, it’s not your fault.” And on he goes, petting Harry’s head as he sniffs into his chest. Ron and Hermione of course decide to make it a group hug.

“...Did you really have them?” Harry asks, his sniffles quieting down after a while. A very long while, but they do. Eventually.

His dad thinks a bit before answering. “...Yes. Have I mentioned I grew up in a catholic orphanage?”

...Ah.

Harry tightens his arms around him. “I’m sorry,” he says. He’s heard enough bad things from Aunt Petunia about places like that, even if in the end they were too afraid to leave him at one.

“It’s in the past,” Tom answers as he pats his head. “Shall we get out of the water? You will look like raisins if you stay much longer,” he says, drawing a wet chuckle out of Harry.

“But... How come you both kept your scars, but the one on Harry’s forehead disappeared?” Hermione asks with a frown as they are quickly bundled up into fluffy towels.

And that’s a good question. Hermione always has good questions, even if people are unwilling to hear them most times.

“Ah, well... I suppose it’s because it wasn’t really a normal scar,” Tom shares as he runs his fingers through his hair. “I... don’t know how to explain it better. It wasn’t caused by physical damage, rather by a mix of... me splitting off, and whatever Lily did that allowed Harry to survive the Killing Curse that night I— He—” He takes a deep breath and turns away from them for a moment. “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. Harry’s identifying trait is gone and the rest can be explained by my... technical relation to both of his parents. And should anyone ask about the other scars... Well. I’m sure we can come up with a sufficient explanation. No one should connect them to Magical Britain’s Saviour anyway.”

Hermione’s eyes flash with something Harry’s seen a few times. Usually when he mentions the Dursleys. “What about pyjamas?” she asks instead of whatever’s running through her head, her hands fisted in her towel. “We left all our clothes at Hogwarts.”

Tom stops drying Harry’s hair and looks towards the door. He thinks for a moment. “Loot the wardrobes,” is what he ends up saying.

And so they do. Ron and Harry find some light shirts that go down to their knees, which Harry guesses will do for tonight. They meet up with Hermione in the hallway outside their bedrooms, who already has a pretty Victorian nightgown on that makes her look like a princess in Harry’s opinion. He hopes she plans to keep it; it suits her.

They exchange a look and pop their heads inside their dad’s room.

“Can we sleep with you? Just for tonight,” Hermione asks while they shuffle inside.

If they are already through the threshold it’s harder to get them out. And really, could he tell them no and send them back to their cold silk sheets, all alone?

Of course not.

He lets out a sigh but doesn’t argue when they clamber up onto the bed and under the covers, bracketing him between them.

“Just for tonight,” he says. They nod and make themselves comfortable.

Ron and Hermione fall asleep almost right away, the excitement of the day getting to them instantly, but Harry is still awake enough to slowly turn his head towards Tom.

“Hey, Dad?” he calls, waiting until he meets his familiar green eyes. “Just so you know, you’ll have to be an extra good dad to not have my parents kick your arse in the afterlife.”

There’s a soft smile dancing on the man’s lips, just about visible in the low light seeping through the curtains he hasn’t yet closed. “I don’t plan to die yet,” he says with a huff, carding his fingers through Harry’s messy hair that not even the botched ritual managed to fix, but at least the others are suffering with him too now.

And really, there’s only one answer he can give to that, isn’t it?

“Good,” he states, unable to stifle a yawn. “Being an orphan sucked.”

Chapter Text

Minerva McGonagall watches the first years slowly trickle inside the classroom. For some reason, her Gryffindors have confusion written on all of their little faces, making her hesitate before starting class.

Maybe they have questions about last lesson’s material? That could be, but it should only be a few then, not everyone. And seeing that she’s pretty sure only Mr. Finnegan and Mr. Longbottom hadn’t managed to complete the assigned task...

Well. She supposes she could spare five minutes...

She’s about to open her mouth when Lavender Brown comes up to her, the girl’s curls bouncing around her shoulders.

Minerva calls on her decades of self-control not to yank on them. If she can tolerate Sybil’s dangling bells, then she can bloody resist this.

“Excuse me, Professor?” the girl asks, her eyes wide and worried. Which... might be of concern, depending on her next words. “Would you happen to know what happened to Professor Quirrel?”

Minerva frowns. Something happened to Quirinus? It’s true that she hadn’t seen the young Defense teacher in the dining hall since... dinner the day before yesterday, now that she thinks back, but he could just simply be swamped by grading papers. It isn’t that unheard of, especially in his case.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Miss Brown. Why are you asking?”

Parvati Patil steps up behind her, thankfully bearing no distracting jewellery. Sometimes, Minerva curses her ability to turn into a cat. “It’s just, he didn’t appear for class today, so we decided to ask Professor Flitwick what to do, and he told us to use it as a free period. He said he’ll notify Headmaster Dumbledore, but could you please tell Professor Quirrel we wish get better if he’s fallen ill? He’s always so nervous in class and we shouldn’t add to his worries.”

...Well, that’s indeed worrying. And sweet. But worrying.

“I certainly will, Miss Patil, Miss Brown. Now, please do sit down if you don’t have any question pertaining to the material, we are starting class,” Minerva says and goes to distribute the matches from her desk. It’s high time her students try their hand at turning them into hairpins instead of needles, the more intricate the better.

After class, she will have to visit Quirinus’ quarters, see if he’s there. Or maybe the Hospital Wing? If he wasn’t able to go to the classroom, then maybe Poppy’s keeping him in and just forgot to notify the faculty.

She’s already halfway through the lesson when she notices that three of her students are missing.

“Class? Where is Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger?” Honestly, maybe she should transfigure one of them into a pocket watch—

“...We, um don’t really know?” Neville Longbottom mutters when everyone else just sits there in silence, the quiet words slicing through Minerva’s calm demeanour like the particularly sharp knife she had to temporarily confiscate from the youngest Nott boy just earlier that day. She stares at Longbottom as he slides lower in his seat upon her scrutiny. “I mean we— we haven’t seen them in a while...”

WHAT.

“How long.”

Longbottom looks up at her, startled. “W-what?”

Minerva takes a deep breath; it wouldn’t do to scare the poor boy over what’s surely nothing. What better be nothing.

Though those three haven’t yet missed any classes (Miss Granger would probably go into cardiac arrest if someone even suggested it to her), they may have gotten lost amongst the many secret passages. The Marauders used to do that all the time too after all, so she expected to have to deal with that scenario again sooner or later. And the children are still new here, she can’t exactly blame them for taking a wrong turn.

“How long have they been missing? Surely you can tell me that, seeing that you sleep in the same dorm with two out of the three students.”

There, a completely calm sentence. Now if only her heartbeats would mirror it...

Longbottom bites at his lower lip as he thinks up his answer. “I— We haven’t seen them since... Yesterday? I— I mean, err, more like, Sunday evening?” The boy ducks his chin, as if afraid he will get scolded. Which, note to self, write to Augusta Longbottom about what the bloody hell happened to her grandson’s self-esteem. It’s illogical and unhealthy and she needs answers if she wants to do anything about it.

But for now, WHAT.

“Are you saying, Mr. Longbottom, that three students have been missing for more than a day? With the faculty none the wiser?” Longbottom chances a shy nod but doesn’t look into her eyes, so she turns to the rest of the class who are very obviously playing possum. “Anyone else? Have you seen any of them since Sunday evening?”

Merlin, she really hopes this is truly just a misunderstanding, but the picture keeps getting grimmer and grimmer as the students only shake their heads.

...Shit.

“You have the rest of the period free while I speak to the headmaster.”

And with that, she marches out of the classroom without a backwards glance, straight up into the headmaster’s office.

She doesn’t knock.

“Albus! Potter, Weasley and Granger have been missing since Sunday evening!”

If he knew and didn’t tell her she will strangle him with his own beard and—

Albus looks up at her with a frown. “We also can’t find Quirinus, if you believe it. The house-elves have been searching through the castle, but so far I’m afraid we don’t know where he—”

“I don’t care!” she interrupts, because that’s not the point. “Quirinus is a capable adult and can take care of himself. But my students are missing.”

She slaps her hands down on his desk for emphasis, simultaneously rattling the half-empty teacup and almost toppling a precariously balancing heap of paperwork into it.

She couldn’t care less.

The bastard has the gall to give her a serene smile. “Come now, Minerva. I’m sure they’ve just been a bit too busy wandering the secret passages, just like James and his friends. Surely, if anything happened, we would kn—”

At that exact moment, the floo flares and Molly Weasley’s shrill voice fills the room. “ALBUS! ALBUS, THE CLOCK!”

Minerva keeps herself from hissing at the fireplace. Much as she’s amicable to Molly, she doesn’t like sudden sharp noises.

The man lets out a tired sigh but plasters on one of his grandfatherly smiles she so abhors in times like these. “Yes, Molly? What seems to be the problem?”

“It’s Ron!” she cries. Minerva has to fight the urge to cover her sensitive ears. “I was just checking on the clock, the one that shows every family member’s whereabouts, and I found his arm on the floor!”

...Minerva really doesn’t like where this is heading.

Albus just keeps smiling. “My, have you tried reattaching it? You know, I think I know this watchmaker—”

“HE’S DEAD, ALBUS! You hear me?! Dead. That’s what the arm falling off means. What will I— What will we— And what about Ginny—”

...Bloody hell.

This time even Albus shares her alarm. “Are you absolutely sure—”

“Yes.” Her voice leaves no place for argument.

Minerva catches herself on the armchair before the desk. That’s... No.

Just... No.

“Albus, do you think Quirinus...” She stops when he sees how pale the headmaster got. Her eyes narrow. “What aren’t you telling me.”

The bastards avoids her eyes as he stands up from his ostentatious chair and goes to the fireplace. “I’m afraid we have found ourselves in quite the pickle. I will leave sharing the news to you. Preparations have to be made.”

Wha— “But Albus! We can’t yet know what—”

But he’s already gone.

Professor McGonagall calls them into her office Monday afternoon to tell them their little brother is dead. Fred would like to think they did an Oscar-worthy performance.

“So... What’s the plan?” George asks as he leans back against the headboard of his bed, the curtains closed and warded with plenty of illegal magic for which the Ministry would chuck them into Azkaban without a second thought. Fred rather likes sitting with crossed legs at the foot of the bed and gaze at his masterpiece with pride. It took them many a trip to the restricted section (and a bit of bribing and blackmail but who cares about that) to work out this specific combination of spells and rune chains to get the desired effect.

Hmm... Now that Ronniekins successfully acquired a new guardian, maybe they could access something more... advanced...

“The plan is, Brother Dearest,” he plops a Berty Bott’s bean into his mouth and relishes in the sweet orangey taste that spreads on his tongue, “that we pretend like our lives depend on it.”

Because really, it does. And Ronnie’s, and their new little siblings’, and their new pet dark lord’s. And probably lots of others’, seeing that most likely none of them would come quietly upon discovery.

George huffs. “I know that, git. But how? We could try crying our eyes out I guess, but really, that would be hell on our skincare routine.” He grimaces and groans into a pillow. “Ugh, can you imagine how bad Mum will be after this?”

“I’d rather not, to be honest,” Fred replies. Even the idea makes a shiver run down his spine. “I was thinking... Wouldn’t us acting out be a reasonable response to grief? If we’re going to have to deal with people drowning us in pity, at least make it fun.”

George squints up at him from behind the pillow. “You have that mean smirk again.” Shit, backtrack, backtrack. “No, wait, I didn’t— Argh, forget it. You know I don’t care. You do you, so long as we have a way to hide the body. Just, however much fun you’ll have with this, don’t show that expression to anyone else. You know how they would react, and neither of us wants a repeat of that incident.”

Ah, yes. That incident. The reason they let Ron get away with this scotch free at all.

Yeah, they wouldn’t want him in the headmaster’s gentle care, that’s for sure. Poor Ronnie would break way too quickly.

“Hm... He’s tainted now. What do you think they would do to him? Maybe muck around a bit with his magic, hm? Or, no, he could go straight to sealing it. Or do you think he would just kill him? Kill all three? Considering his reputation, he could probably get away with it even if it became public knowledge.”

He’s sure that the headmaster wouldn’t just leave them be, there’s no chance of that. Not when their dear mother sicced him on her twins at the slightest sign of anything being wrong with them. But then again, she does so hate anything different from what she decided was right, good and light...

George hugs the pillow close to his chest, and Fred battles with the urge to turn it into a Lee-plushie. They are having a serious conversation right now.

“Maybe if we cry enough before her... It could balance the meaner pranks. Or do you think that’s too much?”

Fred grins. It may just have too many teeth. “I think that’s just perfect, dear brother. Now, what I was thinking—”

“Wait.” Seeing George’s piercing gaze, he obediently shuts up. “What do we tell the others?”

...Others? What others? There’s no one else that—

Oooh, Georgie meant their brothers! And Ginny. Must not forget Ginny, the only one that matches Fred in wrongness. She just hides it better.

He shrugs. “I don’t see why we should tell them anything. We are grieving, just like them. Isn’t that enough?”

“You know they won’t snitch.” At Fred’s raised eyebrow, George adds, “And we can just obliviate Percy if he reacts poorly.”

Fred reaches up and clenches his shirt above his heart. “And they call me the ruthless twin. Preposterous. I shall petition right away at the Department of—” He gets a pillow in the face for his troubles. “Fine, fine. So we speak to the others, and we wipe their minds if things go awry. And I will speak to Ginny, lest she breaks your handsome nose for not telling her sooner. And make her learn Occlumency whenever His Darkness sends us the goods.”

George snorts. “And she won’t break your nose?”

“Oh, brother mine. I’m good enough at wandless magic to tie her up before she has the chance.”

Lee knows something’s wrong.

Well, something aside from the obvious. He knows that losing their brother hurt the twins deeply, but... Something just isn’t right. So he decides to corner them when they are alone in the dorm room.

“Oh, come on, Lee. We are fine,” comes George’s answer when Lee tries to pry.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Oh, they hide it well, there’s no doubt about that. But he likes to think that he knows the twins after three years spent together.

And they are acting.

“Do not brush me off, George Fabian Weasley. You aren’t telling me something. Why? I thought you trusted me.”

And it hurts, the fact that they still keep things from him.

He knows when to leave them to their own devices; they deserve their privacy. Merlin knows they don’t get any at home. But that they exclude him from something so important they had to constantly put on an act for the past few days...

Well, Lee won’t let this get between them, that’s for sure.

“Spill,” he says, and pins both twins with a glare.

They exchange a conspiratorial look. He isn’t bothered by it, not like he when they started their school career.

At first, they just seemed so... close, which was understandable, they are siblings, twins, but at the same time they were so... isolated. Maybe that’s the best word for it. Like, sure, they joked around with everyone and were good company all-in-all, and somehow that was enough for their year mates. Lee, though? Lee noticed that for all their merriment and bravado, no one really knew anything about them. Sure, they knew that they loved pranks, they heard much from Molly Weasley’s howlers, they saw how the twins acted all the time—

And that’s another thing. The Twins. Always Fred and George, the Weasley Twins, the newest batch of gingers wearing out the soles of their boots traversing Hogwarts’ corridors. No one even bothered to try and tell them apart, to get to know one separately from the other. Not until Lee caught Fred setting up a dungbomb above the entrance of the DADA classroom (He didn’t snitch. That year’s professor was a real piece of work.) and correctly guessed his name.

Really, sometimes he doesn’t understand why even their own mother has such a hard time telling them apart. The pattern of their freckles is different, for Merlin’s sake! And while George has more tiny flecks of silver in his right eye, Fred has more in the left, and he has a completely different look in his eyes when they speak too. His smile has more teeth too, and he has a bloody mole on his collarbone while George’s above his left eyebrow—

And, well, George is the Potions prodigy from the two. Fred is much better with combining runes and spells. Though telling the difference during class isn’t helped by the fact that they always partner up... And switch when their timetables differ. Many times.

And their hair is equally soft too. Which he only know because both George and Fred has a habit of falling asleep mid-research while bracketing Lee in the middle.

So no, Lee isn’t happy that they are shutting him out again. He doesn’t know why, but he will and then they will fix it together.

Because that’s what friends do. And he feels like he’s earned that title.

So Lee knows that he’ll have to play the waiting game. The twins aren’t used to sharing... anything, to be honest. Though he did become an exception to this after a while. But he endures and endures, and his patience pays off when Fred locks eyes with him.

“Tell me, Lee, have you heard of Occlumency and Legilimency?” he asks, head cocked to the side and eyes narrowed, as if he’s a cat hunting a mouse.

...Ah. So this won’t just be a friendly chat.

“You do remember that my mum’s a mind healer, right? It isn’t only purebloods who learn that stuff at their parents’ knees, I’ll have you know,” Lee snarks, rolling his eyes.

He rather hopes that they didn’t do anything too illegal. Or at least that they stuck to the general ones. He doesn’t have any contingency plans worked out for the more specific situations.

George huffs out a laugh. “Alright, fine. Let us gather our thoughts and we’ll let you in later. How does tonight behind our bed curtains sound?”

“Peachy,” he says wryly, and then they are off to the Great Hall, Fred at his left and George at his right, already planning tomorrow’s prank. Just like normal, if a bit more viciousness. And during it all, the residents of the castle are none the wiser that their eyes are harder than ever, their smirks hiding so much none of them will ever have the chance to know.

Lee just hopes they have sticky toffee pudding for desserts. He needs the energy and the comfort of something familiar for their coming talk.

And what a talk it is.

“Let me get this straight. Your little brother and his new best friends botched up a ritual in the middle of the night, which ended in them resurrecting the Dark Lord, adopting said dark lord as their father, severing every other family tie they had, and then sneaking out of Hogwarts?”

What. The. Fuck.

George gives him a bright grin, not in the least helpful to his sanity. It makes his face very punchable. “Pretty much!”

Lee screams into a pillow.

“...You okay?” comes George’s concerned voice from somewhere above his head. Curse their growth spurts, now he can’t even look them straight in the eye. Not even while sitting.

“Pish, he will get over it,” he hears Fred say, the bastard obviously unconcerned.

Lee glares up at them, still hugging the pillow. “And you just let them leave?! How do you know he won’t do away with them once they are out of sight?! Or, or—”

“Calm down, mate,” Fred says, cutting off his spluttering with a playful nudge of Lee’s shoulder. “He seemed entirely too attached to them for any of what your mind is conjuring up right now. Didn’t even make us swear any vows!”

“Yeah! He could have just killed us right there on the spot, you know,” George adds, the bloody idiot still grinning. “And we were promised books for guarding our mind. And letters from the kids. Which we should get any day now.”

Lee is so, so in over his head with these two.

He squints up at the idiots he dares to call his friends on good days. This isn’t one of those. “So your supposed grief is the reason why Fred has been behind your latest pranks?”

The boy quickly adopts his most innocent expression. “I have no idea what you mean,” he says. As if Lee doesn’t know that’s bullshit.

He scoffs and fully turns to him. “What, you didn’t want to offend my delicate sensibilities? Puh-lease. I’ve been your roommate for three years now. Just yesterday, I saw you modify a curse to make some poor sod hallucinate his mother spanking them before the whole school. In the great hall. During dinner. And I haven’t run yet, have I?”

Both twins just blink at him for a moment, dumbfounded. But then Fred gives him one of his true grins, the ones with way too many teeth that would normally have him send a prayer to Lady Magic for all their rapidly decreasing sanities.

“Quick question Lee, do you like guys?”

George groans into his arms.

They send them home for the weekend.

Suffice to say, it’s a mess, but at least they don’t have to suffer through it alone. Both Bill and Charlie came back for a short time to console their ‘grieving parents’ (Like, their dad seemed properly sad when they last checked on him in the shed, but their dear mother is more concerned for Harry’s living status and not his pretty much dead son, so...), which takes the attention off the twins. Most of the family’s, anyway. Their precious baby sister has been glaring at them since the moment they stepped foot into the Burrow.

Clever girl. Too clever, sometimes.

But now that everyone’s already supposedly asleep, except for them of course, Fred is free to sneak into Ginny’s room under the cover of the night.

He almost loses a kidney in the process.

“I trust that you have an acceptable explanation for why we are missing our brother,” she croons with what’s probably a knife jabbing into Fred’s very sensitive internal organs. He can also see her teeth gleam in the moonlight, which is very concerning. She’s... shit, she’s very cross with him.

The knife digs deeper, and Fred feels the sting of it slicing his skin open.

...Right. Explanations.

She doesn’t like them one bit.

“And you just let him leave?! With a stranger who admitted to being the Dark Lord?!”

“Look, Gin—” She throws some knick-knack at his head. At least it isn’t the knife. “Ow. See—” Another hard and painful thing. Fred ties her up tightly and prays she doesn’t manifest enough wandless magic via her immeasurable fury to burn the ropes right off. “As I was saying, however things became like this, we won’t snitch on him. Understood? We protect little Ronnie because we all would have killed for a chance to do the same. He’s in a good place now, no matter how... morally questionable his current guardian is. Also, we don’t want the old man to turn his brain into mush.”

“It’s the Dark Lord.”

“The emotionally attached Dark Lord. He won’t hurt them.”

Which is... Like, they aren’t completely sure of that, but the repercussions of the truth coming to light would be marginally worse. So the kids got to go with the surprisingly mushy Dark Lord and Fred will do his damnest to keep them there. Even if he has to make a deal with the devil. His sister, by another name.

She glowers at him in the darkness. “Fine. What’s in it for me?”

Is she for real?

“Oh come on, he’s your brother—”

“Yeah, but you are buying my silence, my lying skills and my self-control to not run after them right the bloody hell now. Also, you just turned all my chances to go anywhere else other than Gryffindor into ashes. So. Make your case.” She graciously gestures to the space between them, the ropes falling to the floor.

...Right. Fred forgot about the knife.

“Alright, you bloody miser,” he says with an exasperated sigh. Those books better be worth it. “If anyone bullies you at school, we’ll—”

She cuts him off, again. “Fred, if you want me to survive here until I can convince the bloody hat into sending me to Gryffindor, you will have to try harder than that. Mum’s been on my case about poor little captured Harry Potter and how much comfort he’ll need after the illustrious headmaster rescues him from the clutches of evil. I am already at my wit’s end.”

He glares at her and hopes it has some effect. He very much doubts it does. “Fine. I will teach you all the hexes and curses I know or will know throughout my school career. After you get to Hogwarts. I don’t want Mum to catch you doing any of that sort here. Believe me, you don’t want that.”

“Deal.”

Bloody fantastic.

One down, three to go.

Side note: make her learn Occlumency too. At least for some restraint before her blood boils over and she ends them all.

George supposes they shouldn’t have worried that much about their older siblings. Both Bill and Charlie turned out to be occlumenses curtesy of their jobs, and were quite accepting of the news of Ron’s apparent self-disownment.

They also thought the weak link was going to be Percy, who, as it is, gives them the surprise of the year when they corner him in the garden.

“So Ron is... He’s alive?”

They nod in sync. Best not to spook him with unusual behaviour.

Percy though doesn’t scold them as they predicted, or runs to Mum with the news. Instead he just gives them a sad expression.

It’s... oddly humbling. George doesn’t like the feeling.

“I’m the last one to know, I take it.”

...Well, that’s blunt. It’s not like they could deny it though.

George sighs. “Look, we—”

“No, I— I understand,” Percy mumbles, eyes trained on his stiff fingers clutching the worn book he’s been reading before they interrupted him. “You couldn’t be sure—”

George grabs the sleeve of Percy’s jumper and pulls at it to get his attention. It’s fraying at the edges.

Maybe... If this goes in the direction he thinks it does, maybe they could get him a new one? They did manage to get enough from their... side hustles that it wouldn’t hurt their budget too much. As a thanks for his cooperation.

Or they could just blackmail some pocket money out of their new acquittance. That would work too.

“Percy?”

He seems to hesitate, but in the end he looks them in the eye, the cornflower-blue matching theirs sad and haunted. “I— I heard the screams. Back then, I mean. The adults didn’t notice me because I hid outside under the window, but...” His voice wobbles and tears start to gather in his eyes. George feels Fred stiffen at his side. “And Ron is not... He isn’t like...”

Fuck. So that’s why he acted so strange around them all these years.

Fred soldiers on, ignoring both of his brothers’ inner turmoil. “So, you in?”

...Like. He could have phrased that better, but that’s the point, so. And anyway, George doesn’t think his voice wouldn’t break were he to speak up.

Percy takes a moment to gather himself and adopts a disgusted expression, which is much more like him. It settles something in George he didn’t even know was on the edge. “Oh, please. Did you expect me to snitch?”

Fred lets an unapologetic grin spread out on his face. “Well, Mr. Future Ministry Goon—”

“As if.” Percy sniffs. “If I ever deign to work there, I’m going to become minister.”

...Yeah, no. Percy suits more to the lawyer career, or something equally evil. George just hopes they can see the day he stops pandering to their mother’s wishes, even if it did keep him safe all these years.

“Jolly good,” he says instead of all those thoughts. Maybe he’ll do that later, or maybe he never will. But it isn’t that unrealistic now, to have a normal conversation with Percy without their mother hearing of it a minute later. “So, how good of an actor are you?”

Percy just lifts an eyebrow. What did George say? Perfectly condescending lawyer expression. Or politician. He’s pretty sure he saw the same one on a Slytherin, he just can’t remember which one.

“I’ve pretended there’s nothing wrong with our family for fifteen years. I think I can manage for a bit more.”

Oh, wow. George never knew he can deliver such a scorching burn. Now that’s either their bad influence, or the peculiar company’s they’d seen him keep at certain moments. Mostly in dark corners and even darker broom closets.

...Oh, so it was that Slytherin! May wonders never cease. And Percy’s luck to continue his forbidden romance undiscovered.

“Sure, sure.” Fred waves him off as they start to walk back towards the house. “Still, we’ll have some books for you later, if you’re interested.”

Percy’s head immediately snaps towards them. “Why didn’t you start with that?!”

Chapter Text

So far, childrearing seems pretty easy to Tom. But that could just be because he got lucky with his children.

He expected he would need to stun them and forcefully move their limp bodies through Britain until they found a suitable house, so their easy compliance came as a delightful surprise. And their apparent need for constant head pats and such too, even if he’s... getting used to it. Slowly. For better or worse.

So of course, the first thing Tom does after climbing out of his bed (from a puppy pile, curtesy of his kids) was take them shopping to Harrods.

He has money now, and he was ready to spend it. And that’s where rich people shop, right? Seeing that magical areas are as of now off-limit to them, because they technically don’t exist. Officially. Which he should really change, but... The kids need time to acclimatise to their new lives, and he doesn’t want to force them into quickly choosing a name and backstory they might regret later. So he’ll just have to fend Garnak off for a bit longer.

They began with the various clothing stores, which made him start to understand why some parents are so obsessed with dressing their children. It’s fun! Like little Mini-Hims that toddle after him like cuddle-obsessed ducklings with wide eyes and fluffy dark hair. He just had to buy them matching outfits; they were triplets, after all. It’s par for the course. He also delighted in the staffs cooing at their cuteness and the general heartbreak when they left each store to find a new one to spend their money in. At first he was afraid the children would be overwhelmed, but it turns out they enjoy shopping just as much as he does (especially because he didn’t let them see the price tags). Or they faked it well enough before the masses, anyway. They took a break to sit at a café and people watch, but eventually went back to shopping. It’s fortunate that his shrinking and feather-light charms held out until they got home with sore feet but bright grins.

The rest of the week was spent in a similar vein with getting stuff to fill their bedrooms and, of course, lots of trips to bookstores, tough they kept to the muggle ones. It even looks like they will be able to make an avid reader of Ron, even if his single bookcase only contains comic books as of now.

Tom also took them to Buckingham palace, which to his horror was so new to Ron he didn’t even know they had a queen! He really, really hopes that’s the result of the Weasley matriarch’s questionable education skills and not Magical Britain’s basic standards.

Well, not on his watch.

That little trip (and Ron’s mysterious disappearance whereupon he somehow snuck through the bars of the palace’s fence because he saw a dog of all things, and according to him was given instructions by an old lady in a fancy hat about the way back before Tom lost his mind) resulted in many others to the capital’s different museums, making Harry and Hermione have fun wandering the various exhibits, followed by a slack-jawed Ron who only got lost thrice. And, most surprising of all, their excursion to The London Dungeon was not only enjoyed by him, but also by the kids.

Maybe bloodthirst was genetical?

In conclusion, they had an amazing time touring Muggle London, and even better for Harry, upon whose head Hedwig landed on their last day.

So yes, they had a lot of fun.

Tom lets out a fond sigh as he glances at the drawing Harry gave him, depicting Ron hugging the corgi he ran after at the palace. He stuck it onto the nearest bookcase so it would give him some much-needed energy to finish today’s stuck of paperwork.

Currently, he’s sitting in his office and slowly working his way through the frankly astounding amount of paperwork (though he should have expected this after a decade of radio silence on his part), when he feels a sort of tingly feeling nudging him towards the library. He sighs again, but decides to check out what his home wants him to see. It doesn’t seem to be anything dangerous, that would warrant a much stronger sign, but if the castle feels like something needs his attention, he won’t question it.

He opens the door to the library just a bit and hears Harry’s voice whisper from somewhere.

“—to sneak out to ride the thestrals—”

“Absolutely not.”

Tom opens the door fully and sees three little faces peering at him in apprehension. A moment later, they avert their eyes. He sees Harry’s fingers twitch as he sits down between them, but they still don’t look up.

“I think it’s time we talked house rules, no?” Hermione’s eyes flash for a moment as she purses her lips, but they still don’t speak or move. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You do realise you can just tell me you want to ride the thestrals and I will make time to come with you? There’s no need for sneaking. And I’d rather be there when you eventually fall and break an arm.”

They look properly chastised. As they should be, considering whatever schemes they had already started planning behind his back.

He didn’t exactly expect them to instantly obey him or tell him everything, he knew it was too early in their acquittance to establish proper trust for that (even with how well they behaved so far, he was waiting for that other shoe to drop sometime soon).

Even if he’s known them long enough that it hurts a bit. But they don’t really have any proper point of reference, from what he had managed to gather while stuck in Harry’s scar.

“If you find some cool new spell, potion or ritual, tell me and we will try it if it’s appropriate and I will explain why not if it isn’t. Again, we wouldn’t want to light the library on fire or injure one another, right? Which brings us to lessons.” The boys’ little faces scrunch up in an truly adorable way while Hermione’s lits up. “I admit, I did forget to make you a schedule, but... Hmm. How about this? We do History on Monday, then Herbology and Charms on Tuesday. Potions on Wednesday, Transfiguration on Thursday, and... that leaves DADA to Friday. You will, of course, have the afternoons and the weekend for yourselves. Does that sound acceptable?”

Silence and squirming from the children.

“What... What about our punishments?” Harry rushes out, the boy’s fists clenching around his siblings’ hands. Tom does not like the fear in his eyes. Its presence is an affront to his very being.

“I don’t think this requires anything of the sort. In any other case,” he sees the children prepare themselves, “we talk it out.”

The children blink. They are clearly having a hard time processing his words.

“Talk... it out?” Hermione repeats with a confused expression, making Tom chuckle. It’s not every day somethings has her stumped, and he finds himself filled with delight upon seeing it. Maybe he really should have been a teacher.

“I believe you responsible enough to make other kinds of punishments quite unnecessary, but even if you, say, killed someone,” the boys snort, which is basically music to his ears, “first I will help you hide the body, and then we’ll sit down and talk about what you should have done instead.”

“That doesn’t really sound like a punishment,” Ron says, letting himself fall back onto the soft blue cushions they bought on John Street. They haven’t yet gone back to Diagon, so the embroidered stars on them don’t twinkle on the dark fabric like the ones with runes woven into them would be capable of. And yet... Sometimes the muggle things curiously bring him some peace. He hadn’t expected that thought to crop up after... after the life he’d lived, but it does from time to time. “Mum used to make up chores for us. Like de-gnoming the garden. And one time the twins blow up one of their experiments inside their room and made a big mess, and she had them clean the entire downstairs with their toothbrushes.”

“That seems a bit... excessive.” And entirely too close to what Mrs Cole used to make him do. Even if she never had any real proof. And it wasn’t even his fault most times. Probably. “We lack the gnomes for that anyway, but you still should keep your rooms in order, thanks for the reminder. Though...” He smirks. “Believe me when I say you’ll feel ashamed enough to avoid needing further punishment if I catch you up to something.”

And while, to his delight, that does make Ron and Hermione smile, Harry frowns.

“The Dursleys weren’t big fans of... talking.”

“I’m aware,” Tom says, the air suddenly cold as ice. He doesn’t much like to think about the Dursleys. “And I do not agree with anything they ever did to you. Understood?” They exchange a look but finally give Tom hesitant nods. “Wonderful. Let’s go, then,” he says and stands up.

“Wha— Go where?!” Ron exclaims as they run after him.

Tom looks back from the doorway. “You said something about thestrals?”

The grins he gets for that make the weakly shining sun seem brighter and warmer.

He does have to fix a broken arm, in the end. It’s Harry’s, who before landing with his thestral (And who the hell knew they would take them for a flight? Not Tom, that’s for sure) jumps off too quickly and ends up in the dirt with a fortunately clean break. This doesn’t dampen his enthusiasm however, as after a quick healing charm he’s back on the thestral’s back and up in the sky.

Tom pinches the bridge of his nose and continues petting the skeletal foal next to him. So much for his sanity.

Hermione comes up to him on Tuesday morning as he’s scrambling eggs for breakfast, the boys nowhere to be seen yet. He supposes he can’t blame them; it’s still early and they are going to have Herbology and Potions today. And he knows it will come down to his supreme teaching skills to make them less hostile towards the latter after Snape managed to royally mess their introduction to it up.

“Dad?” she asks, voice small and trembling as her little hands clench her nightgown at her stomach. Which is already an alarming sign that makes him immediately turn off the stove. “I... I think something’s wrong with me.”

Tom puts down the fork and turns to his daughter. This conversation requires all his attention. “Look at me, darling. There is nothing wrong with you, and if anyone says otherwise, I will make sure no one finds their corpse.”

There. Threats of violence always brighten the mood, right?

Well, it does make Hermione give him a teary smile. “Thank you, Dad. That’s sweet of you, even if it’s illegal. But, umm... I think I have internal bleeding. And my stomach hurts too.”

Tom casts a diagnostic spell in an instant.

...

...

...

...Fuck.

He can’t believe he bloody forgot about puberty.

He quickly picks her up and runs to her bedroom.

“Look, this is all natural. When girls go through puberty, they bleed every month for roughly a week. I think. See, umm, just—” He lays her down on the bed and tucks her in with a Warming Charm for good measure. That’s supposed to help, right? Damn it, he should have paid more attention to the girls in his year. Or researched this bloody thing when he acquired a daughter. “I’ll be back in a moment with a potion for the cramps. I can brew something more specific later, okay? I’ll get some pads from a store and—”

Hermione grabs the edge of his sleeve and squeezes it. Her hand is trembling. Tom feels his blood pressure rise.

“It’s okay, Dad. I’ll be okay. But could you make some music play for me? I don’t think I can read right now.”

Oh, he has such a sweet daughter.

Tom gives her a quick nod, makes some half-forgotten lullaby’s melody dance through the air, and runs out of the room.

This is the day Tom’s going to find out the whereabouts of his horcruxes, come hell or high water.

“What are you doing?” Ron asks, looking down at him like a confused puppy. Which, while cute, feels kind of insulting. Just because he’s kneeling over a map of Britain with a crystal hanging from his fingers on a rope—

...Alright, fine. He may look a bit strange. But it’s for a reason!

“This is a form of scrying. It will help me ascertain where Voldemort stashed the rest of my soul.”

Ron shoots a sceptic glance at the map. “...If you say so. Why is it pointing to Malfoy Manor then?”

It’s pointing to WHAT.

“Why do you think it’s Malfoy Manor?” Tom asks, already dreading the answer. Of all the bloody places—

“There was this one time Malfoy pulled out a map to show off how large their estate was.” His son snickers, gleeful eyes staring at the crystal. “He accidentally punched through it when Harry asked if he meant the white dot in the middle.”

Tom pinches the bridge of his nose. Did his insane self have to choose the Malfoys to guard his precious soul piece? No offence to Abraxas, but...

Merlin, the peacocks will chase him through the backyard again.

“Peachy,” he says and stands up. News of the day, truly. If this doesn’t give him the most trouble, he doesn’t know which one will. It’s a good thing he had already narrowed down the locations of the others. “Let’s get dinner, shall we?”

Ron happily follows him as they head to the kitchen.

Food always cheers the kid up. It’s something Tom can relate to on a personal level, considering his own childhood.

“Dad?” he asks before stepping through the door. It’s still a marvel how quickly the children adopted that moniker. And a bit concerning. “In case you come back with a boyfriend, we do reclaim the right to boot him out if we find him lacking.”

Tom laughs. That’s definitely not an immediate concern.

“As if I would have the time for that. And anyway, I’m quite happy with how things are right now.”

Ron gives him a noncommittal hum but doesn’t comment further, so Tom starts on dinner.

...He should buy some blueberries. Just in case.

Tom is about to put his coat on and visit his late uncle’s shack when his plan gets thwarted by tiny hands grasping at his clothes.

“Look, I won’t be long, just— Get off my legs please. No, why are you jumping on my back, this is entirely unnecessary—”

He ungracefully falls to the floor. The moment he’s down the children pile on him, effectively making him unable to get up.

Tom stares at the ceiling, resigned to his fate.

“...Why.” He doesn’t even have the energy to make it a question.

“You aren’t allowed to put yourself in danger. We own you now,” Harry says, staring down at him stubbornly from where he’s sitting on his torso. The weight Tom feels is still lighter than he would like it.

And yet... he can’t bloody get up.

“You do realise there’s basically no danger? I’m just going for a stroll in a quaint little village. And I do believe I’m quite adept at curse-breaking,” he answers, looking at each of his children, who are bringing out the puppy eyes now. “And as a side note: I own you, not the other way around.”

“But what if something goes wrong? We can’t lose you!” Hermione cries, hugging his right arm more forcefully. Ron, always supportive, just nods along while holding his left side hostage.

Tom sighs. “Might I remind you, I was a dark lord. Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

“But you don’t remember it!” Harry exclaims with a scowl.

Tom feels like he has no respect in this house.

“I repeat; I’m not weak. I was top of every class I ever took and had the most NEWTs ever!” His kids have the gall to pout at him. “No, that won’t work on me now. I know the place, I know what I’m looking for, and I’m stronger than my insane self was when he cursed the shack. Worst case scenario, I blow the whole thing up. Happy?”

They completely ignore his glare as they reluctantly clamber off him.

Bloody menaces.

“Remember what I told you about possible boyfriends!” Ron shouts after him before he steps out through the door.

He’s tempted to flip them the bird, but that would be a very poor example of self-control, so he just apparates out after a few more steps. And also he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t teach them more vulgar gestures they already know. Because he’s a sensible parent now. Apparently.

Upon opening his eyes, the Gaunt Shack looks just as he remembers; dark, miserable and an all-around safety hazard.

And the damn snake corpse nailed to the door has the audacity to hiss at him. Him.

Tom feels no remorse when he blows the door in. Looks like someone should have spent more on protecting their property, hm?

He goes in and immediately feels the alluring magic of the horcrux, though it isn’t strong enough he couldn’t resist its draw if he wanted to. Not without protections then, even if he senses no other traps as he walks to the corner and levitates the blasted ring out of its hiding place.

The sudden suspicious urge strikes him to put it on his hand.

Well, how about no.

Tom dismantles the familiar curse that former-him might have copied off of some cursed object at Borgins’ he has hazy memories about and starts thinking deeply about regret.

Ugh, he can’t wait to have a full soul again. This is so bloody bothersome. He could be playing with his kids instead of making himself feel wretched, but nooo, his demented soulless alter-ego absolutely knew best at the tender age of twenty-something and half-mad. But whatever. He only has three more to get after this, and after a short while he’s able to pocket the ring safely too.

He’s about to apparate out of there when he hears a soft hissy grumble from outside.

...It can’t be. The chances of her being here—

He looks out the window. “Nagini?”

The very, very familiar snake struggling through the long grass snaps her head up. “Tom?!”

Oh, Nagini.

Tom jumps out through the glassless window and crouches down before her. “Nagini!”

“Tom! Where were you?!” She climbs up his body and snakes her way around his shoulders, nuzzling his face. “No, never mind, you are here! Oh, you won’t believe what happened—”

A delighted laugh breaks out of him. She’s— He can’t believe he has her back. He’s—

“No, you won’t believe what happened. Would you come with me, dear? I have some people to introduce you to.”

She wiggles excitedly, making Tom smile softly. He did so miss her witty commentary and obnoxious personality. Even if she tends to be an all-around menace to society on a good day.

He apparates them back home and burst through the door. “I’m back!” he shouts, already hearing the sound of running footsteps.

His children skid to a halt a few steps from him at the sight of the massive snake hugging him as if he’s a teddy bear. A tall and well-dressed teddy bear who isn’t crying. At all. There’s just— sand in his eyes, That’s all.

...Ugh, emotions are a hassle.

Harry cocks his head to the side. “Did you steal the Basilisk while you were away?”

Tom chuckles as his friend preens on his shoulder. She did always like flattery. “Not the Basilisk; not yet at least. Let me introduce you to my longtime friend, Nagini. Nagini, these are my children: Harry, Ron and Hermione, in that order,” he says and gestures to each kid.

Hermione furrows her brows. “Can she understand us or are you being rude right now?”

“I can perfectly understand you, child. Though I do wonder.” Nagini turns back to Tom. “Who did you knock up?

Tom splutters while his traitorous children fell to the floor laughing.

“Alright, I think we have found our favourite aunt,” Ron says breathlessly as he tries to stand up and inevitably fails.

And, well. Tom would have been happier if the family bonding didn’t happen at his expense, but he can’t really do much about it, so he valiantly bears their ribbing for a bit more. He tries to tell her they are adopted, but she doesn’t really care.

Tom sighs. Why did he think this would be a good idea, again?

“Right. Nagini, I will let you babysit them while I get the rest of my soul bits hidden in London.”

And with that he turns around and marches out of his house with his nose in the air, clearly hearing the snickers following his leave.

Which might have been a bad idea. Because Garnak traps him in his office for four. Bloody. Hours.

Tom can practically feel his brain leaking out through his ears from all the paperwork he was forced to do, but at least now he’s in possession of Helga Hufflepuff’s cup, and with it more of his soul.

Joy.

He closes his eyes and pictures the miserable image of the old Black townhouse he had the misfortune to get invited to once in the past, his last stop for the day. Poor Orion got screeched at for it by his equally miserable cousin, too.

He really abhors that side of the poor man’s family; just take a look at Walburga Black and anyone could tell why. Or her brother. He would like to run into neither in the middle of the night in a dark alleyway.

Tom spins on his heels and apparates before the gate which opens before him. He hopes that’s Orion’s work and not Walburga’s, else he need to rethink what the bloody hell his insane self got up to in his free time.

...On another note, he’d rather not think about it. Better for his mental health if he doesn’t imagine Walburga. At all.

He steps through the gate and walks up to the door, raising his hand for a knock. A very ugly, very surly house-elf answers him.

“What does the late master’s filthy half-blood be wanting?” he asks and glares up at Tom for good measure, disgust clear on his face.

And Tom freezes.

Late... master?

...Fuck. So Orion is... Orion’s gone.

Bloody hell, that’s not good news. That’s terrible news and he hates it.

Orion’s not supposed to— He’s not supposed to be dead! Wizards live for hundreds of years, for Merlin’s sake! What did he even—

...Oh. So... so the hazy memories of a more and more scatter-brained and distant Orion weren’t a nightmare his mind made up to torture him.

Orion was— He was a friend. Not just one of the simple acquittances Tom managed to trick into tolerating him for his continued survival in Slytherin. A close friend. A true friend. He doesn’t have many of those, and it looks like he has one less now.

If they are even willing to talk to him now, after everything. That’s... still up in the air.

...On the other hand, if his memories are to be trusted, Orion only started to change after he got engaged to Walburga—

No. No, he’s not going to think about this now, especially not here, on the doorstep of this blasted house. He’ll have time to break down and tear that thought into pieces at a later date, when he isn’t on a mission.

Tom shuffles all his emotions into a dusty corner of his mind and sighs.

He glances down at the house-elf. Some things just stay the same, no matter the decade. “Nice to see you too, Kreacher. I take it Orion’s dead then; I’m sorry to hear that. How’s your mistress fairing?”

The elf sneers. “Mistress Walburga is also being dead.”

Good news if he ever heard any.

“I don’t suppose you would let me in? I seem to have misplaced my locket.”

Kreacher freezes. Which is... Interesting. Certainly unusual.

“Is there something wrong?” Tom blinks down at him innocently, which shakes the elf out of his momentary stupor.

“There is being no problem,” he spats. A few droplets land on Tom’s shoes, which he ignores. Orion liked the blasted creature. “Master Orion’s filthy half-blood be having no locket here.”

The bloody elf tries to slam the door on him, so Tom feels entirely justified about the Stunner he sends through the opening. It, of course, lands, so he’s free to enter the house and silence the screeching portrait of dear old Wally in the entrance.

Ugh. He’s really happy his home decided to redecorate itself when they moved in, seeing the state the townhouse fell in. The wallpaper’s peeling off, the spiders had spun cobwebs in every corner up above, he’s pretty sure there are doxies hiding in the curtains he an spy across the hallway.

He tries to feel for his locket and is rewarded when he enters the drawing room. It’s displayed in pride place in a vitrine, an unassuming trinket to anyone who’s not looking for a horcrux. Unfortunately for the noticeably surly soul-piece, Tom is. And he’s had enough crap to deal with today to be gentle about wrangling the locket’s occupant back into himself.

He concentrates on the now familiar pang of regret that seems to be haunting him since... his creation, really.

He ties up the elf and revives him after he’s done with the absorption of the soul piece.

“And what, pray tell, is that innocuous piece of jewellery in the cabinet, if not my locket?” he asks the grumpy elf with a raised eyebrow. It doesn’t have much effects.

“That being Master Regulus’ locket, you—”

Tom cuts him off. He has not much patience left, and even less for an antagonistic house-elf. “Let’s stop pretending, shall we? We both seem to know perfectly well what that was not five minutes ago, so spill. What’s got you so jumpy?”

Kreacher just squints up at him. “The evil locket is not being an evil locket anymore?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“I’ve taken care of it, don’t worry your little bald head about it. Now, why did you say it was your Master Regulus’?”

The elf’s face becomes blank, all emotions leached from it in a matter of seconds. His skin gains a pallor and he shuffles his feet, unable to look Tom in the eyes. “...I’s not knowing what yous is talking about.”

Doesn’t he? Seems quite like the opposite.

Tom sighs. He’s been doing that a lot lately. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to know why this was here and... Maybe meet Regulus. We would probably get on, considering how much you’re trying to save his arse for stealing a bit of my soul.” Because there’s no way he would place it anywhere near Walburga. Not even Insane Him could have been that stupid.

Kreacher somehow looks even more sceptical at that. “Yous not being evil anymore?”

Tom buries his face in his hands. “Regulus, Kreacher. What happened to Regulus? Who is Regulus?”

And Kreacher... Kreacher burst into tears.

...Oh. Oh, no. Anything but this.

“Nononono, please, just—” The elf continues sobbing. “I— Damn it. Was he captured? Is he dead? What—” More sobs. Tom takes a deep breath. “Look, what if— What if you tell me what happened and we try to find a solution? How does that sound?” He tries for a consoling voice as he pats the creature’s back. He isn’t sure he manages it, but Kreacher does stop the infernal wailing.

“Yous— yous not remembering Master Regulus?” he asks with big, teary eyes, and Tom sees his chance. He grabs it like a drowning man.

“I find I remember very few things after graduation,” he admits solemnly. “I just want to understand, Kreacher. What happened to your Master? Did he vanish? Maybe I can find him then.”

Or give him a proper burial, knowing my Insane Self’s habits.

Kreacher starts producing ugly tears again, but at least he begins to spin a tale.

And what a tale it is.

Tom supposes he should be angry, but instead he’s just amazed at the balls Regulus’ actions took. Like, damn it, they could have bonded over idiotic dark lords ruining everyone’s lives! What a shame that he’s dead.

“—and Master Regulus being sure the Dark Lord be ending him once he be sensing the treachery in his heart, he tells Kreacher to take him there, feed him the potion and return,” the elf wails. “And Kreacher couldn’t talk about it to anyone who don’t ask. And there be no one to ask. And Kreacher couldn’t destroy the evil locket and—”

...Yeah, that’s quite enough.

“Would you take me there?” Tom asks, untying the elf. He doesn’t lower his guard though; he has no faith in the miniscule good opinion he’s managed to garner so far.

And just like that, Kreacher’s back to glaring again. “Yous be planning on desecrating Kreacher’s Master’s corpse?! No, not on Kreacher’s watch. Kreacher should never have let the late master’s filthy half-blood inside in the first place, curse Kreacher’s golden heart—”

Tom facepalms. He’s also getting a headache, though he’s not sure if its from all the soul pieces reuniting inside him in such a short time or from this Melrin-damn conversation.

“I just want to pay my respects, you damn elf. I’m not planning anything nefarious.”

Kreacher’s glare doesn’t let up, but he does reach out with a reluctant hand towards Tom after a while.

He only has time for a stray thought of hoping the elf doesn’t just drop him in a dumpster, and then they are off in a nauseating whirl of magical energy.

...Ugh. This is why Tom hates house-elf travel; it’s worse than any other he knows of.

They appear inside a cold, damp cave in the middle of an island surrounded by a dark pond. The surprisingly familiar place has no right to drag up Tom’s deeply buried trauma, thank you very much, and so he mentally whacks it back into its place.

He notices the pedestal with the ominous potion in it and decides not to go near whatever that is. That’s one headache he doesn’t want to deal with right now.

Later, maybe. He has a stray Regulus Black to find now. Or at least the body of the poor sod.

He examines the spells cast in the cave under Kreacher’s squinty, watchful eyes. It’s not his best work, to say the least. For fuck’s sake, he did better on his Runes OWLs—

...

...

...

...Oh. Oh.

Tom grins.

“It would seem my Insane Self had cast a stasis charm on the lake, no doubt to later interrogate the unfortunate fools who got stuck in it,” he says into the silence. “Nevertheless, this will come in handy for us, don’t you think so?”

“Kreacher’s not being sure what yous mean,” the elf croaks.

Tom starts casting instead of wasting time with explanations. First to remove the compulsions, then the curses, then a bit of blood so the wards don’t smite him into ash for daring to mess with them, then to part the water—

And then he gets an armful of a spluttering Regulus Black.

Chapter Text

Regulus is alive. He shouldn’t be.

“You are really bloody lucky I put a stasis charm on this,” is the first thing he hears after being submerged in water for Merlin bloody knows how long.

He was— He was— The last clear memory he has is drinking the potion and—

...Oh, shit. Kreacher. The locket. The inferi.

His breath quickens as he suddenly becomes very aware of the soaked clothes clinging to his skin. He sucks in a sudden breath, the cold cave air stinging his lungs. It’s freezing. His throat hurts. He is parched.

His sight swims, though that might just be from the droplets of water still clinging to his eyelashes. Water from the lake filled with inferi.

Fuck, he got caught. He— he wasn’t meant to stay alive, least of all in a state that he could, A, feel the pain from the torture inevitably waiting for him, and B, to get interrogated. Which, damn it, he should have wiped his memory before embarking on this suicide mission in case it failed, which clearly it did, but then he could have at least claimed acting under outside influence—

He’s hyperventilating by the time he feels toasty warmth settle around him and race through his body, going straight into his bones. Which, what.

...Someone’s petting his hair. Who the actual fuck has the audacity to—

...Oh, no. Shitshitshit.

He slowly glances up, dreading who he’ll see upon—

...

...

...

...What the fuck.

It’s not the Dark Lord (which, banish the thought, it’s giving him hives), nor is it any of his Death Eaters.

No, the man holding him is drop dead gorgeous, and that coming from him. A member of the Black family. The literal supermodels of Wizarding Britain. He’s all dark waves and chiselled cheekbones that could cut his finger if he dared reach up to caress them, and he’s staring into the most beautiful (and somehow familiar, though he has no idea why he feels like that) bright green eyes he’s ever seen.

...On another note, he should really say something, shouldn’t he? And maybe get out of the mystery man’s embrace (even if it feels bloody amazing.)

The man is faster.

“Regulus Black, I assume? Kreacher has told me a lot about you. Do you think you can stand?” He gives Regulus a smile, who feels his knees buckle. The man tightens his arms around him and frowns. Even that’s attractive on him. “...I guess not. Excuse me, then.”

And he picks Regulus up in a princess carry.

...Bloody fucking Bubotuber.

No way is he going to ever live this down if his brother gets wind of it. He can already imagine Sirius jeering at his botched heroics and then this—

“Master Regulus?” he hears a hoarse voice from decidedly... down...

Oh, goody, they have an audience too.

...Wait, no, that’s—

“Kreacher!” Regulus shouts in relief. They both burst out in tears.

Good. That’s... that’s good. That means Kreacher survived whatever was in that bowl and—

...Oh, shiiit.

Regulus needs to get his brain properly working because this is just pathetic. And Blacks simply don’t do pathetic.

“We really should get out of here before the Dark Lord finds us,” he rushes out, looking his comfortable perch in the eyes and momentarily getting lost in a sea of emerald. He really hopes Kreacher can pop them out of here, lest he loses his eye candy (and his life. Preferably in that order).

The man frowns, a stray dark lock falling before one of his beautiful eyes. Regulus is tempted to reach out and sweep it away. The only thing stopping him is the suspicious numbness in his limbs.

“Are you sure you are up for moving so soon? If you need a few minutes more—”

“You don’t understand,” Regulus cuts him off. Sadly. He quite likes listening to his voice. “As far as I’m aware, only Kreacher, I and the Dark Lord knew of this place. If He finds us here—”

...Why is he smiling. Like, it’s a very nice smile with perfect, pearly-white teeth, but why.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” the man says, tilting his head so the ambiguous light of the cave falls on his face just so and highlights his cheekbones, almost as if the alabaster skin were to glow with an innate shine—

...Wait, what.

“You don’t understand,” Regulus repeats. He’s starting to have a bad feeling. “If he finds us here, and he will if we don’t get a move on pretty quickly, we will be very, very dead.”

The man laughs; it tinkles through the dark cave like a melody of bells.

...Bummer, did he get rescued by a lunatic? A hot one, but still.

He shares a commiserating glance with Kreacher, who also seems to be very done with the situation.

“The late master Orion’s filthy half-blood not being evil anymore,” the elf says in a flat voice and glares at Regulus. But wait, no, not Regulus, but...

But the one carrying him.

...Merlin's pants, he’s so dead.

The man, apparently the bloody Dark Lord who’s still princess carrying him, chuckles. Regulus feels it rumble through his body. He’d like to be more freaked out by the sensation, please and thank you.

“Please, do call me Tom,” he says with another charming smile. Regulus wishes the goosebumps he gets would be just from dread. What the hell is with him today?! “Now, are you well enough for me to apparate us out of here, or should we wait a bit?

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Regulus says with a stubborn tilt to his chin. Regretfully, he can hardly move any other part of his body at this exact moment. “I’m a Black and I will die with dignity. Now, put me down. Please.”

The only thing he gets from the man is an eyeroll. His arms don’t even twitch. “Oh, stop the melodrama and dismiss your elf so we can go. I’m sure he can find us later.”

...Is he not going to kill Regulus? But no, he can’t fall for his calm façade. This must be a trap. The Dark Lord was famous for his love of mind games—

“At— at least have the decency to kill me standing.”

...Shit, his voice trembled. And oh, there goes Kreacher, bawling again.

The Dark Lord groans and shoots a glare at the house-elf. It’s... less scary than Regulus would have expected. His mind is probably failing him.

“Bloody hell. I won’t kill him,” he enunciates, which at least shuts Kreacher up for the time being.

...Well then. Initiating Plan F for Fuck This Shit.

Regulus hesitantly looks him in the eyes. He makes sure they are extra big for the desired effect. No matter how he miraculously managed to stay alive this far, he’s going to use everything in his arsenal to stay that way.

“What— what’s my punishment then?”

This usually works. It should work. The Dark Lord looks different (in a bloody good way, thank Merlin for that) and... almost sane. Probably. Most likely?

...Does he even know that Regulus had absconded with a part of his soul? He doesn’t look angry, just... amused. So he might just make it out of this alive. Somehow.

The man blinks, stunned for a moment. Then he narrows his eyes. “I was the leader of the House of Slytherin once, Regulus. I know exactly what you are trying to do.”

Double shit.

“Well, is it working?” he asks hopefully, fluttering his long eyelashes for good measure.

“You look like a drowned cat. What do you think?”

“A cute one, I hope.”

“No,” he deadpans. “And there’s no need for that. Now, can we get a move on?”

...There’s no way Regulus is going to get away with this. No bloody way.

“My Lord, I—”

The man snorts and drops his head onto Regulus’s hair (which is very wet. He should really do something about that if he doesn’t want to catch a cold. Just what he needs after surviving this latest predicament: death by hypothermia).

“Merlin’s flying fucking broomstick, did he really make you call him that? Just—” He lifts his head and looks at Regulus with amusement clear in his eyes. “Just call me Tom, will you? Please. I’m clearly not Voldemort.”

“...Really,” Regulus says sceptically.

“Really,” Tom repeats with a smile.

And it’s... Well. Regulus is still alive, isn’t he? Against all logic. So he could... he could at least try calling him by his name? If it’s even his real name. Seems like he really wants him to...

“...Tom.”

Such a, well, muggle name, still it rolls off his tongue like no other.

...Holy fucking shit, he’s getting poetic. Someone shoot him please before he bursts into song as if shot by both Cupid and Apollo.

Regulus glances at Kreacher for help, who just stands at their feet with his eyebrows at his non-existent hairline. As he should, knowing Regulus’s preferences in men after all the rants he heard from him during school holidays.

The Dark Lord by the name of Tom smirks. “There. Wasn’t that hard, was it?”

Regulus is bloody melting in his arms. He’s sure his eyes went glassy a while ago. Is he even breathing? He’s not sure.

One thing though is still not clear, which manages to sober him up. Mostly. His breathes still come out more as soft pants.

“If you— if you aren’t Him, then who are you?”

“Ah,” the man who is, according to him, not the Dark Lord, says as if he had simply forgotten about some inconsequential detail. “You... could say I am something like that locket you tried to destroy. Just with all the childhood trauma and nothing after I graduated from Hogwarts, aside from the ten years I spent in a kid’s head.”

...

...

...

“...Ah.”

“Precisely.”

Kreacher clears his throat. “Kreacher thinks yous can move Master Regulus now. Kreacher will find yous later with Master Regulus’ things.”

And he just. Leaves them there.

...Smelly sack of dragon dung.

The Dark Lord Tom (because calling him that is better for Regulus’ mental health) takes a deep breath.  “Hold tight,” he says and turns on his heel, apparating them out of the cave in a matter of moments with scant little time for Regulus to prepare himself for the jarring event of magical transportation.

...Ugh.

He has to go to great lengths not to vomit on them both. Would be a nice thank you for keeping him alive.

Tom, seemingly unaffected, starts carrying him towards the house before them, which... is a castle. He lives in a bloody castle.

A small one, but still! Even Regulus doesn’t live in a bloody castle! (His grandfather does, but that’s not the point. It’s the principle of the matter.)

“I like the atmosphere. Reminds me of home,” he says nonchalantly, surveying the vines crawling on the dark stone walls. It’s not as if things could go even more downhill from here on out. He’s already being bloody princess caried by the Dark Lord who’s denying being the Dark Lord, nothing worse can happen to him today.

Tom huffs out a laugh. “I’ve been to your home. It’s creepy as hell.”

And then he walks through the door.

Regulus is still gaping at the soft and homey interior of the drawing room he can see on his left (Why the bloody hell does the Dark Lord have pink couches?!) when the soft pitter-patter of feet on floorboards and loud exclamations shake him out of his dazed state.

...Holy shit, the Dark Lord has spawned.

“Merlin’s beard, Dad. I was joking about bringing home a boyfriend,” one of the boys says with wide blue eyes.

“You said we’d have time to judge the dating pool!” his green-eyed brother whispers to him with a pout.

Honestly, Regulus finds them absolutely adorable, all dark waves and rosy round cheeks bracketing shining jewel-coloured eyes. Up until their sister steps forward and levels him with a glare that puts the Dark Lord’s to shame. In his prime.

“Please state your intentions towards our father,” she demands with her chin tilted up, ignoring Regulus’s spluttering.

The Da— Tom just sighs. “Stop it, you menaces.”

Suffice to say, they take offense to that.

“You bring home a man on Valentines Day and expect us not to jump to conclusions?!” His daughter practically hisses the words, her brothers nodding along. Which, seeing that Regulus is surrounded by descendants of Salazar Slytherin, wouldn’t even be that far-fetched.

Tom isn’t moved by their concern. “I found him in the locket’s cave, surrounded by a lake of inferi. Poor Regulus had been trapped underwater for the last twelve years, so if you would stop glaring at him that would be appreciated.” He looks back at Regulus and nods at each child. “My children; Harry, Ron and Hermione. In that order.”

Regulus looks back to the kids. They look horrified.

“He was trapped in your murder pond in your murder cave?!”

“You kidnapped him?!”

“Kidnapping is punishable by law, Dad!”

Tom scowls. “Well, what was I supposed to do? Throw him back?”

Nonononono. Not happening.

“If I might interject, I’m quite happy with not being thrown back,” Regulus adds, blinking large and pitiful eyes at both the children and their father.

“And it’s rescue, not kidnap,” Tom mutters, already walking through the hallway across the entrance hall and up the stairs, closely followed by his arguing children. And, hey, things might be moving fast (Good Heavens, what did he get himself into?), but at least he isn’t in the cave anymore. He’s quite content with being carried by a handsome man.

Even if the man in question is partly the Dark Lord. Call him shallow, but that face could move mountains.

Up until Tom drops him in a bathtub full of water.

...He takes back everything he said before, things can get worse.

Regulus will freely admit that his brain might have short circuited, and he might have gotten a teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy panic attack. A reeeally small one. Turns out long-term entrapment underwater isn’t good for the mental health, wonder of wonders. But at that moment he only notices his breath coming short again and his vision darkening at the edges and—

...There’s a hand rubbing circles into his back, and another cradling his face.

...It feels nice. Can he get more please? He wants more.

His breathing slows after a while, guided by a low voice and emerald green eyes. He practically collapses into Tom at the end.

When did he start to cry? He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t have the energy to spare for wiping them off.

“There, darling. It’s alright. No one will hurt you anymore,” he hears, the whispered words a balm to his soul as the hand moves from his face to the back of his neck.

The whole thing feels surreal. And improper. Because he’s in a bathtub having a meltdown while his not-boss croons comforting words into his ears.

“...I don’t think baths are for me,” he manages to say in a hoarse voice, earning a chuckle from Tom that reverberates through his whole body. “Next time you decide to drop me into a bathtub, a little warning would be nice.”

“Ah... Maybe this will make it better,” the man says. With a wave of his hand, the water fills with bubbles. Regulus doesn’t remember the last time he had a bubble bath, but damn, it feels amazing.

And then the bastard vanishes his clothes, stealing an indignant squawk out of him.

Has he no shame?! Undressing him before even taking him out to dinner?! Preposterous.

...Wait, nononono, he shouldn’t think of the Dark Lord as a valid option, no matter how devastatingly handsome—

...Though that’s an Idea indeed.

At least he doesn’t start washing him by hand. Regulus feels like he really should have revolted then, but instead he just animates a sponge to do the work.

Slowly and gently, of course. As if Regulus was something fragile (he isn’t exactly wrong), which... It honestly feels a bit nice after the rigid and cold atmosphere suffusing his childhood, curtesy of his mother. No wonder Sirius ran, really.

Tom sits down onto the edge of the tub and pulls a bit at Regulus’ tangled locks. He reaches for a tiny purple vial that he then pours onto his hair, filling the room with the calming scent of lavender as phantom fingers massage the contents into Regulus’ scalp.

He doesn’t have the energy to feel embarrassed as he slides lower into the bubbles and lets a content sigh escape him.

Tom chuckles again, which is a sound Regulus could get used to. Just saying. Considering that for some reason he’s in his bathtub.

Really, does he have to get out? Like, ever? He could go living his life in this bathtub. At least he wouldn’t have to face the consequences of his actions then.

But like... He’s not dead yet. And Tom seems to... like him? Or something?

...Sirius is going to deck him in the nose, won’t he.

Regulus tries to disappear under the bubbles but Tom just huffs and lifts him back up.

His collarbones are showing. It’s all very scandalous. Mother would probably faint.

And then Tom just has to break his mind again.

“...I think I might just keep you,” he mutters into the silence after a while, voice so soft Regulus almost doesn’t hear him. But he does. And, like, WHAT.

His eyes he didn’t even notice drooping immediately shoot open. “EXCUSE YOU?!”

Tom has the gall to look puzzled. “Is there a problem?”

Regulus splashes him. For the audacity. And because he deserves it. “You can’t just decide to— to keep people!”

“...I mean, it worked with the kids.”

“I hope you realise that that sounds really suspicious.”

“...I suppose.”

Regulus facepalms. And just when he was starting to relax...

“On the bright side, this proves that you really aren’t Him. The Dark Lord would never leave me alive after what I did.”

“Tried to do.”

Regulus splashes him again. He isn’t overly concerned about his possible early demise now, he’s way over that crap now. Tom has successfully managed to make him feel so done about the entire situation he somehow landed himself in this—

...Morning? Afternoon? But wait, Tom said there was a stasis charm on the bloody lake—

...

...

...

...Fuck.

He grabs Tom by his shirt and pulls him closer, fingers digging into the soaked material. He doesn’t care that the man almost lands face-first in the water. “What’s the date.”

“...What?”

“What. Is. The. Date.”

“The—” It finally seems to dawn on Tom what he’s getting at. “...Oh. Look, don’t freak out, but—”

“The date, Tom. Now.”

“...1992?”

His fingers loosen in the fine material of the shirt.

19... 92?

Bloody hell. He— he’d been there for—

...Shit, he’s getting out of breath again.

“What— what month?” His hands shake. They seemed to have tangled into the shirt, because he’s sure he doesn’t have the energy to keep them in the air. “What month is it? How much—”

Tom pries his fingers out of the shirt but doesn’t let it go after. He clutches Regulus’ limp, trembling hand with one of his own and grabs the back of his neck with the other. “Regulus? Regulus, look at me. It’s 1992. It’s February. You aren’t in the cave. You are in my bathtub. You are okay.”

He isn’t. He’d spent— he’d spent twelve years there.

Twelve.

...Sirius will kill him. Not just punch him in the face, but straight up murder him.

“-lus. Regulus? Darling, can you hear me?”

...Oh, right. Tom is speaking.

Regulus shakes his head and tries to clear his vision. He— he’s in a bathroom. He’s not in a cave.

...Wait, he’s in Tom’s bathroom. Why is he in Tom’s bathroom?

He lifts his head, still a bit hazy from the... from previously. “Tom?”

The relief is clear on the man’s face. “Yes?”

“Why am I in your bathtub?”

“...Ah. I—” His cheeks get a slight pink blush. It’s... it’s unexpectedly endearing. Which, like, former dark lord. How. “You... needed a warm bath?”

Regulus just stares at him for a moment. “And you stayed in the room because...?”

“If Churchill could hold meetings in his bathroom, then so can we. And anyway, you were soaked to the bone and about to get hypothermia. Considering that you’ve had two panics attacks since we came in, I think it’s for the better that I stayed.”

...Right. Regulus feels like he just pulled that out of his arse. “...Sure. I’m fine now, kindly unhand me.”

Tom frowns but slowly lets go of his neck and hand. Regulus refuses to acknowledge how much he misses the touch. They need to clear things up asap, and they can’t do that with the distracting physical contact.

He also refuses to remind Tom of his soaked shirt. He has to allow himself that much.

“Now you will get me some clothes, I’m going to get out of this tub, and then you will tell me what happened since my— since my disappearance.”

For a moment Tom just stares at him, cataloguing every bit he can see of him (which makes Regulus really glad for the bubbles) and searching for any sign of remaining distress. He doesn’t find any, mostly because Regulus is well-trained at hiding them.

Thanks for that skill, Mother.

Tom leaves the bathroom with a nod, and comes back with hopefully what is a set of pyjamas, because after he gets his explanation he will probably be knocked out cold.

He doesn’t immediately give him the clothes.

“I’ve noticed you have that... tattoo on your arm. Is it...” He trails off, looking at Regulus’ arm covered by the towel he bundled himself up in while Tom was gone.

...Ah. Yes. The Mark.

Regulus takes it out and stares down at it, the black ink jarringly stark against his pale skin.  He can still remember the agony he experienced when he was branded like cattle at his mother’s delight.

He never saw the Dark Lord again. Even the ‘request’ to ‘borrow’ Kreacher came through her.

“I could make it disappear,” Tom bursts out, making Regulus’ head snap up.

He... he almost can’t believe it. But looking at the man’s earnest green eyes, absolutely confident that he can do such a simple thing as break an unbreakable vow... The again, a different iteration of him did the branding, so. It might not even be that far-fetched.

“Could you really?” he asks, fingers clenching in the soft towel. He had always hated it, hated how dirty the mark made him feel. He didn’t get the immense pleasure Bella did when people scattered at the sight of it floating in the air, nor when he felt the pain of being summoned like an obedient little slave. He hates it so, so much, he feels his skin crawl every time he just catches a glimpse of it.

Tom holds his hand out, the action simple and drawing him closer even without a word said. And so Regulus goes to stand before him, placing his arm into the waiting hand with only a little hesitation.

The Stockholm Syndrome is hitting in very fast.

They stay like that for a while, standing in the middle of the bathroom on the cold green marble tiles because Tom hasn’t provided him with slippers. The man holding his arm hostage sometimes gives a hum as he turns it left and right, likely seeing something Regulus can’t even fathom.

“Hmm... Looks like one of Corvus’,” he mutters, probably not meaning for it to be heard. Still, Regulus does, and he only knows of one Corvus who is also the Lord Lestrange and his father’s age—

Then the hissing starts and Regulus goes rigid. It’s the same feeling when he was being summoned, though mercifully a bit less painful.

Tom spares him an apologetic look and squeezed his wrist to give some comfort, but quickly looks back at the mark that—

...It bloody slithers off Regulus’ arm. Just like that.

He can’t help it; he burst out in laughter. He isn’t even bothered by the sly smirk that slides onto Tom’s face as the man pulls his wrist up and kisses the place where the mark previously sat, quickly cutting off any other sound that planned to escape Regulus’ throat.

“There we are, darling. I will leave you to dress.”

He walks out of the bathroom, leaving Regulus standing there alone, speechless.

...He’s been calling him ‘darling’ this whole time, hasn’t he.

He shakes himself and narrows his eyes as he glares at the closed door.

He isn’t oblivious to how attracted he seems to be to the man. Which is, very much. He’s absolutely gone. He just isn’t exactly sure about how to... deal with it, he supposes. This might not exactly be his former boss, but basically a younger, human and very handsome version of him. That at least requires the smallest of mental breakdowns on his part in his opinion.

Tom, though? He isn’t even subtle.

Because really, Regulus doesn’t think the guy goes around calling just anyone ‘darling’. He clearly has an agenda; Regulus just doesn’t know what it’s about.

Well, the game is on. And Blacks do not do such plebeian things as lose.

He drops the towel and dresses quickly, then stepped before the large, gold full-body mirror off to the side. The clothes he got are way too big for Regulus, that he can clearly see. They don’t make him look bad though, and he welcomes the soft and warmth against his skin with joy.

...Hmm. What if...

He pulls on the top so it hangs off his shoulder and shows a bit of his collarbone. The pants can stay like that, they are already way too long for his legs. He’s kind of swimming in the pyjama, but not in a childish way. More like in an ‘I’ve pillaged my boyfriend’s wardrobe and am now waiting for him to swoon’ way.

The final look has it’s charm he supposes, though his mother would have smacked him if she ever saw him dressed like this. All the more reason to wear it.

Regulus nods at his image and walks out of the bathroom, straight into Tom’s bedroom which he forgot to appraise when the man carried him through. He shamelessly plops himself down onto the bed, inwardly grinning as he bounces on the silk sheets covering the mat.

“I see you’re already making yourself comfortable,” Tom comments as he leans against the headboard next to him, eyes instantly drawn to the visible patch of skin showing through the pyjamas Regulus has now claimed. “Very well. This won’t be short anyway.”

Regulus gets the explanation he wanted.

Holy shit, he does.

Apparently, he isn’t the only one who needs a passable backstory that will hold up in court.

“So let me get this straight,” he says, staring straight into his now probably partner-in-crime’s amused emerald green eyes. “You, in your infinite wisdom, tore your soul into seven pieces, which now you have to reabsorb somehow, and then decided that infanticide was the way to go.”

“It wasn’t exactly me—”

“And that green eyed little boy with a backstory that will fuel half my nightmares for the next decade is supposed to be James and Lily’s baby boy—”

“Well, yes, but—”

“I’m trying to organise my thoughts, not actually asking you.”

Tom’s lips shut with an audible click.

“So then, after several near-death experiences, which really should be looked into because simply existing inside Hogwarts’ walls didn’t put me into mortal peril regularly, they decided to experiment with ritual modification without any previous experience. Unsupervised. Which provided you with a body. And then you just... faked all of your deaths?” Regulus doesn’t get an answer, so he adds, “Now you can answer.”

“You got the gist of it.”

Regulus facepalms. That’s what he feared. “And now you just— Want to keep me. Like a pet.”

Tom’s fingers twitch where he’s resting them on the blanket, but he straightens up and looks Regulus in the eye. “I only meant that I’d hardly send you back to that decrepit safety hazard your childhood home became. We have a guest room. You can stay here while we come up with an adequate explanation for your miraculous survival.”

Regulus lifts an eyebrow. His childhood home had always been a safety hazard. “You did not deny the pet part.”

His comment makes Tom’s lips twitch upwards. “I officially deny the pet part.”

...Hah. Funny, aren’t we. It’s good that I like a smart mouth.

Regulus let himself adopt a satisfied smirk. As if he would have been content in that role. “Good. Now we can talk business then.”

“I thought we already did?”

“We didn’t. You told me what happened in the decade I missed. I summarised how fucked up it sounds. Now we are going to discuss what we are going to do.”

Preferably each other and very soon.

Tom cocks his head to the side, clearly not processing what Regulus meant. “Going to... do?”

“That’s what I said.”

After a moment of further confusion, Tom’s expression clears. “Ah. Right. Backstories and whatnot.”

“Exactly,” Regulus says with a pleased nod. “Now, what you need is an alibi.”

Because he doesn’t yet seem to have any, and currently that benefits regulus a great deal.

Tom seems willing to humour him, his eyes dancing with mirth. “Do I.”

“Oh, you do. And I’m gracious enough to provide it.” He does not have any ulterior motives. None at all. Anyone who says otherwise is a lying liar who lies.

“Tell me then, darling,” Tom croons as he leaned closer, “how you plan to manage that.”

Regulus goes in for the kill with the unbreakable confidence purebloods are brought up with.

“Marriage.”

Silence fill the room for a long moment, the tension so apparent a knife could cut it. And then Tom starts laughing so hard he falls off the bed. Which is just slightly offending.

Regulus has to wait a good five minutes for him to stop, because every time Tom tries to glance at him, he starts laughing again.

“So,” the man says, out of breath finally, “how— how did you think that would work? Secrets and lies are hardly the best foundation for a marriage.”

Oh, now they are talking.

Regulus leans forward. “That’s where I come in. I’m going to be your alibi, and you mine,” he adds for clarification before Tom could start to argue. “Isn’t it such a shame that the children had to grow up without their other parent? All because of the Dark Lord of course, so no one can accuse you with anything.”

Now that makes Tom actually think about it, if Regulus reads his face right. And he prides himself on being an expert on reading people.

He lived with Walburga Black, after all. That skill needed to be developed early on.

“...Let’s say we do this,” Tom says after a while, slender fingers tapping on his knee. “What’s in it for you?”

Regulus raises an eyebrow. “Aside from not having the matchmaking mothers after me when I eventually re-enter society? Let’s see.” He starts to count it out by hand. “An alibi, three viable heirs to the Black lordship eventually, as you’ve mentioned a place aside from my decrepit childhood home, your pretty face greeting me every morning...”

Tom lets out a huff. “You don’t seem too bothered by the fact that my Other Self decided to become a dark lord in the sixties.”

“Well it’s not like you actually remember any of it after you left Hogwarts.”

“I remember a bit.”

“Not enough that marrying you would creep me out,” Regulus says with a shrug. “Which reminds me, how old are you?”

“...You just said it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m curious. And we need it for the alibi.” It will be easier to plan their fateful past meeting, not to mention that they apparently need to fabricate actual birth certificates, school records, and whatever else that’s necessary. He’s... not an expert. To say the least.

Tom frowns as he stares out through the window, deep in thought. “I... would say that while the main soul should have by now been in his sixties, I... The last clear memory I have is shelving some creepy antic tea set at Borgin and Burk’s straight after Hogwarts.”

...Sixties, huh. Honestly, his mother might have happily given his hand to someone twice that if they had pure enough blood for her tastes, and at least Tom only remembers roughly twenty of those. Thirty, if he adds the ones he spent inside Harry’s head.

...Eh, it will do.

“...Sooo. Do you also think teen pregnancy?”

Tom’s brain seems to short-circuit. “...I’m sorry, do I think what?”

“Teen pregnancy, Tom. Do keep up.” Regulus fluffs up a pillow next to him and leaned against it. “I was thinking the spring of my Seventh Year, 1979? The children would still be first years if we put the birth at December 1980, seeing that I went missing on the 31st.”

For a moment Tom just blinks at him, dumbfounded. And then he starts chuckling. “Happy birthday to me, I guess.”

“...No.”

“Yes.”

What are the odds.

Suddenly, Tom’s head snaps to the door. Regulus follows his gaze, but... it’s closed. And there’s only three other people inside the house.

“...The triplets?”

“More like hell spawns who decided I’m parent material.”

Tom stands up and opens it, letting the children tumble through the doorway with offended little shrieks.

“Mean,” the pile grumbles. It’s an adorable sight. Kind of like disgruntled puppies.

“And what,” Tom asks with crossed arms,” do you think you are doing?”

The kids wiggle out of the mess of limbs they momentarily became.

“We agree with keeping him,” the one with green eyes, apparently James and Lily Potter’s former offspring, states as he stands up, quickly followed by his new siblings. A muggleborn and a Weasley.

What the world came to.

“We just wanted you to know,” the girl primly adds, sweeping imaginary dust off her pristine white nightgown, which, like, Regulus appreciates the support. Honestly. It brings tears into his eyes.

And then the other boy snorts. “Yeah. Who knows who you would bring home next.”

He gets kicked in the shin for that by both of his siblings, making Regulus smile.

“The sentiment’s appreciated,” he says. And it really is. It will be much easier to carve himself a place here if everyone complies. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you.”

“Don’t,” Tom interjects. “They are menaces.”

The girl, Hermione if he remembers right, sniffs. “We are not.”

“You are.”

“Well, you are worse.”

Tom already has his mouth open to shoot back some witty comment, when... Harry? Harry states with bright eyes, “Let’s have a sleepover!”

...Oh, he already loves that kid. The gleam in his eyes is inarguably shady.

“No,” is Tom’s immediate reply.

“But—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

“But why not, Dad? You have an enormous bed. We’ve already tested it, we would fit!” Hermione reasons, but Harry opts for emotional manipulation.

“Yeah! And what if he has a nightmare? What if we have a nightmare? You said you like to be there to fix things and—”

Sneaky little brats.

Tom would most likely argue why they absolutely can’t have a sleepover when Regulus decides to interrupt.

“I’m fine with it if you are,” he says nonchalantly, fluttering the eyelashes of his half-lidded eyes.

And he is; really. He doesn’t want to be alone right now. Or the foreseeable future.

A snicker from Ron sadly snaps Tom out of staring at him with clouded eyes. He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“But you won’t?” Regulus interrupts him with his head cocked to the side. “The kids want a sleepover; let them have it. They are right about your bed being so big it could probably fit us all without bumping into each other even if everyone decides to starfish. I’ll just take the guest room tomorrow.”

Tom is clearly searching for further arguments but in the end just closes his eyes and sighs. “...If you are sure. But I warn you, they cuddle.”

The kids, adorably unrepentant, catapult themselves onto the bed.

Regulus chuckles as a messy little head nuzzles into his side. “I think I can manage,” he says and moves the kid so they can both slip under the silk blanket.

The rotting arms of the inferi don’t reach him that night.

A few days later many men and women clutch at their arms in pain as the dark mark suddenly vanishes from their skin, amongst them one Severus Snape. The man immediately rushes out of his sleeping quarters, ignoring several couples audibly making out in various broom closets late into the night.

Suffice to say, Albus Dumbledore has an interesting surprise waiting for him.

Chapter Text

During the next two days of March (1992. It’s 1992—), Regulus is shown around the estate he’s to call home from now on by his three very enthusiastic soon-to-be children and an exasperated ex-dark-lord-slash-his-future-spouse.

What life comes to, truly...

But the point is, he had two days to get to know them. And now he can confidently state that his future family members are majorly fucked up.

Regulus gets seriously curse-happy every time he thinks of the things his new kids went through, with Ron and Hermione on the lighter sight of the spectrum. Ignored and neglected, sure, but still mostly provided for. Unlike Harry and Tom, in whose case Regulus actually wonders how the bloody hell they stayed alive this long. Or, well, not alive alive in Tom’s case, but you get it. The point is, they need so, so, so much love and care, and Regulus is here for it. At least they want his company, unlike some people.

Sue him, he likes the constant hugs. And Tom was right; the kids do love to cuddle. He just forgot to mention that he does too.

Did he expect to wake up with several arms around him? No, he did not.

Did he somehow miraculously avoid a nightmare despite all that and the random snake that had crawled under the covers in the middle of the night? He bloody well did, and is very proud that he had managed to stomp down on a blood-curling scream when he moved an inch to the side and bumped his bare foot into cold, smooth scales.

Regulus lets out a sigh. He’s lucky that the Slytherin common room had some snakes chill inside sometimes, which had mostly desensitised him to the poor creatures. And that Tom and all his new kids can apparently talk to Nagini and told her early in their acquittance that Regulus should be considered family from now on.

He remembers his mother showing him a memory of the same snake swallowing a man whole before his initiation. It’s really strange to see her now nap before a fireplace and get hugged by the kids, or climb up onto Tom and for some reason try to tie him to Regulus while the man lets out hissy curses.

So yes; he’s had a tour, got some insight into whatever he got himself into, had some revelations. Just your usual weekend when you’re legally dead and about to bind yourself to an alternate version of your former boss.

He’s just glad Kreacher decided that the lot of them must, under no circumstance, be left to their own devices, and thus had commandeered the kitchen. And basically the rest of the house, considering the fact that he threw a vase at Tom when the man tried to cast a cleaning charm after Ron spilled some tea onto the floor.

But Regulus likes the crotchety house-elf. Always had, in lieu of his absent father and less than pleasant mother. In that house, Kreacher had been a ray of sunshine, which... really speaks for itself.

He is about to enter the library when he notices it’s already occupied, soft sounds escaping through the closed door. He opens it a smidge to peek inside, and finds Tom and the kids in the middle of a lesson.

Hearing about the kids time at Hogwarts made him want to immediately bundle them up into a blanket and never let them out of his sight, so he understands why Tom had decided that homeschooling would be the way to go after their miraculous escape. They couldn’t just enroll again immediately after they disappeared, no matter how different they look now or that Tom probably would have been in more of a hurry to iron out their fake backstory. The timing would have been too suspicious, and they would have been stuck in the spotlight the moment they stepped foot inside again. Which is also the reason Regulus supports Tom’s decision of sending the children abroad come September, no matter how uncomfortable it makes him to imagine them small, alone and without anyone that would help them fit in.

The boys don’t even know French, for Merlin’s sake. He really has his work cut out for him if he wants to sell them off as proper Blacks.

Tom, though... It looks like he’s enjoying teaching. He did mention that he made a schedule so the kids would have some structure to their weeks, but... Regulus just had a hard time picturing the Big Bad Dark Lord explaining the origins of magic or the founding of Hogwarts to his three tiny pupils, no matter that he already saw him trudge through snow only to be knocked off his feet by a pair of enthusiastic thestral foals. And then he subtly placed Regulus onto one of the older ones while he was distracted and got on behind him. Which made him seriously freak out when he noticed that he was flying twenty metres above ground without any safety measures. Aside from the chest at his back. But like... He enjoyed it a lot when the panic abated and he could concentrate on the rush of adrenalin and the wind biting at his cheeks and blowing his elegantly styled hair out of his face. And the closeness, of course. He’s pretty sure he’s been hearing Tom’s chuckles caressing his ears before his dreams gave way to the inevitable nightmares the past two nights.

Regulus shakes his head to try to get his sudden blush to at least become less apparent before he enters quietly. He’s pretty much unnoticed by the children as he slips through the narrow opening, but Tom glances at him for a moment and gives him a small nod. Regulus answers with a smile. Life here is truly idyllic, isn’t it?

He passes the truly adorable sight of Tom teaching history to the starry eyed kids, spinning an elaborate tale while sitting comfortably on the couches instead of having them bend over a strip of parchment and take notes while a certain ghost drones on about the goblin wars.

Honestly, he has yet to understand the reason Binns hasn’t been sacked yet.

He walks deep into the maze of bookshelves and starts browsing. Tom insisted he take a few days to settle in, ignoring Regulus’s attempts at convincing him of the opposite.

He’s fine. Honest. Or, the nightmares are normal, right? He’s sure they are. They are nothing new anyway, so...

In the end, he ends up in the library when the others are busy anyway, taking to getting lost between the shelves and reading about anything that strikes his fancy. Though he has to admit, Tom and the kids had been making it very hard for him to do anything but smile at their antics, least of all leaving him any time to needlessly angst.

And what a library it is. He doesn’t think the library at Black Castle has this many topics, even if this one seems smaller. Maybe. He isn’t quite sure where the rows end.

It’s quite a funny thing, space. The further he goes the more books he finds, never seeing the end of the bookcases. Barty would have fainted from elation by n—

No.

His fingers twitch against the worn spine of a leather bound book.

Focus on the books, Regulus. You can— you can ask later.

He shakes his head and tries to kick his thoughts in a different direction upon dragging his gaze back up to the shelves; looks like today’s topic will be blood magic.

Hmm... Blood curses no, he already knows far too many and he’d much rather spend his time reading about something more interesting. Blood rituals, maybe? Blood usage in potions, now that would interest Sev—

He knocks his forehead against the cool wood of the shelf before him.

Why is this so hard? The only thing he needs to do is be in peace for a short while and then build a life for himself. But the past just keeps sneaking up on him and—

...Maybe he should ask about his friends later. But would they even know anything?

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut.

After the adoption. I’ll ask after the adoption.

Which, now that he thinks about it, they should schedule that to sometime soon if Tom plans to enrol the kids into their school of choice in the near future. Because, again, Hogwarts is thoroughly out of the question.

He sighs. Back to the shelves it is.

...

...Maledicti? What the hell is that?

Regulus stands up on his toes but can’t reach the book in question. He tries again with increasing annoyance; still can’t. He’s about to climb up onto the shelves when a low, melodious chuckle from behind makes a shiver run up his spine.

The good kind, of course. Like every other one he had in the past two days.

He turns on his heel and comes face to face with a smirking Tom.

“Not tall enough, I assume?” says the git with his unfairly long limbs. He glances up towards the books Regulus longs to suddenly drop on his head. Because yes, the daze caused by the slightest glimpse of his handsome face faded a bit after days in his infuriating presence, no matter how obviously attracted he is to him. That’s just fuel to the fire. He’s still more than willing to marry him of course, just less star-struck and uncharacteristically tongue-tied. “Which one do you want?”

Regulus pouts (he knows it makes him look cute). He adjusts his pose so Tom’s eyes would be drawn to the line of his slender throat, emphasized by the man’s own large shirt he’s wearing (because apparently his mother burned all his clothes in the anger-stage of her unexpected mourning period).

Oh, yes. Two can play this came, you unjustifiably hot bastard.

“The blue one, please,” Regulus says with his head tilted to the side, his falling black locks framing his face attractively. Tom is appropriately mesmerised, leaning so close Regulus can see his dilated pupils swallow the iridescent green of his iris’. His back meets the bookcase, which only makes Tom’s smirk widen as he reaches up over Regulus’ head and takes the wanted book off the shelf, all the while he rests his other hand on Regulus’ slim waist.

Scandalous, he knows. And so do the children peeking out from behind another bookcase Regulus can just glimpse from the corner of his right eye, though they valiantly stay silent.

He keeps eye contact and graces the man with a teasing smile. “Trying out for the role of the knight in shining armour?”

Tom laughs as he leans forward against the bookcase and sneaks his arm fully behind Regulus. There’s barely any space between them, the natural warmth of their bodies heating up the air.

“I suppose I just couldn’t help myself when I saw a damsel in distress. The wandlore book does say blackthorn is the wood of heroes, after all.”

He tilts his head too, making the sparse light catch on his cheekbones.

Regulus feels himself melt. Again.

What is this, the tenth time since they met? The twentieth? He lost count when they reached double digits.

“Thank you, then, my brave knight. Now if you would just relinquish ownership of my waist, I could actually start reading it,” he says, stubborn ignoring the blush he can practically feel climbing up his face.

Tom chuckles but does hold out the book to him, though he freezes when he actually glances at it.

...Shit, is it cursed? But no, he only froze when he saw the cove—

“Do you mind if I read it first?” he blurts out, not taking his eyes off the book.

Regulus frowns. “Of course not. But what’s the hurry?” he asked curiously. It isn’t every day Tom acts like this. He seems almost... nervous. Afraid? But no, why would he—

Tom retracts the arm encircling Regulus’ waist, only to brush a finger over the title and look him in the eye. “You probably mistook Nagini as my familiar, yes?”

“...Is she not?”

“No,” he says with a shake of his head, his grip on the book becoming much more apparent. “She’s actually a human trapped in the form of a snake due to a bloodline curse cast generations ago on her ancestor. Sadly, I haven’t met her soon enough to see her real form, but... I’ve been looking everywhere for a cure for as long as I remember. And even if there’s nothing concrete in this, with just a theoretical version of the curse I could...” He trails off, likely not wanting to give himself false hope. And Regulus understands that.

“Go then,” he says, pushing the book towards Tom’s chest. It connects with his chest with barely any sound. “I hope it’s of some use.”

Tom leaves him there with a grateful nod, the children jumping out of his way as he hurries away. And Merlin, does Regulus hope that Lady Luck blesses him.

“...Do you think Dad will find a cure?” Harry asks, turning back to Regulus.

He pats his head. The child must have forgotten to use the comb this morning; his hair resembles a bird’s nest more than anything else. “I’m sure he can do anything if he puts his mind to it. And even if he doesn’t find it in that book, we have lots of others on blood magic. Now, if you’re done with History, we have some etiquette to go through. Come along, will you?”

And with that, the groaning children follow him out of the maze of bookcases.

By the time they enter the main part of the library, Tom is paying rapid attention to what the residents of the portrait are saying.

“—and then little Mortimer spent years researching—”

“Dad? What’s the matter?” Hermione interrupts, plopping down onto the couch next to him.

Tom gives her a bright smile and pulls her into his lap. She’s somehow just the right size to fit. “I have the cure,” he whispers as he hugs her close, excitement clear in his shining eyes. “One of our ancestors fell in love with someone in a similar situation and created a ritual to turn the animal form into the person’s animagus form. Boys, if you would—”

But Ron and Harry are already racing to the music room where Nagini is currently napping, if Regulus remembers right. He sits down next to Tom just as the boys come back, carrying a confused snake above their heads.

Regulus can’t understand what they are conversing about in Parseltongue but they all seem happy, so he lets himself get comfortable and just bask in the joy suffusing the room.

He wonders if there’s some potion or ritual that would let him at least understand, if not speak the language. Hmm... A research topic for another time. And maybe for another library, if the Gaunts didn’t manage to squander their entire fortune.

After a while the conversation winds down and Nagini excitedly slithers out of the room after the grinning children. Regulus glances at Tom and mirrored his smile. “I hope they realise this won’t save them from the etiquette lessons,” he jokes. The chuckle he gets for it is music to his ears. “She’s pleased, I imagine,” he adds, leaning back in his seat. All the furniture here is clearly made for comfort, unlike in the Black townhouse.

He likes it very much.

Tom’s eyes trail to Regulus’ shoulder and he flicks a stray speck of dust off it, letting his hand rest on the back of the couch. “...Thank you for finding the book. I don’t imagine I would have come across it anytime soon.”

...Well. It feels good to be acknowledged, but for such a small thing? For finding a book? It’s laughable, truly.

A curious warmth fills his chest anyway.

Regulus looks away and tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ears. He should get a haircut soon if he doesn’t plan to mirror Harry’s messy mop. “Don’t mention it. How soon will you be able to turn her human again?”

He hears Tom’s melodious hum close to his ear. Maybe they are sitting a little too close? What with their knees almost touching and Tom’s arms reaching behind his back.

He should... He should just move away, but that would probably turn the situation awkward. And it’s not like he wants to get away! It’s just...

Regulus’ eyes get stuck on Tom’s slightly askew collar as the man starts to speak.

“I need to check out the greenhouses, see if we have any of the ingredients needed. Some are quite rare, I don’t think I would find them in Diagon. Knockturn, maybe...”

That collar ruins his perfect image. Regulus reaches out and corrects it.

There. Much better.

...Strange. Why did Tom stop speaking?

He looks up, hands still loosely gripping the fine silk fabric. His eyes meet with mesmerising green ones wide from surprise and a mouth slightly opened. It’s as if...

...Yeah, no.

Regulus quickly lets go of his collar and jumps up as if burned. He can also feel his face burn, damn it. “Well, that sounds fantastic! I wish you good luck and, err, see you later.”

He hightails it out of the library like the well-mannered gentleman he is.

Showing a bit of collarbone in borrowed pajamas and flirting in the dark corners of a library? Sign Regulus the fuck up.

Making out on the couch in said library after he lost control of himself the first time they are left alone? How about no.

He’s not going to be the first to break, that’s for sure. And... It’s too soon anyway. Things are moving... Yeah, too soon.

And somehow not fast enough.

Tom cancels their Tuesday lessons because he needs the entire day to brew the potion for the ritual tomorrow, having found all the necessary ingredients the previous afternoon. This leaves Ron and the others with their morning free, which Regulus, their soon-to-be-other-dad, happily capitalises on.

“We are going to learn ballroom dancing today,” he chirps way too happily at arse o’clock in the middle of the duelling chamber, having woken them up in time so they could ‘take advantage of this welcome surprise’. Ron smells something fishy in this whole thing but he isn’t awake enough yet for more complex thoughts, unlike his siblings with dread written on their faces.

Honestly, what are they so afraid of? They just need to put one foot after anoth—

...Oops.

Well, here’s another thing he can put into the ‘Never try again’ box.

Why are purebloods so obsessed with ballroom dancing anyway? Personally, Ron doesn’t see the appeal and is very happy to push the equally stumbling Hermione towards Harry, who just stands there in one place, afraid to even move.

He can see Regulus facepalm from the corner of his eyes.

“...Alright. Let’s start with the basics then,” the man says after a deep sigh and starts instructing them in things Ron suspects he learned shortly after starting to walk (though Ron feels a bit iffy about calling him a man, considering that he doesn’t look much older than the Seventh Years. At least Tom looks old enough to legally drink... though he definitely seems like a very young dad. Compared to the muggles he saw in London with children their age in any case.)

He can’t decide if he should be annoyed or relieved Regulus has to beat this into their heads only now.

But that is how their morning goes, with thankfully a few breaks in-between. Honestly, his only saving grace are the snacks Kreacher, their new house-elf apparently, provides occasionally when they do something well. Or at least adequately.

Hermione almost combusted when she first saw the sorry state the elf was in and took it on herself to make sure Kreacher had everything he needed. Which mostly consisted of ordering a few rolls of soft black fabric that he reluctantly accepted and turned into tiny elf-sized uniforms for himself.

Ron really wishes Regulus would soon call a break again.

Why can’t this be easy like... Like quidditch?! There you only have to lean to the side or yank on your broom or—

...Wait.

What if he just—

“That’s it, Ron! Wonderfully executed! Show us again, would you?” he hears Regulus exclaim.

And... Well. Ron tries again with burning ears, but he does manage to do the steps right, to the joy of the quickly improving Hermione.

“See, I told you! When you actually decide to apply yourself—”

“Actually,” he interrupts her, resolutely staring at his feet because boody hell, he didn’t expect he would actually have to explain himself, “I just imagined I’m playing quidditch and, err...”

He’s met by silence. And then Harry knocks him onto the floor.

“Ron, you’re a genius! Why didn’t I think of that sooner?!” he shouts excitedly to Ron’s confusion.

Because it can’t be, can it? Genius is a bit...

“You... you don’t think it’s stupid?” Because they should; the idea came from Ron, after all. And it’s not even that smart, because he still mixed up some steps and he didn’t raise his arm high enough and—

Regulus and Hermione come into his field of vision, sporting identical frowns on their faces.

“You aren’t stupid, Ronald,” Hermione says, clearly annoyed if she’s using his first name in its entirety.

Regulus helps them up from the floor and clasps Ron’s shoulders in his arms. “She’s right. None of you are stupid. What gave you that idea?”

...Well. That’s a loaded question, isn’t it? He doesn’t necessarily think he’s stupid, he just... he’s not as smart as the others. That’s all.

Back when he was still a Weasley, Percy was the smartest in the family, and Bill has to be smart too if he’s working with the goblins. And he was headboy too, so that has to count for something. Charlie’s head is filled with dragons, so he doesn’t count. The twins, of course, are geniuses in their own rights, even if they hide it well so Mum won’t have much expectations towards them (or any, if they have it their way). And Ginny... Well. She’s some kind of evil mastermind Merlin knows who sent to plague this realm.

And in his current family? Hermione and his new dad are basically certified geniuses, and Harry is... Well, Harry. He practically oozes magic despite all the effort his former relatives went through to try and stamp it out of him.

If anyone calls Harry stupid though Ron’s going to grab a beater bat and a shovel. In that order.

So no, he doesn’t think he’s stupid. But could anyone blame him for wondering sometimes, when everyone else in his vicinity is so amazing, and he’s just... Ron?

Something must show on his face because suddenly he’s enveloped in a group hug.

This is also new. At the Weasleys they weren’t so... Well, Mum was. But her hugs always felt way too tight, almost stifling, and they only came when they did something she liked. The others were rarely around each other, trying to avoid everyone else in such a tiny house as often as they could. That’s why he was so surprised the twins let him hug them so long when they left and—

...Bugger, he forgot to send a letter to the twins. He hopes they aren’t planning to break down the door at this moment. The fact that they don’t know their home address is an insignificant detail that they would manage to pass over.

But. Um. Hug.

Ron clears his throat and tries to get rid of the red on his cheeks he can see mirrored in the window glass.

“...This is nice and all, guys, but can we go back to dancing? I was just getting the hang of it,” he tries to joke, though he doubts he succeeded from the others’ resolute expressions.

He resolves himself to getting lots of praise for the next few days. This is their life now; if anyone shows the slightest sign of self-doubt or hint of trauma, they get hugs and praises.

And, hey. It’s not like it isn’t working.

“Right,” Regulus says, letting him wriggle free. “Why don’t you let Harry take over for a moment and come eat a scone? Kreacher’s just made them.”

The house-elf is already eagerly holding out a tray with the delicious baked goods that make Ron’s mouth water.

Sue him, he’s a growing boy. And he deserves the scones.

He munches there next to Regulus for a while until their dad comes into the duelling chamber, prim and proper and not a hair out of place, artful waves falling over his forehead and unruffled clothes without any hint of him spending the day in the potions lab next door.

“Looks like you’re having fun,” he comments as he walks up to them. He seems happy, so the potion must be coming along nicely. Ron didn’t really ask about it much because, like, ew. Potions.

Ron sees his chance when he looks at Regulus and sees the man’s eyes go a little glassy. He makes sure to put on his most innocent face.

“Daaaad?”

Tom doesn’t seem fooled, judging by the single raised eyebrow. “Yes?”

“It’s just, it’s so hard to do the moves alone and Regulus can’t really show us properly because we’re all tiny. Won’t you help us pleeease?”

He throws in the puppy eyes, his siblings catching on quickly and joining in on the scheme. Because that’s what this is. Their masterplan to get their new parents together; as in together together.

Regulus, of course, tried to argue just to make their job harder, though Ron doesn’t understand why. He seemed just fine trying to seduce Tom yesterday in the library. “I’m sure he’s too busy with—”

Oh for fuck’s sake, we’re trying to get you laid!

Thank Merlin that their dad is all too willing to join in. “Nonsense. The potion’s cooling and I don’t have anything to do until after lunch. Which one were you teaching them?”

And with that, he steps up to Regulus and leans in close. Like, their noses are almost touching.

...Well. Good to know they won’t have to do the heavy lifting.

The closeness clearly makes Regulus flustered, if his reddening ears are anything to go by. “I— I mean we, umm, I’m teaching them the waltz. It’s the most common dance at balls, after all,” he says, unwilling to look away from their dad’s eyes even when the blush spreads to his face.

Tom smiles a decidedly seductive smile that, wow, Ron really should learn to imitate. Might come in handy later.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” He waves his wand and soft classical music starts playing in the air. Ron can only wish he grows to be this smooth.

Tom bows to Regulus without breaking eye contact and holds out his hand.

Ron holds his breath. If Regulus decides not to—

...Never mind. There he goes, hesitantly taking the offered hand. Tom swiftly draws him into the starting position and then they are off, perfectly executing every step and twirl.

Looking at them like this, they make a beautiful pair; he just can’t take his eyes off them, and it looks like neither can they off each other. Sadly though the song comes to a stop all too soon, the two men staying in the final position for a bit longer after the music disappears.

...Are they breathing? Ron isn’t sure. Both their cheeks are red and their eyes are kinda glittery.

Kreacher clearing his throat to shake them out of it, and they immediately jump apart as if burned. Both of them are now entirely red in the face.

“Kreacher has finished dinner,” the elf says with a flat stare at the adults, clearly not a fan of their blooming romance.

“...Ah, thank you, Kreacher. Well, let’s go and eat, shall we?” Regulus says, voice unusually high as he speeds out of the room, not looking back at Tom who’s staring at his back. Or, now that Ron looks closer, at his bum.

...Really, Dad? Right before my scones?

Ron sighs as they all begin their walk to the kitchen. At least Nagini becoming human will displace Regulus from the guest room, so there’s that.

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

Tom is a man on a mission. On several missions, to be precise.

He of course needs to complete the ritual in the evening and turn Nagini from a Maledictus into an Animagus. Ambitious, he knows, but the only thing left is drawing the ritual circle with the previously brewed potion mixed with dragon blood. Why dragon blood, you ask? Fuck if he knows. He doesn’t care as long as it works.

His next mission will be convincing Regulus to move out of the guest room, which... could go either way. Like, he thinks they got closer in... less than a week.

It’s been less than a week.

...Damn it.

Well, there goes that plan. Tom can’t just suggest they move in together now, that would by absurd. He’ll need to move in baby steps, lest he scare him away, which is the complete opposite of what he wants.

Even if they already live in the same house.

That leaves the question though, where to put Regulus? He doesn’t want him to move back into Grimmauld Place with his surly house-elf and the portrait of his screeching mother.

It’s... not an ideal situation, but they just don’t have enough bedrooms. He could, of course, just transfigure something into a bed every night or split the guest bedroom somehow. But he doesn’t want to make Regulus feel unwelcome, and that room is so far from the other bedrooms!

...Maybe he just needs to step up his game?

How hard could it be to seduce the one man Tom is actually interested in? It can’t be that hard, considering the Valentines Days he experienced at Hogwarts.

...Oh, Merlin. Will Orion’s ghost come back to haunt him for bringing depravity onto his offspring?

Tom can already hear Walburga’s enraged screams. That woman had to have some banshee blood in her veins, that’s for sure.

He really hopes they won’t slip through the veil some way and come to dirty his doorstep; he already has the Potters to deal with whenever he’ll have the time to look through the Necromancy section of the library. And they still have to do the second adoption at Gringotts, and he also has to set up an identity for Nagini, and fine tune all their backstories before they appear in the society pages of the Daily Prophet and then the school admissions—

...So yes, he has a lot on his plate.

Tom shakes his head. All in due time; first he needs to actually start drawing the damn ritual circle.

He takes the brush in his hand and dips it into the bowl filled with dragon blood. He didn’t need a lot of it, thank Merlin, because they are running low on that stuff. He was surprised it lasted this long, but the previous owners’ Preservation Charms turned out to be spot on, thankfully.

He begins to draw each rune with great care. It’s meticulous work, but he likes it very much, always having been a scholar at heart.

I could have been doing this for decades, he grumbles inside his mind. Why couldn’t I just go into research? Oh, right. People are idiots and I wanted change. But damn it I could have done it as a teacher! I don’t even know w—

“How is it coming along?” Regulus interrupts his thoughts, making Tom almost mess up an entire rune chain.

He takes a deep breath and sneaks a look behind him. Not having the time or opportunity yet to go out and shop, Regulus opted to wear his clothes for now.

Tom ignores the little voice in his head whispering ‘You could have just taken him to Harrods.’ He isn’t ashamed to admit that he likes the sight of his pristine white shirt hanging slightly off Regulus’s shoulder, providing Tom with ample view of his collarbones. He dreads the day Regulus starts dressing properly again.

“Give me ten minutes and we can start. Would you please fetch Nagini?” he asks instead, a smile slipping onto his face almost unconsciously.

Regulus mirrors his expression and walks out with a simple nod, so Tom turns back to his half-finished work, his eyes resolutely kept away from the retreating man’s back. He doesn’t want to get lost in a trance, thank you very much. He has work to do.

Times like this still make him feel strange. Slowly, very slowly, he got used to his children sneaking over to him for a hug, or waiting nearby for a pat on their little heads. He can’t deny that their beaming smiles turn his heart a little bit lighter every time and make him dwell on his disastrous situation less and less.

He knows he doesn’t deserve this, living in peace as if he didn’t just slaughter his way through the population of Magical Britain. And even if technically it wasn’t him committing murder left and right... It still hurts to know he’s easily capable of such actions when pushed too far.

Back when he was still trapped inside Harry’s subconscious, he counted along as Professor McGonagall called each child for their sorting. And he only managed to count to fourty. A tragically small number compared to the hundred-and-fifty classmates he had, and even worse when he thought about Grindelwald being defeated in 1945. Because that meant that he was the one responsible for the drastic drop in population.

Well. His dark lord persona, but still. The least he can do is not make things worse from now on (People trying to harm them notwithstanding; those are free game).

Don’t get him wrong, he knows he’s not a good man. Not even a decent one, according to some (most) people. But he would freely admit that he thought attacking toddlers beyond him even at his most insane; not that that stopped Voldemort from shooting little baby Harry in the face with the Killing curse.

That moment features quite often in his nightmares.

So falling into the easy rhythm of their quaint daily life, as if none of his past actions mattered to the kids... He couldn’t help but want to hide away from the world just a bit longer.

And then there’s Regulus. He has to admit, he didn’t know what he was thinking when he picked the soaked and trembling man up from the cave floor, the memory of Dennis and Amy trying to drown him in that same lake blurring fact and fiction for a moment. It was all too much for a moment, his vision swaying and a darkening at the edges for an awfully long moment. But then he looked down and stared into silver pools of liquid mercury. And that beautiful sight, so out of place in the dreary cave, had managed to snap him out of what was surely about to become a panic attack.

So no, he didn’t know what he was thinking then. Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. In the end, it doesn’t really matter either way, because Regulus isn’t leaving anymore, that he will make sure of.

A better man would help him get better, talk to him a bit and then let him leave for his own home, get his life back into his own hands. Tom isn’t a better man.

Sometimes during the past few days he started to wonder where these feelings came from. He couldn’t get drugged with potions of the kind that would artificially make him act and think like this, that much became clear over several Valentine’s Days spent at Hogwarts’ Hospital Wing, vomiting up everything he ate that morning. But then why? Why can’t he just let go? Why did he try to make sure the kids got him attached, that Kreacher had no words of complaint about him, that—

He doesn’t understand it, and truthfully he doesn’t even want to. No yet, at least.

Of course, it could be that this is simply mere attraction he feels, but somehow he finds that word lacking in describing his... feelings.

...Merlin’s beard, he has feelings now.

Life was so much easier after his first horcrux when all he felt was either anger, boredom or smugness...

He supposes it doesn’t hurt that Regulus inherited the famed Black beauty, but that in itself wouldn’t have ensnared him. Wouldn’t have made him obsess over every visible patch of skin he can get a glimpse of or want to run his fingers through ebony waves whenever he catches Regulus draped over the couch in the library, hair spread over a pillow as he peacefully reads a book. He didn’t get these thoughts around Orion or Walburga, from whom he got his appereance.

Is that it? Is this simple lust? It somehow doesn’t fit. He doesn’t exactly want Regulus for his body.

...Well. More like he doesn’t just want his body.

At first he simply tried to get into role. To lean into the act. He didn’t want to mess up when they first appeared in public, after all, but... But then he’d found in these last few days that he likes to make the man flash a smile or draw a bell-like laugh out of him. He likes to see the tips of his ears turn a soft pink or a rosy red, and he’d found himself smiling many times when Regulus sneaked a glance at him from the corner of his eye.

It’s just the cherry on the top that he seems to adore the children just as much as Tom does.

It wasn’t like this back when he lived with less than half his soul, nor before that. He doesn’t think he felt so strong about anything other than his own death. But now there are the kids, then Nagini, then Regulus... He even started to grow fond of their new crotchety house-elf.

It’s completely out of the norm. Downright crazy.

He looks behind him again, hearing Regulus chat at the softly hissing Nagini, followed by the quiet steps of the children.

Good thing that no one’s ever accused me of being entirely sane.

“Thank you, Regulus,” he says as he stands up and gestures to the corner. “All of you, stand to the side, please; we wouldn’t want you to get caught up in the ritual, after all.”

“You are smitten and it shows,” Nagini states, making Tom scowl at her as he sits down outside the ritual circle with his legs crossed. He wasn’t expecting to hear this slander every time the snake so much as caught a glimpse of them, which was a foolish idea. Nagini has always enjoyed messing with him.

“Shut up and slither inside.”

She complies without any fuss, but doesn’t stop sniggering up until Tom begins chanting, carefully enunciating every word.

The ritual goes on for a long while, though Tom isn’t much bothered. Not after all the time he spent studying the instructions and preparing the potion written down in it. He also had to brush up on his ancient Greek, which would have been more of a problem if he hadn’t taken it up as an extracurricular interest back in fourth year. When it was still an option, unlike now.

Fortunate indeed.

He only starts to slow the chant when he feels the accumulated magic surge towards Nagini, hearing her screams but refusing to waver. He can’t; not now when they are almost done. Not when they are so close to—

He can’t even finish that thought as her form starts twisting and morphing and splitting.

...He should have kept the children outside. This is surely bad for their mental health, right?

Luckily, the gruesome scene doesn’t last long and after a while the magic ebbs, Nagini’s screams stopping with it. She’s left naked and panting in the middle of the now inactive ritual circle, but finally human again.

And not even the slightest hint of scales, Tom thinks smugly, watching as she tries to lift herself with painful slowness and not much success.

He cracks his neck and stands up, though he almost falls back down on his arse.

He feels... weird. Almost like when the kids botched up the ritual and accidentally gave him a body.

As he rights himself, he sees that Nagini is quickly approached by a concerned Regulus, who drapes a weighted blanket on her shoulders.

Good for anxiety, his dazed mind supplies. He doesn’t remember reading it anywhere, but oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers.

“Are you well enough to walk?” Regulus asks with a frown as he watches the children swarm him.

Tom doesn’t understand why they all look concerned. It’s not like he would get magical exhaustion by this m—

...

...

...

...Ah. So that’s why his brain feels like Swiss cheese.

“Dad? Are you okay?” Harry asks with large, teary eyes. Or is that Ron? No, no, the kid has green eyes, so that’s Harry. Ron is the one dragging him towards Nagini by his left sleeve.

“Sit down!” he orders and practically pushes him onto the floor.

Honestly, he doesn’t get any respect here.

Nagini lets out a weak chuckle at his pout and lets him under the blanket too. He has to admit that it feels nice and warm, though a bit crowded. They are very lucky he doesn’t have the energy nor the brain capacity to argue. Or that’s what he tells himself anyway.

“Well, I didn’t expect this to turn into an impromptu picnic, that’s for sure. Kreacher!” Regulus shouts and the elf appears holding a tray filled with six cups of hot chocolate and two vials. He also has a bowl of... candied almonds? Tom isn’t sure, but it’s floating after him as he approaches with narrowed eyes.

“Kreacher brings sustenance for all of yous and potions for Stupid Master and Snakey Mistress. Yous be drinking it before yous faint,” he says with a glower and levitates the vials to them.

Nagini drinks it without hesitation. Tom admires her faith; he still isn’t sure the elf won’t just poison him on one of his battier days. The only thought consoling him is that he wouldn’t hurt him in front of the watchful eyes of Regulus and the children, whom Kreacher adores and would never hurt so, be it physically or emotionally.

He gulps down the foul-smelling potion with those comforting thoughts. It tastes even worse than he expected but seems to do the deed as he feels himself perk up minute-by-minute while drinking his hot chocolate to wash the disgusting taste down.

He doesn’t get out from under the blanket though. It’s warm there. He likes warmth.

“...Thank you,” he says in a hoarse voice and turns to Nagini. “How are you feeling?”

Because it’s not every day he turns a snake human. He has a healthy scientific interest in the results.

The corners of her mouth quirk up. “Like shit, but I will live. You?”

“Same.” Tom chuckles. “I shall sleep well tonight. Though... you might want to touch up on your language skills.”

She lifts an eyebrow, her expression so much like Tom’s usual one he’s stunned for a moment. “Parseltongue?”

“Parseltongue.”

She narrows her eyes, glaring at the empty mug in her hands. “...Now?”

“English.”

She smugly smirks. “Wonderful. Then I can kick your dear Regulus out of the guest room without remorse. I do hope you aren’t against sharing your bed again?”

You little shit.

He’s already opened his mouth to argue when Regulus speaks. “Naturally, Nagini. It will be just like Hogwarts again. Do you two think you can walk yet?”

And he sounds so concerned, too. He doesn’t see the shit-eating grin Nagini shoots Tom as he helps her up.

Tom huffs and also stands up with Hermione’s assistance.

...That’s one problem solved, at least. And he’s in a bad enough shape that he won’t have to worry about possibly awkwardness with no buffers while sleeping in the same bed, unlike when the kids manipulated themselves into a sleepover (which he was kind of proud of. Just saying).

They drop off a stumbling Nagini in the guest room, the children marching her straight into the bathroom, presumably to dump her into a nice, warm bath.

He also longs for a warm bath. He should have a warm bath.

“We’ll look after her tonight. Good night, Dad. Good night, Regulus,” Hermine states and shuts the door before their noses.

Regulus herds Tom up the stairs with a chuckle. They only stops when they get to his— their bedroom.

And bloody hell, it really is theirs now.

“...I think my house likes you,” Tom comments with wide eyes as he stares up at the ceiling with the starry sky painted on it, much like Harry has in his own room. Something that decidedly wasn’t like that before the ritual.

Regulus smiles brightly at him and takes Tom’s hands into his. His skin is very soft, with seemingly no callouses developed from excess wand useage while dueling. A stark difference to Tom’s hands, after all the hours he invested in perfecting various spells; strictly for self-defense, of course. Naturally. If anyone asks in court.

Regulus pulls him into the bathroom while chatting about something he really can’t be faulted for not processing.

Maybe seduction won’t be that hard to accomplish after all, with the objective so willing to play along.

And Nagini can eat a hat. He feels entitled to some degree of infatuation, considering that Regulus is...

Well. Regulus.

Chapter Text

The next day, their dad being practically knocked out, Harry and his siblings have free. Which is cool, really, because he’d already seen the stack of papers in Hermione’s hands and the determined expression on her face.

“Kreacher,” she calls out to the house-elf, who quickly levitates their breakfast to the table and looks at her with starry eyes. The fact that Regulus will adopt them in the very near future went a long way in endearing them to the creature.

“What does the Little Mistress be wanting?” he asks, wringing his hands. Harry wonders why he’s so nervous. It’s not like they would hurt hi—

...Ah. Yes. Regulus and his infamously awful family. He almost forgot that muggles aren’t the only ones who yan be mean.

Fortunately for them all, Hermione gets to the point quickly. “Good morning, Kreacher. Would you please fill out this survey about your satisfaction with your working conditions?” she asks in a very professional manner and pushes her stack of papers before the elf, who just stares at them with his eyebrows at his non-existent hairline.

Harry hears Regulus fall down the stairs, laughing his head off even as Kreacher quickly pops him over to them and fills the table with breakfast. The papers have disappeared from sight.

Regulus is till laughing.

“You— Hah. You, my dear, shall be my eventual heir,” Regulus declares when he finally catches his breath again.

Hermione pushes a glass of orange juice before him with a flat stare. Harry thinks she might be wishing that he would choke a little, but alas, it’s not to be.

Or not, that is, until Ron asks, “Won’t Dad be sad you left him alone in bed?”

They all snicker as Regulus’ drink goes down the wrong pipe.

“You di— you did that intentionally,” he accuses the boy after he stops coughing, earning himself three wide, innocent eyes.

Conspiring, them? No, sir, surely not. Why would you even think that?

Unable to make them budge, Regulus starts in on his breakfast with a pout. Which, great idea. Harry is hungry too.

They are nearly done with their sausages when an evil smirk slides onto their soon-to-be-dad’s face. “Just for that comment, you’ll get another etiquette lesson today. And Kreacher, be a dear and prepare something light for the others when they wake, would you?”

Damn it.

Harry finishes his slice of bread in a much sullen mood and then walks towards the library with a deep sigh.

Another day of practising walking and talking it is, then.

Today. Today is the day they will get adopted.

Harry can’t contain his excitement as they floo straight into Garnak’s office. Apparently they are a ‘special case’, so the goblin opened his floo for them this once. But only until they work out how to not get Regulus dropped straight into Azkaban if anyone saw him.

“Good morning, Garnak!” Harry chirps at the surly goblin whose icy expression taws a bit. A teeny-tiny bit.

“Good morning to you too, youngling. If only your father was more like you,” he says with a glare at Tom, who glares back equally grumpily. Someone seems to have missed his beauty sleep.

“Garnak. A pleasure as always. Marriage or adoption first?” he asks, already making himself comfortable in one of the armchairs.

Garnak throw a piece of parchment and a quill at his head while they all take a seat. Tom catches them easily, so the goblin mustn’t be that mad at this early hour. “You and your beau will need to fill that out before we proceed.”

Ron sets up his chess set. They came prepared this time.

Tom starts reading through the marriage contract with Regulus sitting on the arm of his chair, the two of them leaning close to each other as they occasionally discuss certain parts in a low tone. Harry has to admit, they make a nice pair, though they would need to get Regulus some clothes in his size; he kinda looks like he’s playing dress-up like this.

Not that Tom seems to mind it, but still. There’s a reason they haven’t gone out in public yet.

Harry only realises he’s staring when Ron nudges him with his elbow, looking up from trouncing a more and more annoyed Hermione while Nagini provides unhelpful colour commentary.

...Oops.

Ron can’t blame him, though. They are so pretty! Especially together. And chess isn’t exactly his favourite game of all time, least of all when he isn’t even playing.

He’s about to open his mouth and share his thoughts when Regulus turns to them with a smile.

“Would you like your last name to be Black or Riddle?” he asks, Tom also looking at them inquiringly.

Harry’s thoughts grind to a halt.

Black... Or Riddle? They are giving them a choice?

Wow. Pigs must be falling from the sky if Harry gets a choice in his life—

Wait, no. Not the Dursleys.

...Right.

Harry shares a look with Ron and Hermione. They had been wondering about their soon-to-be official names but... Well. They though they would be going with Peverell, which is apparently not the case for some reason.

They nod and turn back to the adults.

“We don’t really care as long as you choose it,” Harry declares.

And it’s true. He really doesn’t care what his last name is as long as he has people to share it with.

They better choose a great first name though; he doesn’t want to end up with something stupid like ‘Ominous Cantakerous Peverell-Gaunt-Riddle-Black’. That would just be... No.

Regulus and Tom look baffled at his statement, though Nagini sends him a knowing smile.

“You... Are you sure? We can’t really change it once the adoption is complete and the files are filed,” Regulus insists with a frown.

Hermione gives him a confident nod. “We are. We’ve discussed this before; please choose as you see fit.”

Tom cocks his head to the side and starts tapping on his knee, a habit Harry had noticed he tends to fall into when he’s thinking hard about something. And he also monologues, which though could just be because he was supposed to be evil. And evil masterminds tend to monologue, according to what he managed to hear from the telly through the door of his cupboard.

“Hmm... On the one hand, Dumbledore would expect me to change my name the first chance I get. But on the other, I’m sure he’d think I would choose Gaunt and make you all take it with me.” Tom grins; it has a mean edge. “He would never think I would ever willingly place myself in a ‘subservient position’.”

And ah, there it is. Their dad’s famous enmity of Dumbledore. They should really discuss the particulars of that one of these days.

Tom turns to Regulus, who’s still daintily perching on the arm of his chair. His grin transforms into a seductive smirk as he gently takes the man’s chin into his hands. “What do you think, darling? Shall I be Thomas Black, after all?”

That’s... more progress than they anticipated. Much more.

Harry narrows his eyes. Could it be? Could the two men really be closer than they expected? Somehow it seems too soon, even if they had been playing matchmaker since the moment they saw their dad princess-carry the soaked man through their front door. Mostly in fear of him bringing home someone worse next time, bit still. They like Regulus. Regulus is... nice. He’s kind and sweet and Harry would probably have to shackle him to their dad’s bed if he ever decided to leave.

The furious blush on the man’s face tells a different tale, though. They probably won’t have to somehow acquire uncuttable ropes then.

Harry smirks and sees it mirrored on his siblings and Nagini.

Happy family life, here we come.

Regulus finally manages to produce an answer, though not before hastily tearing his chin out of Tom’s grip. He can’t keep eye contact. “Somehow I expected a more romantic proposal,” he says, playing with the edge of his too-long sleeves. He doesn’t manage to fool anyone. Even Garnak sends him a flat stare, clearly not wanting to mop up the mush Regulus is turning into.

Tom smirks, seeing his chance. “I’m so terribly sorry. Do you want me on my knees before you?”

...Is he for real?

His words at least make Regulus come back to himself, so there’s that. “I want that picture out of my head. Just sign the bloody contract, damn it,” he hisses and walks over to the armchair opposite them.

Harry facepalms.

Wonderful. Their dad just cockblocked himself.

He shares a commiserating look with Ron and Hermione while the adults complete the paperwork in silence. They are really lucky they have such wonderful children who had made it their life’s mission to get them together. Merlin knows where they would be otherwise.

Tom leans back in his chair after lots of signing, satisfied. He only just avoids the ornate dagger flung at him.

“Must you always do this?” he asks the grinning Garnak, who just raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll stop making attempts at your life when you stop being a pain in my arse. It’s good practice for you, anyway. Wouldn’t want you to get rusty, would we? Now make you beau bleed into the bowl on the coffee table.”

Tom scowls but obediently hands the dagger to Regulus, who does as told. He mixes the blood inside the potion already filling the bowl and distributes the end result between three smaller bowls. He gives one to each of them.

“You will have to drink it for the adoption to be complete,” Regulus explains, looking them in the eye one-by-one. “It will add me as another parent, unlike what you did with Tom.”

“Accidentally,” their dad adds while handing Nagini a bowl too.

Hermione scoots closer to her, peering at the dubious liquid. Harry just wrinkles his nose at the bad smell it emits. “What will yours do?”

Nagini smirks at her and raises her bowl. “Make me your aunt, kid.”

And with that, she pours it down her throat.

She starts changing the moment the bowl falls from her hands, straight pitch-black hair developing soft waves but otherwise keeping its previous jet-black colour. Her face, on the other hand... After a few long seconds, gone are the soft Asian features, their place taken by their dad’s familiar ones, just in a more feminine version. They grimace looks the same too, Harry notes with a twitch of his lips, and... she grew taller too, if he’s seeing right. He must be. He was eyeing her chin before the potion, and now he’s at eye-level with her clavicle.

Nagini lets out a deep sigh and throws her head back, letting Tom sneak up behind her and tuck a dark, wavy lock behind her ear as she squeezes her eyes shut.

“I never again want to go through any kind of forced transformation,” she groans, but shortly a smirk sneaks onto her face. Ever so slowly she opens his eyes and lifts her smug gaze up at Tom. “You do realise I’m now basically entitled to make fun of you for all eternity?”

Tom mirrors her expression and tousles her hair. “Ah, but have you considered that the same goes for me?”

Harry smiles. He thinks they act very much like real siblings already. He supposes it isn’t exactly hard; Nagini told them that they met back when Tom was still in Hogwarts. And with her already stuck in snake-form, seemingly with no cure in sight... Harry can imagine how happy she must have been to finally find someone who could understand her. It’s really no surprise she decided then and there that she’s adopting him, or that Tom did the same.

Let’s just say that they have a lot of blackmail on each other.

Nagini pouts and slaps Tom’s hand away upon having her hair messed up. She turns to them with a pointed look at their cups.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Drink up.”

Harry stares at the potion sitting innocently in his bowl. He swished it around. It still doesn’t look appetising.

Now or never, he thinks with a grimace as he lifts it to his mouth.

...Bloody ew. Do all potions need to taste this vile?

He starts feeling itchy all over, which isn’t a pleasant feeling, that he’ll freely admit, but it doesn’t even compare to what he had felt back in the ritual chamber at Hogwarts at least. It’s just... uncomfortable. Very much.

He hopes he doesn’t change much. He just got used to his new features, and he likes them too!

Fortunately for him, the discomfort doesn’t last much longer; soon the feeling ebbs and then disappears entirely. Harry shakes his head to try and get his muddled brain working again.

He glances up at his parent... Well, parents, and sees them both grin. He doesn’t have long to wonder why, because Garnak makes a large mirror appear with a wave of his hand. (Goblins don’t really need wands as it turns out, but it still sucks that witches and wizards forbid them the usage... Until Hermione eventually comes to reign as the sole benevolent overlord of Magical Britain, that is.)

...Huh. They didn’t change that much. Like, Ron and Hermione now bear Regulus’ silver eyes, but really, that’s all for them. They still look like mini versions of Tom. Harry, on the other hand...

“Mate, your eyes are glowing,” Ron says with raised eyebrows, his chin fallen open in wonder.

Hermione just gives him a flat look. “Astute observation, dear brother. Any other life-changing discoveries you would like to share with us? Maybe some that aren’t that obvious.”

Ron’s face reddens; Harry can practically feel him gear up to a fight so he decided to intervene. “Look! I can make them brighter or dimmer. Isn’t this cool?”

Which, it is. Very cool. Though he would feel better if the room wasn’t swaying.

Hermione grabs his face and turns it towards her, which, damn, he sure hopes he doesn’t throw up onto her shoes. “Hmm... Do you think they glow in the dark? Maybe if we—”

He kinda tunes out the rest of her monologue. His head is still a bit woozy, and he needs to concentrate on taking deep breathes.

Anyway, whatever Hermione’s saying can’t exactly cover their dad’s amused chuckle.

“Never change,” he says with a fond smile, and Harry feels his chest warm as his vertigo lessens.

He really, really likes having a family.

Garnak clears his throat. “If you are quite done, shall we proceed? We still have a lot to do.”

And Tom takes more parchment from him.

He glances down at the bundle in his hands and smirks, a mad gleam in his eyes. “Come on, kids. Let’s fake your death properly.”

...Scheming it is, then.

“How so?” Harry asks curiously.

He wonders what the adults came up with. Will they pose as a foreign family suddenly coming into a strange inheritance? Harry doubts he would be able to learn an entirely new language before they step into society, and Hermione is the only one out of the three of them who speaks French, so that’s... Yeah. Better choose something else.

Tom sends him a knowing look as if he’d read his mind, which could easily be the case, what with them not having learned proper Occlumency yet. They are still stuck on meditation, sadly. They are improving though, honest! Just... slowly.

“Perhaps we better start with your names?” he offers with the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

...Oh. Oops. Yeah, names really have to be the first step.

“Does Nagini get a new name too?”

“’Course I do,” she says, turning her head to Garnak. “Write me down as Genevieve Riddle, please. Genie kind of sounds like Gini, right? From Nagini.”

...Well, she’s right. And Aunt Genie has a nice ring to it. It’s just...

Tom frowns at her words. “Genevieve?”

“It’s pretty. And I think it suits me, no?” She says, sending him a narrowed look. Tom wisely doesn’t contradict her.

“It’s just... It sounds rather French. And neither of us speak French.”

...Yeah. That.

“We can have French ancestors. We don’t have to necessarily speak it for that,” she offers nonchalantly.

Harry gives her a nod that makes her smile. He’s found that he likes to make people smile.

“But what of your middle names?” he asks innocently, because he wouldn’t want Garnak

Nagini freezes, caught like a deer in head lights. Or snake, seeing that she kept that as her animagus form.

It’s clear that the matter of middle names had escaped her mind, just like Tom’s based on his expressionless face. Which might be slightly concerning because. You know. The adults are supposed to be handling things.

“...Err. Um... How about... Nadia?” Nagini asks, probably picking one at random.

Tom shoots her a baffled look. “Nadia?”

“I—” Nagini’s cheeks are gradually getting redder and redder, wide blotches of red on her unmarred porcelain-white skin. “S-Shut up!”

“But why the fuck Nadia?!”

“I don’t know, it just came to me! And it’s not like you can say anything, you’re just as lost!”

“I’m not!

“You are!”

“I’m not!”

“Oh, really? What’s your middle name then, Mr. Thomas Black?”

“...Elliot?”

Nagini stares at him. Blinks. Leans back in her armchair.

“I’m sooo tempted to call you Lily once in public.”

Tom narrows his eyes, as if saying ‘Abso-fucking-lutely not’. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.”

Regulus clears his throat and looks over to the amused goblin, ignoring the bickering the two devolve into. “Garnak, did Tom sign his middle name on the marriage contract? You might have to give it back to him for a moment if not. And while he does that...” He turns to Harry, Ron and Hermione who are quietly sitting on their sofa like the very mature people their dad and aunt apparently aren’t. “Let’s move on to your names.”

...Yeah. Err. The Names.

Harry’s about to open his mouth when the man hesitantly continues. “I... There’s a tradition in my family. It’s— We usually name our children after stars or constellations. Would you be, err...”

Regulus trails off, his fingers twitching on the arm of the sofa, a slight pink blush decorating his cheeks.

Honestly, it’s quite cute how embarrassed he’s about all this. A thought Harry probably shares with his dad, judging by his expression when he glances over, letting Nagini rant at him as she pummels his arm.

And, well. A star name sounds... nice. And it’s not like Harry had any concrete ideas about his new name, he kind of just... he expected to just wing it. It worked so far, so he didn’t plan to change his strategy. But if Regulus offers...

“Sounds cool,” Ron too says with forced indifference, but Harry can see right through him. He clearly likes the thought of being named after a star.

Hermione on the other hand is naturally about to vibrate out of her skin. “Oh, oh, I’ve read about celestial names before! I’m sure you know many pretty ones. I was named after a character in Shakespeare’s The Winter's Tale and no one else had such a strange name as mine in school so I searched up unique ones and—” She stops at seeing Regulus tearing up a little.

“You... you will truly let me name you?” he chokes out, fat blobs already gathering at the corners of his eyes.

Fortunately they have Tom at hand, who immediately picks him up and drags him back onto the unoccupied armchair with him, cradling him in his arms as he lays him onto his lap.

Nagini just faceplants off her own armchair upon the disappereance of her punching bag.

Tom wipes the tears off Regulus’ face with his fingertips, ignoring his cursing sister. “Of course they will, darling. Why don’t you write up a few and then we can choose between them?”

He sends a meaningful look to the children, even though he shouldn’t have to worry. They are very willing to please their new... err, other dad? They will need to clear that up very soon because this is just getting confusing.

Papa. Papa is good.

There is no way Harry is going to get caught dead calling anyone Daddy.

Garnak floats a parchment and a quill before the two men, which Regulus takes with a soft smile and a nod of thanks and gets to work. After an astonishingly short time, because really, Harry expected a twenty minute break at least, he looks back up at them shyly, crumpling the parchment a bit in his hands. It’s a telling sign that he must have been thinking about this for a while before now.

Regulus bites at his lower lip nervously. “I... You don’t have to use these in private, but it would lend more credit to the story Tom and I came up with to explain your existence.”

Contrary to Regulus’ mostly unfounded hypothetical fears, Harry and his siblings immediately lean forward in excitement, startling the man a bit. He gets himself together quickly though, no doubt thanks a little bit to Nagini’s snort from the background.

Regulus clears his throat and shoots her a glare. “As I was saying, being a part of the Ancient and Noble House of Black makes it necessary for you to have proper names that people will believe I actually chose. Or let Tom get away with choosing at least. And thus,” here he looks at Harry with a very dramatic air,” I name you Polaris Sirius Black after the North Star, the brightest star in the Ursa Minor constellation.” He turns to Ron then, who sits upright in his seat. “You shall be Asterion Bartemius Black. It means Little Star, and shares the name with the feared Minotaur of Crete. And you,” he lets his gaze rest on Hermione at last, “will be Carina Narcissa Black, after the second brightest star in the sky.”

...Wow. That’s a lot of information. But Polaris! No offense to his parents, but it sounds sooo much cooler than Harry. More... more magical. And he supposes it won’t be too difficult to get used to it if they use nicknames. Like, Ris isn’t...that far from Harry, right? And Ron can just be Rion. Though Hermione will have to be... Rina? Rina. Something ending with -rione would have been easier to not mess up, but oh well. It probably would have been more suspicious too.

Harry checks on his siblings; it seems like they like their new names too, going by the faint blush on their cheeks and the tiniest of mist clouding their gazes.

Turning back to Regulus, Harry notes that he still looks insecure, which just can’t stand. And so, in a stroke of divine genius, Harry launches himself at him, making the man freeze for a moment. To his smug delight, Regulus quickly hugs him back, unbothered by the other adults’ chuckles as Ron and Hermione join them a moment later.

“Does that mean we can call you Papa?” Hermione asks, blinking up at Regulus through her lashes.

And he melts.

“You can call me whatever you want, dear,” he chokes out, bursting into tears again.

Ron climbs up onto the arm of his chair. “Good. It was getting really confusion in my mind, calling you both Dad.”

While Hermione sits herself in Regulus’s lap, Harry drops back onto the sofa and drags Tom over with him for his deserved quality cuddles. The man only chuckles as Harry snuggles into his side.

Sue him, he wants hugs. He likes hugs. And he’s done a good job, so he gets them.

Nagini smiles at them all but doesn’t get out of her armchair, probably still too tired from the full-body transformation she went through. For the second time, if they count the ritual from two days ago. And, like, trying to beat Tom up a minute ago, which might also have been quite exhausting.

She has a thoughtful look on her face.

“I see how their new first names fit the children, but care to explain the middle ones?”

...Oh, yeah. Harry wonders who Sirius was. Is? It’s hard to tell when two of Tom’s friends are dead and Regulus’ are... Dead, alive, or non-existent. Because now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t know anything about them. If he had them. Did he? He must have; he’s lovely. He deserves friends who are hopefully still alive and, like, preferably not behind bars. Considering how the end of the war turned out.

“Yeah! Why Bartemius?” Ron asks too, swinging his legs excitedly, his newly silver eyes bright and curious.

Regulus combs his fingers through his new son’s hair and smiles. “We’ve decided to give you your godparent’s first names... Or at least I managed to bolly Tom into whatever I wanted. You in particular got my best friend’s name, Barty Crouch Jr.’s.” His face clouds over, worry drawing his brows together. “I’ve been wondering about what happened to everyone...”

Ron’s eyes widen with alarm. Harry doesn’t have long to wonder why.

“Err... Sorry to burst your bubble, but...” The boy winces. “...He died in Azkaban for torturing the Longbottoms into insanity?”

...

...

...

...Longbottom. As in, like, Neville Lonbottom?!

“Nevilles’s relatives were tortured?!” Harry exclaims at the same time Hermione shouts, “You’ve named him after a convict?!”

...Oh, yeah. That, too.

Regulus is quite taken aback at their vehemence and accidentally makes Ron fall into his lap too with his sudden movement, almost squishing Hermione. She scowls at them both but ends up levelling Regulus with a glare.

“This is a terrible idea,” she declares, her tone bearing no argument as she pushes Ron back onto the arm of the chair.

Regulus gets a thoughtful expression on his face. “Torturing people into insanity doesn’t sound like the Barty I knew. Are you absolutely certain he—”

“I’ve researched the first Wizarding War the moment Professor McGonagall mentioned it,” she cuts him off with a glare that could freeze hellfire. “I’ve learned the name of every convicted Death Eater after meeting Harry, and believe me, there are a lot of them. And Barty Crouch Jr...” She sucks in a deep breath. “He was found guilty in front of the Council of Magical Law for torturing Frank and Alice Longbottom, Neville’s parents, into insanity with the Cruciatus Curse, in a joined trial with Rodolphus, Rabastan and Bellatrix Lestrange. Do you really want someone like that as Ron’s godfather?”

...Oh, shit. Poor Neville.

Harry... really should do something nice for him. From the background. Without his knowledge.

Regulus just sits there for a moment, staring down into his daughter’s resolute face. “That... That can’t be. I can believe that about Bella, but Barty would never!” he blurts out, silver eyes wide and disbelieving even in the face of Hermione’s stone-cold facts.

Harry nudges Tom with his elbow to get his attention. He doesn’t seem to fare much better than Regulus, mainly because he’s having to face the consequences of his actions. Again.

“Dad? Do you remember anything?”

The man furrows his brows, staring at his knees as his finger relentlessly taps at one. “I... No, but... Maybe if it’s that one...” He cocks his head to the side. “...He doesn’t feel dead?”

...What.

Hermione’s head snaps towards them. “How can you tell? Is it because of the Dark Mark? Can you only tell their status or could you maybe locate them if you wanted? Do you—”

“You said you don’t remember anything,” Ron interrupts with a calculating expression, his tone accusing. “Or do you?”

Tom shakes his head. “I remember few things after Hogwarts, as I said. But after I saw Regulus’s mark, I did some meditation and noticed that I was connected to a lot of people; I can’t even tell you how many. Hundreds, possibly.” He looks quite stressed out about that fact, which... Yeah. Harry can sympathise. “Then I just... Let them go, I suppose. I realised it was kind of draining even with all of them inactive, and I didn’t really want to— But that’s not important. One of them felt quite strange, strangely muted somehow, so I— I kept it. I...”

Regulus’ eyes are trained on his face as he falters.

“You think it might be Barty?” The man asks, hope shining in his eyes.

After a bit of hesitation, Tom gives a nod. “...Yes. I can’t exactly be sure about it, not until we somehow come face to face, but if I concentrate hard enough, I’m able to see through his eyes. Especially now that he’s basically the only one connected to me through the mark. It’s kind of like he’s constantly in a... In a trance, I guess?” He runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, messing up the artfully styled locks. “I don’t— The last time I tried, there was a man. Stern and weary, not a kind expression on his face. He told his house-elf to let the boy read a book. She called him Barty. Young Master Barty, that is.”

Harry gives a few pats to his knee. Because at least that’s some... useful information? Probably. He doesn’t much understand how that all works, but if Tom ever came face to face with the guy in question, he might at least recognise him. That’s better than before.

He nudges Tom’s legs with his own. “If it’s who we think it is, he may have escaped somehow from Azkaban. Maybe you can find him then? So Papa will have some answers. The aurors would have chucked him in there too if he didn’t get himself pseudo-drowned.”

Regulus grimaces at the mention of the prison (and the incident too, most likely). Harry can’t blame him for it. From what they had learned about Azkaban in their home-school version of History of Magic, the place sucks. He definitely doesn’t want to get anywhere near it if he can help it.

“Literally no one knew I was even a Death Eater,” Regulus insists with a pout. “I got the mark at a private audition with only my mother there, and shortly after that the lake happened.”

...Good? Or at least less blackmail material with the witness already dead.

“And why Sirius for me?”

“So my brother won’t curse me on sight when we meet again.”

...Ah. Another violent uncle. Yay. Harry really hopes that was an overstatement, lest they need to conjure a battle plan. Again. And he just got rid of his previous mean relatives, too!

Ron consolingly pats Regulus’ shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’s in Azkaban for betraying the Potters, and unless they’ve convicted him on false accusations, we won’t have a reason to see him ever again.”

...Well, that’s good to know. Also, what the actual fuck.

Regulus gives a slow blink, visibly not processing Ron’s words.

“...My brother. Betraying. The Potters?” He has an incredulous expression on his face, as if even the thought seems ridiculous. But that’s... that can’t be. That’s ridiculous. Right? The magical government couldn’t have messed up that badly. Right? “Are you sure we are talking about the same person?”

“Well. How many convicted Death Eaters named Sirius Arcturus Black could there be in Magical Britain?” Ron asks with a raised eyebrow that’s, Harry notices with a nervous chuckle, definitely copied from their dad.

And he’s right. With a name like that there’s no way they could have got the wrong guy, though it’s sad that Harry’s new uncle is an arse too.

Regulus still isn’t convinced. “There is no way my brother betrayed them. Him and Potter were attached at the hip to a degree it was as if I had another annoying older brother. And...” he glances at Harry, “...I would guess he was chosen as your original godfather too.”

...Well. When he puts it like that...

“Does that mean we have to kidnap another man?” Harry asks, voice filled with resignation. It makes his siblings chuckle.

This is so bloody troublesome. Why can’t adults just do their jobs right?

Tom lets out a sigh and falls back into the sofa, looking up towards the ceiling as if asking for patience. Harry seriously doubts his prayers get answered. “I’ll get started on it when we’re done here.”

...Well, Harry likes getting answers. Truly a novelty in his short life.

Hermione impatiently wiggles on Regulus’ lap, probably feeling deprived of information. “What about my middle name? Who’s Narcissa?” she inquires, her hunger for knowledge clear in her eyes. And voice. And really her entire posture as she leans up and blinks enormous puppy eyes at their new parent.

Regulus gives her a warm smile. “She’s always been my favourite cousin, unlike Sirius who favoured her older sister, Andromeda. Actually, we were even planning on asking her help in reintroducing us to society. And based on how whipped he had Lucius back in the day, she could easily make him support us in the Wizengamot too, which is honestly a win-win scenario.”

Cool. So they at least already have a possible ally, truly news of the day at last, finally something good—

Wait a minute. Isn’t Malfoy’s father called...

“...Please tell me we aren’t talking about Lucius Malfoy,” Ron pleads, thoughts wandering in the same direction. And, hell no. Harry refuses to consider even the barest possibility of being related to Malfoy in any way, shape or form.

No way. No. Nada. Not happening.

Regulus is quick to crush all their hopes.

“Look, I know that the Weasleys and the Malfoys have a long-standing blood feud going on, but I assure you, Lucius is a perfectly pleasant pers—”

They groan and slump down onto the ground from the mental damage they just suffered. All three of them.

Damn inbred pureblood society.

Harry lifts his head for a moment, having a sudden thought. “Wait, why does Nagini not get a godchild?”

Because, like. He feels like she’s getting left out. And he doesn’t think she would just let that happen without reason, no matter how big and shiny Regulus’ eyes can get.

Hearing her chuckle, he turns his head to the side and squints up at the smugly grinning woman.

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ve already called dibs on the next one.”

...Hah. Eat shit, dads.

Garnak clears his throat at that moment, effectively cutting off the men’s spluttering. “If you are quite done, I think it’s time we move on to the other legal matters.” He sends a meaningful look at the children, which they ignore and instead settled down more comfortably on his rug. Garnak sighs and turns to Tom. “I will give you another parchment and you will bleed on it so I can modify your family tree and show it to the authorities when they come knocking.”

...Authori— No, never mind. Of course wizard cops exist. He’s... He’s pretty sure James was one, now that he thinks back. Professor McGonagall said so. Or was it Hagrid? Dumbledore? The random book Hermione showed him that gave him more information about his parents than he’d ever got from Aunt Petunia during the decade he spent under her roof?

Harry sighs. He doesn’t know if he should hope for the wizard cops’ competence or not, considering that they are very much trying to hide their identities. And the two corpses that the thestrals ate.

...Could they even find that out? He seriously doubts that anyone would think of checking magic horse poop, but... he’s heard stranger things from the Hogwarts ghosts. It wouldn’t exactly be out of character for slightly batty wizard cops after one or two wars and whatever else they have to deal with during a normal day.

Harry and his siblings continue to wallow on the ground until they hear Regulus burst out in laughter as Tom exclaims, “Hold on, is that Lily Bloody Evans on my family tree?!”

Ron immediately scrapes himself off the floor and wanders over to them. “Eh? You were siblings all along?”

“We sure as hell weren’t,” their dad hisses, scowling down at the offending piece of paper.

“But the parchment—”

“Must be sensing the blood protection. It must have taken hold of you after that night,” Nagini interjects with a wide grin. “Or not...”

“Shut. Up.”

“Why, brother mine, didn’t you tell the kids that she was the ‘unknown factor’?”

“Nagini, I’m going to trip you into the cave system.”

“That won’t save you from the ire of our late sister, apparently. Did you actually absorb a part of her on accident when your scar-sona separated? Would be just your luck honestly. And also would explain your insistent attachment to the kids, aside from the fact that you’re just a big softie.”

Tom flings a potted plant at her. And because Regulus is still laughing, he throws a quill at him too. He dodges.

Tom lets his head fall into his hands.

“...Bloody hell. Some backstory this will be.”

Harry can’t blame him. The Wizarding World will riot.

Nagini reaches over and mockingly pats him on the head. “Let’s rewrite our cover story so it includes our dearly missed half-sister then, shall we? You can angst about your identity later. I’m pretty sure Garnak is eyeing the knife again.”

Which, um. Right. Yeah. His mum is his aunt now. Honestly, Harry is pretty sure he saw worse on his family tree last time he checked.

Hermione though perks up next to him, almost knocking her head into Regulus’ knee. “You’ve never said what you planned! Oh, won’t you tell us, please?”

She uses the puppy eyes too, again, which make Regulus immediately cave. He reaches over and pulls her back up into his lap, so Harry gets a lot more room to properly starfish on the rug. It’s soft and probably expensive. He doesn’t care for anything else but for the fact that it’s comfy.

“We’ve decided on an early pregnancy,” Regulus says as he starts combing his long fingers through Hermione’s hair, to her and Harry’s confusion.

“...You mean one of you got some girl pregnant and then when she got out of the picture you two got married?”

Regulus shakes his head with amusement. “Not exactly. The original plan was that your dad knocked me up sometime in the spring of 1979, so you would be in the same year as now and it wouldn’t conflict with what people remember of me. I was spending less and less time outside with the war picking up and all, so it wouldn’t be that farfetched to imply I was hiding a pregnancy. And with me still being a seventh-year at the time of your hypothetical conception... The birth would have happened just before I got trapped in the cave.”

...

...

...

...Holy shit. Harry loves his origin story. It’s so good, like, soap opera-level good. Except for one itsy-bitsy, teeny-tiny detail.

“...Papa? You’re a man.”

“And? I don’t see the problem.”

...Harry’s sure him and Hermione are missing something crucial there because every other person in the office looks at them strangely. Until Tom has an epiphany, that is. Thankfully.

Harry is so confused.

“Oh, right. You don’t know,” Tom realises, one hand coming up to cover his mouth.

Hermione narrows her eyes and straightens up. “Don’t know what.”

Tom is silent for a moment, searching for words. Then with an unreadable face he says, “...Don’t freak out, but in the magical world, anyone can get anyone pregnant.”

...Bloody excuse him? Do they just flip the bird to biology and decide to magic a baby out of their arses or what?! Like, this whole blood adoption thing at Gringotts, Harry can believe. He had been through a dodgy ritual before, after all. But how the hell would that even wo—

No. He absolutely won’t go there. Not until he’s, like, thirty or something.

“...Dad?” He waits until every eye is on him. “Could we push this talk back a few years, please? Like, pretty please. I don’t think Garnak would like to mop my melted brain off his nice marble floor.”

“Indeed I would not,” the goblin comments, shrugging off Tom’s glare.

Their dad gives a sigh and looks back at them. “Fine; I’m sure Ron can answer your questions until then. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Your birth. So—”

“Wait!” Hermione interrupts him hastily. “You didn’t say how you two had met!”

“...Oh. Right. How did we meet again?” he asks Regulus, looking lost.

The man lifts an eyebrow. “Forgot about that, did you? You are very lucky I have already figured it out.” He turns back to Harry, Ron and Hermone. “Barty and I had sneaked out of Hogwarts a few times after fifth year.”

“Wait, sneak out as in go clubbing or—” Tom exclaims, though is quickly cut off by a suddenly embarrassed Regulus clearing his throat.

“Anyway, we’ll say that I had a one-night stand with your dad in Seventh Year so he won’t be charged with shacking an underage wizard. He gave me his contact info before leaving in the morning, so I was able to tell him the news after I vomited into my cauldron in Potions. Which had happened. It was very embarrassing. But moving on, then the gallant knight he is, he immediately kidnapped me after graduation and we lived happily ever after until the lake incident.”

“Is that what we are calling it now? The lake incident?”

“Shut up. So then I sporadically appeared in Diagon until December 1979, when I apparently gave birth to triplets, and then I fell victim to one of the Dark Lord’s traps and left Tom a single parent until... What, a week ago?”

Tom gives a cautious nod and adds, probably trying to build all that information into the rest of the story, “We’ve migrated to the States after Regulus’ disappearance until the summer, when I finally found a clue and managed to free him. Deciding it would be best he recuperates at the home he was most familiar with meant moving back to Britain. You’ve insisted on not starting Ilvermorny until he gets better, so that explains why you will only start it in Second Year.”

...Nice. Excluding the mind-blowing revelation of the existence of male pregnancies, of course. Harry won’t touch that until puberty hits them hard.

“What’s Ilvermorny?” Hermione asks, focusing on what interests her most. Academics.

“Oh, Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is—”

“I’m sorry, could we get back to actual relevant Gringotts business? You can ramble at home where you don’t waste my time,” Garnak cuts him off swiftly.

Tom pouts, which he will probably deny later, but does move on. “Right. So about Lily Evans... Nagini, what do you think?”

She squints at him and purses her lips. “Well... Kids, do you think we look anything like her?”

Harry frowns. He thinks back to the Mirror of Erised, painful as that memory is, and mirrors Nagini’s expression.

Hmm... He supposes the eyes are an obvious similarity. For the both of them. Their dad did mention his were brown before, unlike the pretty emerald he’s sporting now, along with their aunt. And maybe his nose looks like hers too? Not the hair, that’s for sure, not with his dark waves instead of his mum’s straight, blood-red strands. And they missed out on the freckles too. But... their mouths may be similar too? Maybe? And... maybe the cheekbones?

Looking at them both, really looking at them, it’s actually quite disconcerting how much they now resemble his dead mum. And that topped with the fact that Tom said he actually didn’t even look much different before...

Harry blinks, trying to chase away the moment of him hallucinating her grinning form standing between the two adults. And yet, the vision lingers. And he thinks that the ghost of James Potter might even be trying to poke Tom in the cheeks from the corner of his eyes.

...Eh, Kreacher allowed them to try a new blend of coffee. He won’t close out the possibility of it causing him to hallucinate when combined with the small amount of strange potion Regulus let him have yesterday evening for fear of him not sleeping well because of today’s adoption. An irrational fear on the man’s part, but oh well. Harry didn’t tell him that that probably wouldn’t have been his possible nightmare’s theme.

Which did not happen. The nightmare, that is. Blink and you’ll miss it, but James is making bunny ears with his fingers behind Tom’s head.

“The eyes and the nose match, I think... and maybe the mouth and the cheekbones,” he shares hesitantly, making Tom grimace.

“I’ll take it. So should we pretend Insane Me knocked up two women at the same time and then went back to murdering his way through Britain?”

Ron lets out a snort and leans forward in his seat. “You want to fool Dumbledore with that?”

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t work,” the man answers with a raised eyebrow. “My face is the same as my past self’s aside from the eye colour, so I can easily pass of as his offspring with two sisters to lend credit to my story. Even if one of them is dead.”

“Sure you do.” Ron pats his arm patronisingly, making Tom scowl. “Care to share the rest of your origin story?”

He opens his mouth, but Nagini’s sniggers cut him off. She isn’t bothered by his glare as she starts to speak.

“Ruffle some pureblood feathers, why don’t we. They shall be ever so scandalised to find that the Dark Lord had sired two half-blood children, three with Harry’s late mother now. And apparently our mother kept us home-schooled in fear of discovery, didn’t she?”

...His mom was what now?

“Are you saying,” Harry says slowly, ignoring the fortunately quickly fading picture of her mum’s amused face that is definitely much too similar to his apparent ‘siblings’, “that you’ll say my mom was Voldemort’s daughter? Are you out of your minds?!”

They couldn’t be serious. Appearing as her half-siblings he can understand, they might make the story work. Somehow. But like, really? Voldemort? Surely they must be joking, right?

...Right?

...

...Shit. They are serious.

“They will lynch you,” he declares in a flat voice. He doesn’t understand why Ron breaks down laughing.

Tom pushes him off the couch and on top of Harry, luckily with a quickly cast cushioning charm so the impact of the body falling on him doesn’t hurt much. If Harry ignores the elbow he gets in the nose.

“People don’t need to know we are related to him. Me. Whatever. It’s only so when the old coot starts to dig, so he can’t just air our dirty laundry lest he jeopardises his own martyrs’ memories. Does that make things clear?” Harry and Ron grumble something vaguely affirmative as they untangle their limbs on the floor. “Great. We can move on to heirships, then. Who wants what?”

Harry sees his chance as he solemnly lifts his head. “I would like to recommend Ron as our future lord and saviour.”

“Absolutely not,” the boy next to him exclaims. “Do you want to drown me in paperwork?! Make Hermione do it!”

Tom is very much unimpressed. “Don’t be so enthusiastic. Each of you will get one eventually.” He ignores their muttered ‘Bugger’ and turns to Regulus. “I heard you’ve already chosen, yes? Shall we shelve Hermione away for the future Heiress Black for when you become lord of the house?”

Regulus fidgets with the edge of his sleeves as he looks down at her inquiringly. His eyes are uncertain, a sharp contrast to when he simply declared her as such not long ago.

“Would you like to eventually be Heiress Black?”

Hermione huffs and falls back into his chest, effectively knocking the breath out of him. “I suppose. I can help the boys until then.”

Oh, goodie. Harry really doesn’t want to think about all the work his future has in store for him.

“I call dibs on Peverell and Potter,” he says after glancing at Garnak’s list and seeing those two still intertwined, just as Tom said they would be on their last trip, leaving Ron to indignantly splutter.

“Wha— But that only leaves Slytherin! You want me to be the heir of Slytherin?!”

“And what’s wrong with Slytherin?” Tom asks, crossing his arms. “And it’s Gaunt anyway, as we’ve already discussed.”

“Er, nothing, Dad,” Ron backpedals quickly. “It’s just... Well. I’m a Weasley. You want a Weasley to be—”

“You are not a Weasley, but the proud member of the house of Peverell. And Gaunt. And Black now too. You have every right to be my heir and you better get used to it.” He turns to Garnak with a glare, ignoring Ron’s half-hearted objections. “Write Harry down for Peverell and Ron for Gaunt.”

Garnak does so with satisfaction. “Right. I’ll send for the heirship rings, then. Anything else?”

Tom thinks for a moment but ultimately can’t come up with anything else, so the adults go back to doing paperwork in silence until the rings arrive. And what rings those are. Harry is presented with one from the same black stone his Dad’s is made of, only the symbol on it is scratched into the hoop. He glances at Ron, who’s staring at the tiny silver snake curling around his finger, its green eyes glinting up at him.

“It would suit you more, with the green and all,” he mutters, and Harry just can’t have that.

“Well, I think it suits you well enough. The silver goes with your eyes.” He manages to make Ron blush, so he smugly stands up and reaches out a hand towards Hermione upon noticing that their parents are done with the paperwork. “Shall we be on our way then, Miss Black?”

She giggles as she places her hand in his and gives an elegant curtsey after Harry helps her up. “It would be my pleasure, Heir Peverell.”

“I’m so glad the etiquette lessons are paying off,” Regulus says with tears in his eyes as he’s also helped up by an eager Tom. Nagini just ruffles Ron’s head and ignores his offered arm.

They say goodbye to Garnak, and after an exciting cart ride arrive to the Peverell Vault to get a ring for Hermione with as many protective enchantments on it as the heir rings have. Or more. Tom doesn’t want to leave her defenceless after all, and neither does Harry.

She ends up with a small silver ring sporting a star with some shiny gem in the middle. It shines so bright when the light hits it, it’s as if a real star has been built into the setting.

“Must have belonged to one of our Black ancestors, or maybe someone who loved stars just as much as them,” Tom comments with a fond smile. He then goes to stand before a suddenly suspicious Regulus with an impish grin.

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses as Tom kneels down and pulls out another ring from his pocket. It’s made from gold, and Harry can see lots of stars glinting on it. He hopes they are diamonds. Those are supposed to be expensive.

“Would you be my alibi?” Tom asks him, holding Regulus’s hand tenderly in his. He wears a soft smile as he waits for an answer.

“...I’m very tempted to say no,” Regulus says with a huff, though his cheeks are rosy. “But I guess I’ve already sold my soul, so it would be in vain. I will let you put in on my finger if you wear a matching one.”

Tom grins as he does so and stands up, ending the spell masking his hand. His wedding band only has one tiny star from the same gem. “Already did, darling. Do you want anything else from here or shall we go?”

He tries sneaking a hand behind Regulus, who expertly dodges his attempt.

He chuckles and looked down at Ron who’s pulling on his coat.

“Dad? Can I send something to Ginny? The twins had already made sure all my siblings are on-board with the situation, but she does have to suffer Mum’s presence on a daily basis. So. Can I?”

Tom gives him a fond smile as he straightens up. “Of course. I think I saw some dolls somewhere around here—”

“Actually,” Ron cuts him off, “I was thinking of one of the pretty daggers mounted on the wall.”

...Come again?

“...Ah. So she’s that kind of child.” Tom checks out the mentioned weapons and thinks for a moment while Harry is left reeling. Since when did girls like weapons?! Aunt Petunia never mentioned that! “Would she be happy with something less conspicuous? Just so she has less chance of getting it confiscated if her mother searches her room for whatever reason.”

Ron nods happily, and so they wander off to the jewellery section nearby, faithfully followed by Harry and Hermione. Harry doesn’t know where Regulus and Nagini went but he’s sure that they are occupying themselves just fine.

After a bit of searching, Tom holds out a ring for Ron to inspect. “Look, the rose can be taken off and there’s a hidden spike under it. Maybe this— Oh, wait, this is even better.”

He drops the ring back into its box and picks up a bracelet instead. It’s shaped like a very lifelike snake coiled around the wearer’s wrist. It would be beautiful in its own right, all shiny rose-gold scales and gleaming jewel eyes, but then their dad pulls out a bloody sword by its head.

...Blood hell. Ginny will faint.

“Will this do?” Tom asks them, smugly smiling at their awed expressions. At Ron’s wordless nod he sadly puts the cool sword back into the bracelet and puts it into his bag. “We’ll mail it to the twins and they can sneak it to her sometime. Now, do you want anything else?”

They look around them but ultimately shake their heads. The twins have already gotten the Occlumency books and they wrote back that their friend Lee is helping them learn, so that’s done. More people on their side is always good. And Hermione looted the book section again, of course, so she might be sated for a while. Harry sees Regulus inspect the skull collection but reasonably doesn’t touch it, and Nagini is skulking around somewhere in the shadows.

“Actually...” Ron sends a wary look at their dad’s bag. “Maybe just the ring for now? She can have the bracelet for her birthday.”

Tom nods and switches the bracelet for the ring before they all gather in the front part of the vault. They travel back to the upper part of Gringotts and Garnak waves them through his floo with a comment about Tom mailing him a detailed backstory so he can assemble their fake identities.

“Well, this was lovely. Are you up for another trip for the afternoon?” Regulus asks after vanishing the sooth from them with a handwave.

Harry looks at him incredulously. How the hell does he still have energy for that?

“What for?” Ron asks, exhaustion clear in his voice. He doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about the idea either.

“It has come to my attention that while I’m missing my entire wardrobe, you lot don’t have any wizarding attire. I think it’s time we visit Paris,” Regulus says chipperly and turns to Tom. “As much as I just love pilfering your wardrobe, I want clothes that actually fit.”

Tom lets out a deep sigh as they perk up at the thought of shopping. They like shopping. They had never gotten many things, so it’s perfectly understandable.

Even if Harry’s head is starting to hurt. But maybe he just needs a bit of fresh air? Preferably of the French kind.

“Wait here then. I’ll go back to Diagon and get a portkey,” Tom says, already turning back around.

“Wait, you can do that?!” Hermione exclaims. “I thought only the Ministry had the right to—”

“Darling, we don’t want to get noticed yet. Naturally I will get one from Knockturn. As it stands, even if Other Me learned how to make one, I hadn’t retained the knowledge.”

...Oh. Right, that makes sense. Illegal is the way to go then.

Harry mourns his morals from before he got pseudo-kidnapped by the ex-dark lord.

They eat lunch while they wait for Tom’s return, letting him have a few quick bites too before they are spinning away to France.

Harry would like it noted that lunch was definitely a bad decision because he vomits it all up onto the French cobble stone.

Hurray. But at least he now knows what not to try again.

Regulus takes the lead after Harry assures everyone that he’s feeling better, because out of the six of them only he knows where to go. After a lot of staring around due to the magical district here being quite different from Diagon, they stop before a pretty little store.

Well. Not that little, Harry concludes after they enter through the door, the cheerful jingle of a bell announcing their arrival. They may have spent an entire day at Harrods, but seeing an actual shop like this is just different. Not that he doesn’t love his muggle clothes, because he does. But this is just an experience entirely unlike a muggle department store. Rolls of fabrics flying through the air, mannequins changing their poses to make them giggle, clothes basically sewing themselves together at the wave of a wand... and everything looks much more high-end than Madam Malkin’s.

Did he mention he loves magic? Because he does. He really, really does.

The only person in the boutique is a young wizard standing on a stool at the back of the room, who upon turning around and seeing Regulus, promptly falls to the floor.

Harry winces in sympathy. It wasn’t a short fall.

The man though quickly gets up and excitedly starts to chat with Regulus after bouncing over and kissing him on the cheeks.

“...What are they saying?” Harry asks Tom, stepping closer to him. He doesn’t usually like strangers, even if this one seems to at least be friendly. And pretty. So, so pretty.

Tom swats at an offending tape measure that dares to try and wrap around his bicep. “How should I know? I don’t speak French, as we’ve established.”

Fortunately, Regulus keeps him from committing murder by jumping back to them with a bright smile, followed by the chipper foreign wizard. He has pretty, glittering blue eyes and an angelic face that Harry for a moment can only stare at in a daze. His golden blond hair is twisted in a braid to keep it out of his eyes.

“Let me introduce you to Pierre,” Regulus says, gesturing to the man next to him. “The Blacks have frequented his family’s shop since I could remember. We became friends when I tried to eat the pin cushion while being fitted for formal robes and he snuck in and redesigned my whole outfit. We were... What, five?”

“Oui, mon ami. And who might you be?” Pierre asks them with a kind smile. Tom mirrors his expression, though Harry can’t see any kindness in it.

Here we go, he thinks in apprehension.

“I’m Thomas, and these are our children, Polaris, Asterion and Carina. And, of course, the lovely lady next to me is my dear sister, Genevieve. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Tom holds his hand out for a handshake, tensely flexing his fingers. Harry assumes he must plan to squeeze Pierre’s hand as hard as he’s able, going by Regulus’ amused expression.

Fortunately, their new seamster takes it in stride as he grabs Tom’s hand with both of his and starts to shake it up and down. “My, you are all so sweet! What’s your favourite colour? Are you more into muggle or magical styles? What do you think about—”

“Pierre, you are overwhelming them. Why don’t we sit down and chat?” Regulus offers fondly.

Deeming this a great idea, the enthusiastic French wizard leads them to a set of sofas. He doesn’t stop asking them about their taste in fashion but at least has a house-elf bring some sweets and tea.

“So, what were you thinking?” Pierre asks them after a while, summoning a sketchbook and a pencil.

Regulus wears a thoughtful expression on his face as he leans forward. “I have yet to be reintroduced to society, and the others haven’t stepped foot inside Magical Britain since the children were newborns.” ...Oh. Oh. The cover story. Riiight. “I’m afraid we’ll need to trouble you with designing a complete wardrobe for all of us, including at least one set of formal robes by my brother’s trial at the latest. My dear husband seems to have stuck to the... muggle side of fashion in the— the decade I missed.” His voice breaks as he lowers his eyes onto his teacup. Harry thinks that it’s an act, but he's grateful for Tom’s arm around Regulus.

Pierre also leans forward, making Tom scowl. “Ah, oui. I’ve heard about his unfortunate prison sentence. And trial, you said?”

“Yes,” he says with false cheer in his voice as he tugs Regulus into his side. It immediately makes him a lot happier. “I took the children out of the country immediately after Regulus’ disappearance, and they didn’t have the best relationship, him and Sirius. I honestly didn’t give it a second thought when I got the news, too busy searching for my husband.”

He takes a sip of his tea and sneaks a few more sweets onto Harry and his sibings’ plates. Harry decides against commenting and starts munching on his macaron.

Regulus just huffs as he turns back to Pierre. “What I mean is, my brother would never have betrayed the Potters. Not that that stopped the fools in the Wizengamot from throwing him into Azkaban.”

“You knew him best, so I’ll take your word for it,” Pierre agrees with a sad smile. “Such tragedy, that. Is the poor child okay? Harry Potter, right?”

...Oh. Oho. Ohohoho. Here’s their chance to spread the news in international circles.

Harry decides to take matters into his own hands.

“Dad?” He asks, pulling on Tom’s sleeves and blinking innocently. “Didn’t the Potter lordship show up on your Inheritance test?”

He has to try really, really hard not to grin.

Pierre, none the wiser, claps his hands together and beams. “Oh, c'est merveilleux! Does that mean you could take custody of the child? We haven’t heard him getting placed with any wizarding family, so you should be able to guide the poor dear now that he’s back in the Wizarding World.”

Oh, sweet, sweet Pierre. Harry is almost sorry that they’ll have to break his heart.

Tom mimics a frown. “That’s... strange, now that you remind me. Even if he’s underage, I should have been named regent at most. I haven’t thought about it that hard, but...”

Pierre draws in a sharp breath, his hands fluttering to his heart. “You don’t think... Oh, my. The papers said he just started at Hogwarts! What could have happened?”

“We should really ask the headmaster someday,” Tom answers, stomping down on the evil grin that’s surely about to take over his face. Harry can practically feel it. “After all, he’s in charge off the students’ safety through the schoolyear. And anyway, wasn’t it him who placed the boy out of the public’s eye? But I’m sure something will come up when I take my seats. Right, darling?”

Regulus happily plays along with their little performance. “Absolutely. It’s your right as the boy’s last living magical family member to find out why you’ve been named lord of his house and take him in now that he’s back.”

Why, yes. What a shame that Harry can’t come to the phone right now. Why, you ask? Because he’s dead.

Ron decides to change the topic. “Dad, I’m bored. Can we go back to the clothes? You can talk politics later.”

Nice, Ron. Sell the family play.

Tom smiles at him fondly and ruffles his hair. “Of course. What were you thinking?”

And that’s how they spend the afternoon, designing a whole new wizarding wardrobe. It’s good that their closets are basically entire rooms on their own, otherwise Harry doesn’t know how everything would fit next to his new muggle clothes.

Pierre is ecstatic, to say the least. And it’s not like Harry doesn’t enjoy the whole process, because he does. He likes the soft, colourful fabrics flying over their heads whenever Pierre wants to show them some samples, and he adores the way the man is able to sketch beautiful drawings in the matter of minutes.

...Maybe he should ask for a set of colouring pencils.

Anyway, Harry didn’t know you could apply this many spells to the clothing pieces! Apparently, Pierre is able to make their clothes grow with them for a few years, for example. Handy that, what with them close to hitting puberty. Their warm jumpers will get warming charm sewn into them, and their lighter shirts will have built-in cooling charms. And then he didn’t even mention the adults’ formal clothes yet! Pierre shows them several different designs. All wonderful, of course. Harry doesn’t think it will be long until they come back with more orders to place, especially when they start getting invited to balls.

That’s right, everyone. Magicals still hold fancy balls, just like in the fairy tales they bullied their dad to read them.

Yes, it’s childish. Did he care? Not really. His voice is a soothing balm on the nights Harry is haunted by nightmares.

But never mind the good time they had, it was time to go home when the lamps started to get lit outside.

Tom, now much less tense in the company of the French wizard after finding out that he’s happily engaged, offers his hand for a parting handshake. “It truly was a pleasure, Pierre. Shall we come pick some of these up someday soon?”

“Oh, I would love to have you all in my shop again! How does next Friday sound? I should be able to at least finish the formal robes until then, and maybe a few more clothing pieces—”

“Wonderful. See you then, Pierre. You are, of course, welcome to contact me anytime. May we trouble you with portkeying out of your shop?” Regulus asks as he stands up and vanishes the few crumbs that fell on his lap.

Pierre happily nods, hands already twitching for his sketchbook again, so they just grab their portkey and vanish into thin air.

Harry would like it known he doesn’t vomit this time. He just has to sit down and take deep breathes for a long minute.

“...Tom?” Regulus calls out while rubbing circles into Harry’s back. “You know that I have my own money, right? I could have paid for the clothes.”

Tom has a confused expression on his face for a moment. “But you didn’t need to?” At Regulus’ raised eyebrow he adds, “For one, we’re legally married now, even if we still have the ritual to do before bed. I know I took your name and all, but you really don’t need to provide for us. I have lots of money and I find myself glad to spend it on you all.”

Regulus blinks at him, stunned for a moment. Then he ducks his head and helps Harry stand up. “Well. The thought’s appreciated. Let’s get dinner, yes? Kreacher!”

The house-elf appears, effectively scaring the crap out of Ron. Kreacher gives him a cookie in apology. “What bes Kreacher be doing?”

“Dinner!” Regulus exclaims, his voice too loud for normal conversation as he starts power-walking towards the kitchen with burning cheeks. “Let’s get dinner, I mean. What shall we eat? Do you need help? I’ve read this receipt that sounds absolutely delicious—”

Tom lets him escape with a chuckle, waving Harry, Ron and Hermione after him as he follows his new husband. Nagini only tries to trip him three times in the time it takes for them to reach the kitchen.

Suffice to say, Regulus does not help with dinner, though Kreacher lets him throw some sprinkles on the muffins he’d baked.

Chapter Text

Tom strolls through the front lawn of Malfoy Manor, the lord of the estate none the wiser. Being best friends with Abraxas paid off, as it turns out.

The albino peacocks lift their heads at his arrival, but in the end don’t attack him. His late classmate shared the trick to avoiding getting chased around the manor by the infernal bipeds (after laughing his head off the first time Tom visited him): it’s all about not showing fear, of which he proudly admits that he’s an expert. And a few pieces of blueberry don’t hurt either.

After smugly petting a few of the more amenable birds, Tom steps up to the large silver-gilded double door and simply opens it.

He lets out a snort. How foolish of Lucius, not deleting him from the wards and letting him enter freely. Abraxas would never; but then again, Tom did beat caution into all his friends. It doesn’t seem to be contagious.

Nothing happens when the door closes behind him. No one comes to greet or attack him, be it human or elf. No enchantments surging up to screen an unwelcome visitor, no rune chains flaring at his presence.

Tom frowns. Jokes aside, this truly must be either Abraxas’ work, or he’ll have to teach Lucius about basic safety measurements. He seriously hopes it’s the first case, for the man’s sake if nothing else.

Tom’s walk to the library goes undisturbed. He is glad he’s been here before in his Hogwarts years; Merlin knows how else he’d have navigated his way through the grand halls of the manor. Sure, Abraxas’ parents may not have liked to have a supposed muggleborn rowing their corridors for the duration of the winter break, even if the boy in question was basically their year’s leader in Slytherin. Not at first, at least. Tom can be really charming when he wants to. But the point is, he knows his way around, and this place is no Hogwarts with its ever-changing rooms and moving staircases.

Walking on the white marble tiles, he has to conclude he likes his home much more than these cold and lifeless halls.

He enters the library without any problems and heads in the direction he feels a pull towards, stopping before a seemingly innocuous bookshelf. Ah, the good old secret entrance, with the lever masquerading as a simple book amongst many. He pokes around for some hint with his magic, and isn’t disappointed.

Tom sniggers to himself as he pulls down a dusty etiquette book and feels the ground under him shift. He’s on the other side of the bookcase in seconds.

The dark and ominous stone hallway suddenly lit with sconces certainly sets the mood for his little quest. He starts humming the James Bond theme as he descends on the spiral staircase.

Tom arrives in a lowly lit room that probably contains all the books, artifacts and heirlooms the Malfoys want to hide from the authorities but don’t want to store inside Gringotts. He approaches the staircase at the opposite wall. And there it is: his boyhood diary.

In retrospect, it’s a bit embarrassing that he turned it into a horcrux.

He quickly gets on with the regret and accepts the return of the final piece of his soul. He must have been really out of it though, because when he turns around, he comes face-to-face with the lord of the manor. Or his wand, to be more precise.

“Who are you and what have you come here for?” Lucius Malfoy asks, cold blue eyes trained on Tom’s face.

...Fuck. The entrance must have had some ward that Abraxas either forgot to add Tom to or it was applied by Lucius, who probably didn’t fancy the Dark Lord (or anyone, really) snooping around his things.

Now, Tom really doesn’t want to resort to violence. He’d learned his lesson about building an empire on fear; eventually it crumbles to dust. And he doesn’t want to deal with the bowing and scraping Voldemort favoured either. That was just... Ew.

He adopts a pleasant smile and puts up his hands in defence. He doesn’t understand why that makes the man before him even more cautious. “There’s no need for that, I assure you. I waited at the gates for a while, but no one came to greet me, so I thought I would simply grab what I came for and then be out of your hair. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Lucius’ eyes narrow. “We seldom entertain uninvited guests. How did you get through my wards without my knowledge?”

The non-existent ones? Quite easily.

“Why, someone must have added me to them without your knowledge. Maybe you should take a look? I wouldn’t want to pose a security risk, after all,” Tom answers without losing the pleasant tone of his voice. The trick to getting out of these kinds of situations is to keep a calm head and have a plan. And his plan is to bullshit his way through this conversation.

Lucius doesn’t seem to believe him for some reason Tom can’t fathom by the way he doesn’t lower his wand.

He used to be good at this! He had most of the purebloods in Magical Britain under his control for the better part of, like, the past fifty years! Or, well, not him, but...

Maybe he’s just out of practise.

“My wards, you say? And why, pray tell, would anyone add you to them?” Lucius grits out, obviously getting more and more frustrated with Tom.

“My father was a good friend of yours,” he answers and smiles, making sure his eyes crinkle at the edges. “He was already written into the wards from what he told me, and Abraxas was all too happy to add me to them too. I was quite small then, I believe, so you wouldn’t remember me.” He lets out a sigh as the corners of his mouth turn down. “Sadly, he didn’t have the chance to bring my sisters, with the starting war and all.”

He's quite baffled when his story puts Lucius even more on edge. He thought the Malfoys lived for the drama, so what’s the problem?

“You— Just who are you? My father and most of his friends are dead and I’ve never seen you around. So who are you?”

...Well, fuck. Tom hoped he could reacquaint himself with Abraxas at least, now that Orion’s gone from this world, but it looks like some things just aren’t meant to be.

(He’s so going to summon their ghosts when he manages to make some time to delve into the Necromancy section at home.)

Tom wonders what happened to the others. He knows Thaddeus and Archie are well because he saw them in the Prophet the other day. Corvus, though... He hopes he’s still alive, after what Ron revealed about his sons. That’s another thing he’ll have to find out after they get Sirius his trial.

He wipes the frown off his face, not showing Lucius how the news rattled him. “My apologies, it seems I left my manners at home today. My name is Thomas Black, though I suppose Abraxas knew me by Riddle. You may remember my father, Tom Marvolo Riddle?” And ah, there it is. Tom fights the smirk that wants to take over his face. The casual name-drop of his ‘late father’ seemed to freeze the man to the bone. “Are you alright? You’ve gone quite pale,” he inquires with false concern. He knows all too well what brought his sudden stupor on.

“Black... Riddle? I don’t—” Lucius gets himself together surprisingly quickly and slowly lets his hand drop to his side, his wand limply hanging from his fingers. He clears his throat. “Please excuse me. It’s been a while since I heard that name. Is he...”

“He passed away towards the end of the war,” Tom says, making Lucius relax the slightest bit. “I’m just here for something he entrusted to your father, I believe.”

The man freezes again. “And did you... find that something he—”

“Oh, yes. It was just some old diary, no doubt detailing his embarrassing childhood,” Tom jokes as he holds up the former horcrux, making Lucius zero in on it.

“Ah, I’m not sure—”

He lights it on fire.

They stand there in silence, watching as the diary turns into ashes. The seconds crawl by, and Tom smiles at the stunned man.

“My business here is done. Am I free to leave?” He doesn’t really care about Lucius’ opinion, but it would be easier to exit without a fight. Less... annoying.

Fortunately Lucius nods, not taking his eyes off the ashes. “...Let’s hope he rests in peace,” he says in the end.

“Your condolences are appreciated. I’m sure we won’t have to worry about his ghost coming back to haunt us now that I’ve checked the last of his things off my list. Shall we?” Tom gestures towards the staircase. “You are welcome to write me out of your wards after I leave.”

Lucius gives another grateful nod and even manages to produce a small smile. They walk through the stone hallway in silence, then out of the library entirely. And that’s the moment the one person Tom dreaded to meet appears.

“Did you forget to mention we are having a guest, dear?” a feminine voice croons from behind, making them freeze mid-step.

Tom turns around, suddenly able to hear the click-clack of heels on marble. He sees a beautiful woman in a long, light blue dress detailing a winter landscape at the bottom of the skirt. Her blond hair is elegantly done up in a half-bun, a few strands framing her face, which greatly resembles Regulus’, only much colder at the present moment.

She doesn’t seem pleased with Tom’s unexpected presence.

Lucius of course bends over backwards to provide a pleasing reply, not wanting to sleep on the couch tonight. Or however the Lady Malfoy shows her displeasure usually. “Ah, darling, you see, this is my—”

“Pleasure to meet you, Lady Malfoy,” Tom cuts his fumbling off, sweeping in to kiss her knuckles. And oh, wow, do her nails seem very, very sharp. “My name is Thomas Black, your cousin-in-law. Through your favourite cousin,” he adds with a conspiratorial grin as he lets go of her hand.

Narcissa only raises a regal eyebrow. “My favourite’s, hm? I do not recall seeing you around back when he was still alive.”

Tom turns his grin into a soft smile, letting her look him over. He’s not afraid. He... He planned for this. A bit. “He is alive. He’s been recuperating at our home since I’ve rescued him from the trap he fell victim of all those years ago.”

The woman crosses her hands in front of her. “I still find it hard to understand why he would keep you a secret, if what you say is... true,” she says, still not convinced. Or maybe unwilling to hope, if Tom reads her icy expression right. He doesn’t dare attempt Legilimency on her. (Not that he makes a habit of it. After all, he doesn’t need to actively use it to sense when people are lying to him.)

“You can ask him yourself,” Tom answers with mirth. “How does tomorrow afternoon sound? Four o’clock, maybe?”

Or at least Regulus told him that he should invite her over in the event that he gets caught. Which he did. And he has tomorrow mostly free anyway, so he just has to see what is considered a threat to them according to the wards until then, lest they have another... situation on their hands.

Narcissa finally lets a predatory smile slip onto her face after a long moment of scrutinizing him. “Very well. I look forward to meeting dear Regulus again. He has a lot to answer for.”

...Well, Tom wouldn’t want to be in Regulus’ place right now. He has no doubt that she doesn’t believe a word out of his mouth, maybe aside from the fact that Regulus is alive. And that’s a big maybe. A good thing that the man has made it clear they won’t be able to fool her in any way, shape or form, so Tom didn’t even try that hard. He’ll leave convincing her that he only has the best intentions to Regulus.

He sneaks a look at Lucius’ face, who seems a bit confused but Tom catches the ever-growing calculating gleam in his eyes. So this generation isn’t that hopeless, at least.

“I’m sure he’ll provide. Now I must return and check that our children didn’t burn down the house while I was running errands,” he says with a chuckle.

Narcissa bids him goodbye with a grin that greatly resembles the one featuring in some of Tom’s nightmares about Walburga Black, making a shiver run down his spine. He turns on his heel and hurries out of her presence so fast Lucius has to catch up to him after a few seconds of standing frozen after that little piece of information.

“You— We are related?!” he hisses to Tom, glancing back at his wife’s serenely smiling form in apprehension. “And you didn’t tell me?!”

“You never asked.”

“Why would I—”

“Thomas Black, remember?”

Lucius huffs as he escorts Tom to the floo room. Because Malfoy Manor has a floo room. Why wouldn’t it. “Well. While I’m simply unable to make it tomorrow, I do hope I will soon get the chance to catch up with Regulus. Please do give him my regards, Mister Black.”

“I will, Lord Malfoy. And please call me Thomas, if you can bear the thought,” Tom jokes, drawing a small smile out of the man at last.

“Lucius, in that case. Goodbye, Thomas.”

“Goodbye.”

And there goes Tom, spinning through the flames. As he steps out of the fireplace in the drawing room, he’s greeted by a nervous Regulus jumping up from the mauve settee, Nagini and the children nowhere in sight.

“Ah, there you are. How did it go? Did you get discovered? Was—”

Tom chuckles, a fond smile slipping onto his face. “Everything went alright. I now possess the entirety of my soul, so we can toast to that.”

He draws Regulus’ arm through his and leads him towards the library, longing to be surrounded by clutter after the immaculate white halls of Malfoy Manor.

When Kreacher pops in with a tea tray, Tom sends him a grateful nod. The elf is warming up to him, he swears. Gradually.

“Your favourite cousin thinks we are full of shit, by the way,” he says as he pulls Regulus down next to him onto the sofa. Maybe a bit closer than would be strictly necessary, but the man doesn’t seem to mind, and who’s to comment on it anyway? It’s just the two of them, Nagini and the kids away who-knows-where.

Regulus lets out a huff and takes a teacup into his hands. “Oh, she would. I do hope you mentioned the children, she’ll be less likely to murder us both in cold blood then.”

Tom can’t argue with that entirely reasonable assessment. “Did anything interesting happen while I was away?”

When he left, the children were still in the planning process and so he’s unaware of what had transpired in his absence, though he didn’t see any smoke or flames when he came back, so they mustn’t have gotten up to anything too bad.

But now that he thinks about it... They never really leave the house, do they? Aside from visiting the thestrals, that is, but that’s still inside the estate grounds. Obviously he’s unable to take them to Diagon or anywhere else that could get news about their existence into Dumbledore’s ears, but...

...Hmm. Garnak did mention that they live near a magical settlement, right? Maybe he could send them to check it out... with Nagini. He himself would by way too recognisable sadly to anyone who knew him, and Regulus is... legally dead. And a Black. And he looks like it.

“Oh, you know,” Regulus says with a wave of his hand as he puts exactly two sugar cubes into his tea, “We visited your nightmare horses and hung out in the forest for a while. By the way, we should really go for a picnic when the weather turns better, that clearing’s just asking for it, I say. Hermione mentioned—”

Tom resorts to humming agreeingly while he loses himself in beautiful silver eyes, lulled into a trance by the pleasant melody that’s Regulus’ voice. He pays attention, of course. He is actually interested in what his family did, he just feels the need to let Regulus’ voice wash over him and shove every disturbing thought to the side. It does wonders for his inner peace.

“—and my grandfather sent us a letter. He wants to meet us—”

Wait, what?!

“He’s still alive?!”

Regulus blinks at him for a moment, then puts his cup down. “...I swear, sometimes it shows that you are muggle-raised. Of course he’s alive, he’s only ninety! That’s, like, middle-aged in our terms!”

“Oh, do excuse me for drawing conclusions from the living status of my classmates,” Tom retorts, also getting rid of his cup. It’s empty anyway.

“Please don’t remind me that you could basically be my father. I don’t need that existential crisis in my life right now.”

“Well, if it depended on Orion—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Regulus tackles him onto the sofa.

...Ah. Well. That’s rather forward of him, Tom thinks as he lays spread out on his back, Regulus drawing in deep breathes as he straddles his hip, holding Tom’s hands captive above his head. The liquid mercury of his irises are nowhere to be seen, swallowed by pupils blacker than night, framed by long, sooty eyelashes and the rosy blush darkening his porcelain skin.

Tom can’t tear his eyes away.

He can only speculate how he must look to Regulus. Is his outfit dishevelled enough that his tie got lose? Did his hair become a mess, does Regulus wish to fix it? To mess it up further?

Tom wonders if the man has the same sudden urge to lean closer, to close the short gap between their lips. He would have. Honestly, he really would have.

If only Harry’s head didn’t pop up from behind the sofa at that exact moment.

“Found them!”

Regulus dives off Tom with the speed of light.

The man closes his eyes and sighs as he sits up, watching Regulus high-tails it out of the library with longing eyes. And then he turns to them.

...Oops. Masters of timing the are, it looks like.

“Was there something you wanted, or...?”

Harry sheepishly runs a hand through his messy hair he... probably forgot to brush in the morning. As usual. It’s just... it’s still strange to think that him having a presentable appearance actually matters to people now, least of all that while his hair isn’t exactly less of a bird’s nest, it’s slightly more cooperative than before when handled right.

But um. Question.

“Err, yeah, we just... Hermione, what did we want again?”

She elbows her way to the front of their group, saving Harry from having to explain their presence. And their interruption. That seemed... quite unwelcome, he feels.

“You promised to tell us about the school we will go to come September!”

Tom lets out another sigh. “...Right. Of course. Come and sit down, then,” he offers with a gesture towards the sofas.

From the corner of his eye, Harry sees Nagini follow Regulus out of the room and shoot Tom a smirk, which he valiantly ignores for the sake of his sanity while he takes a seat on the soft blue sofa. He does not want to think about his dads in compromising positions, thank you very much. Ever. That’s just... Yuck. They are his dads.

“There are eight magical schools inside the borders of the United States,” Tom continues as they take a seat. “Each one has a speciality and though they differ a bit in their curriculum, Ilvermorny serves as a... sort of middle ground amongst them, so to speak, from what I have read. It’s one of the reasons I was thinking of sending you there. Ilvermorny teaches all the base courses of course, like Hogwarts and the other American schools, though opposed to its wide variety of electives, some subjects are taught more in-depth in the others.”

“Hm... You said it’s one of the reasons. What’s the other?” Ron asks, clever eyes shining in interest.

Tom adopts a smug smirk.

“Call it house pride or whatever, but the fact that one of the founders of the school was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin is certainly a point in its favour.”

Harry snorts. That basically settles it then.

“Is it much like Hogwarts?” Hermione asks, leaning forward in her seat. Her eyes sport a manic gleam that makes Harry scoot a bit further away from her. Just to be on the safe side.

“Well...” Tom starts drumming on his right knee, deep in thought. “As I haven’t gone there, I’m unable to provide an inside scoop, but it does have a house system of its own. Wampus, Horned serpent, Pugwudgie and... Thunderbird, if I remember correctly.”

Harry nods as he takes that all in. That’s... So. Uh. House system. Yay.

He hopes they won’t have to deal with another Gryffindor-Slytherin-level inter-house rivalry.

“What’s a Pugdoggy?” he asks, a bit lost. Like, Thunderbird and Horned Serpent are pretty self-explanatory, and they researched the Wampus cat after their many-times-great-grandpas told them about their late cousin Mortimer and his maledictus lover. The fourth one though? It just sounds like gibberish to Harry.

“A Pukwudgie,” Hermione enunciates with an exasperated glance at him, “is a short, grey, large-eared magical creature native to the United States of America, related to the goblins. They hunt their prey with poisonous arrows, though Ilvermorny has a lot of them employed since the time of its founding, providing maintenancy and security. As any fae, they typically enjoyplaying tricks on humans and—”

“Mione, slow down and let our mere mortal brains catch up, please.” Being on the receiving end of her glare, Ron lamely adds, “I mean, thank you for the information, we really appreciate it. We don’t need you to recite the entire book though. Where did you learn all that, anyway?”

“Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander,” she says with her chin tilted up.

...Oh. Yeah, Harry was also thinking about opening that book up one of these days, if only because of the pretty drawings in it. Though they would have to get a new one first, because Hermione’s copy was left in the castle.

She turns back to their dad. “What do the four houses stand for? Are they the same as Hogwarts?”

“Wampus,” he starts explaining with an amused smile, “is the house of warriors, representing the body. Following the same theme, Horned Serpent stands for the mind, and thus houses those of scholarly pursuits. Pugwudgie, embodying the heart, many call the house of healers, and lastly Thunderbird, the House of the Soul, gives home to adventurers.”

...Huh. Sounds a lot better than jocks, nerds, evil kids, and the rest.

“Which one do you think we will go to?” Ron asks curiously, then suddenly blanches. “Wait, we’ll get resorted. What if— What if we get separated? I don’t—”

Tom draws him closer with alarm, the boy practically melting into his side, and starts patting his head. Ron quickly turns into putty on the sofa, though his fingers clench around the fabric of Tom’s shirt.

“Unlike at Hogwarts, Ilvermorny allows for students to be accepted into more than one house. In cases like that, the student in question has the right to decide where he wants to belong. You three strike me as a pretty good mix of all four houses, so even if not all of them choose you, you might still have a choice in where you go. And being separated doesn’t mean that you would lose each other, does it?”

They all nod morosely, though Harry secretly hopes things won’t come to that. He can’t imagine being in separate houses, and he doesn’t want to.

“What else can you tell us?” Hermione asks, similarly burrowing into Tom’s side.

Harry decides to lean against her for several good reasons, like the fact that she needs comforting physical contact from every angle. And she’s warm. harry likes warm.

Tom hums as he runs his fingers through her hair and occasionally gets it caught in a few tangles. “From what I’ve read, Ilvermorny sits at the top of Mount Greylock in Salem, Massachusetts, though the way to access the school escapes me. I’m sure we’ll know more when they send us the information packets after I owl them about your admission,” he says, making Hermione perk up at the mention of more information.

“Can’t you write them now? I can help you with it! We have the cover story memorised and I’ve just been itching to know what we will learn at—”

Tom’s chuckle silences her and she looked down at her lap, ears starting to turn pink. Harry elbows her in the arm jokingly, which earns him a jab in the stomach.

Ow.

“Enough of that, children,” Tom scolds them fondly, clear from his tone that he is amused instead of annoyed or angry. “I don’t see why we can’t start drafting the letter. Shall we?”

Hermione shoots up and runs into the office for a parchment and a fountain pen, leaving Harry to topple onto their dad’s lap with her sudden disappereance.

It turned out that, fountain pens are Tom’s preferred writing instrument, and Harry too has to admit that it’s miles easier to handle than quills, which make his fingers constantly sport ink spots. Even if he now knows how to handle them, he too finds himself drawn to fountain pens.

He wonders why Hogwarts didn’t provide them with some kind of manual to basic wizarding things, like the use of quills or a guide to magical transportation. Or simply a map of Hogwarts at least, so they would have been able to actually arrive to lessons in time. The constant searching for the classrooms in those first few weeks did make all their lives harder, that’s for sure.

“Ah, thank you, dear,” Tom says as Hermione comes back and hands him her loot, nearly vibrating out of her skin in excitement. “Hm... Let’s see. Dear Deputy Headmistress Emaline Goode...”

Regulus isn’t nervous. No, really. He isn’t. It’s not like he’s about to meet Cissa (after a decade it turns out) and get his ass whooped. Painfully.

It’s fortunate that they decided to include the whole family. Maybe the children’s large, innocent silver eyes will melt her icy heart.

Well, he can dream.

Regulus’ head snaps up as he hears the floo activate, signing the arrival of his favourite cousin. He quickly stumbles up from the settee, helped by Tom’s steadying arms winding around him like a particularly affectionate Whomping Willow.

His new spouse does seem to be awfully courteous lately.

And ah, there comes Lady Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, commonly known as Cousin Cissa, stepping out of the iridescent flames in all her icy glory. She seems to have dressed herself for battle, judging by her high-necked white robe, almost covering the low neckline of her blood-red dress but for a slim slit at the front.

Regulus shudders. She’ll probably paint the edges of her sleeves with their blood if they mess this up.

He sends a last prayer to Lady Magic before stepping closer to his favourite cousin. “Cissa,” he says softly as he takes her right hand into his and gently squeezes it.

She allows a small smile to slip onto her face as she reaches up with her left to caress his face. It’s sweet and nostalgic, for a moment merging together with a memory from years ago where she was still just a young girl pestering him to let her braid his hair.

It’s the last happy memory he has of her before everything went to hell.

“Regulus.” Narcissa’s voice feels like a fond stroke across his soul, more memories rising to the surface and making a lump form in Regulus’ throat; then her nails bite into his skin and everything is right again. Regulus doesn’t dare check, but he’s pretty sure she drew blood. “You forgot to mention you got knocked up by the Dark Lord before your unfortunate disappearance.”

“I did not.”

“Didn’t you?” Narcissa raises a regal blonde eyebrow wafter a glance at Tom, and Regulus resists a pout.

Since Tom’s just uselessly spluttering behind him, he decides it’s high time they resort to emotional manipulation.

It better work. He doesn’t really have a C Plan.

“Please, Cissa. The children are in the other room. Why don’t we sit down and chat?”

His words actually make her reconsider beheading him on the spot, so Regulus takes that as a win.

She lets go of his face with a gracious nod, her hands immediately replaced by long, deft fingers glowing with the mint green of some kind of healing spell. Regulus sends Tom a grateful smile, though his husband’s frown doesn’t let up.

“I’m fine,” he mouths as they lead Narcissa into the library. He knows that technically this isn’t the most appropriate place for this kind of conversation, but he needs the comfort the room provides.

Narcissa freezes in the doorway the moment their three adorable children come into sight, spread out on the sofas in matching outfits. Tom insisted the boys wear their navy blue jumpers from this muggle department store at Harrods (which, note to self, Regulus should really check out one of these days, even if nothing will ever compare to Pierre’s work) and Hermione chose a cute A-line dress with a Peter Pan collar in the same colour.

They jump up, the boys producing proper little bows as Hermione does a perfectly executed curtsey and introduce themselves with all the expected manners they had been struggling to adopt for the past two weeks, bringing tears to Regulus’ eyes. Watching the fruits of his work sure makes his heart throb.

He subtly sneaks a glance at Narcissa who looks... Well. Quite frankly, she looks stunned; overcome with emotion, even. Just the effect they hoped to have on her. She gets herself together fairly quickly though and a beautifully honest smile blooms on her face, the beginning of tears gathering at the corners of her eyes—

...Wait, what?

Narcissa continues smiling as she wipes away an actual tear from the corner of her left eye.

“Oh my... I’ve always wondered what would become of our family at this rate, but... I’m so glad to have met you, children.” She walks up to the seating area in the middle of the library and gracefully takes a seat on one of the sofas, allowing Tom and Regulus take the other as she gathers the children around her. They, the wonderful and manipulative little beans they are, instantly snuggle around her, strategically placing themselves in positions that would allow them easy access to her hands in case she decides to go for her wand.

Did Regulus mention he loves his new children?

“Feel free to call me Aunt Cissa, dears,” Narcissa says as she runs a carefully manicured hand through Ron’s soft waves. Her nails are the same blood-red colour as her dress. It’s slightly disconcerting to see it on top of his kids’ head, but it’s not like she would ever hurt a child.

Pity that Regulus isn’t underage anymore.

The children follow her elegant movements in awe and mirror her smile. Regulus doesn’t know if he should be afraid of the admiration shining on Hermione’s face or not, but then he rolls that thought through his mind again and decided that he really, really should.

Well. At least with a role model like Narcissa, few will ever be able to hurt her. Or any of them, really.

His cousin smooths an errant lock behind Hermione’s ear. “You make such beautiful children, Regulus, I’m almost tempted to forgive you for making me believe you had died.”

...Yeah, they are fucked.

“I can explain,” he blurts out totally not suspiciously.

Narcissa’s smile makes goosebumps appear on his arms as she daintily picks up a teacup from the tray that just appeared on the coffee table. “Please do, Cousin. I need something to take my mind off my son’s misery.”

“...You have a son?”

He doesn’t know why that makes her flash a glare at him.

“Yes, dear Regulus. A fact that you would know if you hadn’t disappeared for a decade.”

...Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Abort. “Ahaha, yeah, err, how is he?”

Internally, he’s continuously slamming his head into a metaphorical brick wall.

Really, Regulus? ‘How is he?’ That’s the best you can come up with?!

It does at least make her sigh into her cup and take a sip, which stops her glare for the moment.

“He’s awfully distraught. Honestly, first Harry Potter doesn’t answer to any of the letters he sends him through his childhood, then he rejects his offer of friendship on the train to Hogwarts, and apparently now he also disappeared from the school.”

Oh, okay. Okay, okay. They can spin this in their favou—

“But I didn’t get any mail?” a tiny voice filled with confusion says from next to... Cissa...

...

...

...

...Oh, bloody buggering fuck.

Narcissa blinks down at the boy that definitely doesn’t look like Harry Potter. “...You, dear?”

“...Oops?”

Regulus gives a mental sigh. Thank you, Harry. As if we weren’t in deep enough shit.

Narcissa looks back to Regulus and tilts her head to the side. That action looks much more terrifying than it sounds. “Explanations, cousin?”

“Cissa, I swear—”

He can turn this around. He can— he can make her come around. Or at least try. The kids do a good job of it already, he should be able to—

Tom interrupts him by clearing his throat before he could get another word out.

“I think I’m the one that owes you an explanation if I’m not mistaken. So... Shall we start at the beginning?”

...What a brave, brave man. Regulus will make sure to put pretty flowers on his casket. Maybe red spider lilies, if it comes to that. Just for the irony.

He reaches over and squeezed Tom’s hand as the man continues.

“We have not planned on deceiving you, My Lady, but you must understand, our circumstances are a bit... special.”

“Special?” Narcissa repeats. She puts her teacup back onto the tray and crosses her hands in her lap. Regulus notes that her wand hand is on the top, and wonders how he could position his in the least threatening way that would also be functional in case this comes to a duel or something equally undesirable.

“Yes, special. You see, I was born by the name of Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

“I can’t say that rings a bell.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to,” Tom says. “Though I knew your father back when we went to Hogwarts, we didn’t have much contact aside from his cousin being my roommate. I also went by another name for a long while after graduation.” Seeing her narrowed eyes at the colossal understatement, he hurriedly continues to speak. “I would like to make it clear that I’m not the Dark Lord. I’ve made sure that he’s very, very dead. As for me... Due to some unforeseen consequences of a childhood mistake, I basically only possess memories until the end of my Hogwarts years, which simply makes me Tom Riddle.” He stops and adds after a second, “Or Thomas Black now, I suppose.”

Regulus can’t say she relaxes at hearing that, but she does take her teacup back into her hands. Her fingers are stark white against the pale blue and pink of the dainty porcelain. “And still, you have somehow managed to acquire three children,” she concludes, running her fingers through Harry’s hair and making him quickly become more and more dazed. Poor kid doesn’t stand a chance against her nails gently grazing his scalp.

Regulus knows the feeling. He’s been there.

“...Ah. About that.” Tom sheepishly scratches the back of his head, greatly reminiscent of how Harry acts when nervous. It’s... rather endearing. “Technically, the current situation could be blamed on them.”

“Really,” she croons and turns to the children. “Well, lovelies. Would you like to tell Aunt Cissa how you resurrected the Dark Lord and then kept him from murdering my favourite cousin in cold blood?”

They send Tom an accusing gaze for turning Narcissa’s attention on them. He shamelessly ignores it.

“So I take it we scrapped the idea of duping her entirely,” Ron says, his face buried into his hands. He looks up with a slightly hysterical gleam in his eyes. “Yeah. Great. So, we were illegally partaking in a creepy dark ritual—”

Hermione huffs and reaches over Narcissa’s lap to punch his arm. “Honestly, Ronald. That’s not how it happened and you know it.”

“Eh? But that’s exactly what happened?” Harry pipes up. “I slit someone’s throat, too.”

...Well, that’s new information.

“I’m sorry, did you just say you slit someone’s throat,” Regulus grinds out between his teeth. His head snaps to Tom, who tellingly refuses to take up eye contact. “Is there a reason you failed to mention that crucial fact?” No answer comes. “...At least tell me you didn’t just leave the corpse to rot in some public place. Please.”

Tom doesn’t look up from his lap as he mumbles something intelligible that makes Narcissa giggle.

Not helping, Cousin.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” Regulus asks in a deceptively calm voice, nails digging into the man’s hand that he forgot to let go. A big mistake, considering that something had apparently escaped his mind.

Tom sneaks a glance at his impassive face and immediately looks back down. “...The rat was an animagus that slept in the same bed as Ron’s very underage brother for years and we’ve fed it and the other corpse to the thestrals,” he mumbles, tone so low Regulus has to strain his ears to make the words out.

But he does. Boy, he does.

“...The other corpse, dear?”

“Anyway!” Tom exclaims, turning back towards Narcissa whom he foolishly deems a smaller threat while Regulus does an admirable job at mauling his hand held hostage in his. “Harry wanted a way out of his relatives’ house and so they modified a ritual from the restricted section. It made them adopt me as their sole parent.”

Hermione levels Tom with one of the glares she stole from him and snuggles deeper into Narcissa’s side. “That’s awfully vague and unspecific! How do you even expect her to understand the predicament we—”

She falls silent at hearing Narcissa’s chuckle. “Would I then be correct to assume your former names were Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Harry Potter?” she asks, her silver eyes dancing with amusement.

The children avoid looking into her eyes.

“Maaaybe?” Harry says, cheeks slowly getting pinker and pinker as the seconds tick by. “We changed names, though. Got a whole backstory planned out.”

“I’m sure it’s magnificent,” she allows in a patronising tone as she pats his head. “Though the articles about your disappearances are getting wilder by the day. My son was quite distraught that his nemesis apparently got kidnapped without his knowledge. Which reminds me,” She turns back to Regulus with a very, very mean smile that reminds him at the time some idiot thought it funny to ask her if she would like some practice for her wedding night. “Regulus dear, how is that you’re alive, again?”

“...I guess we did get away a bit from the subject.” Regulus wracks his head how to share his colossal failure gently, loosening his grip on Tom. He fails. “...Let’s just say that I was stupid and fell into a trap, alright? Tom fished me out of a stasis-charmed lake roughly a week ago and then I blackmailed him into letting me stay. We’re officially co-parenting since Friday.”

Narcissa just sits there for a moment, frozen in her seat. And then she does something that scares the crap out of Regulus.

She snorts.

“You really... Hah. Seriously, Regulus?” Don’t make a pun. Do not make a pun. “Dearest cousin, can’t you just admit you find him hot and the children adorable?”

Betrayal. Treachery. That absolute, backstabbing bitch.

Regulus collapses in his armchair and makes a dying noise as his cousin bursts out in a fit of giggles. He dares to slightly open one eye; the children are smugly smirking at each other.

He takes back everything good he’d previously said. He should have remembered that betrayal never comes from your enemies.

Tom, whom by the way Regulus is still mad at, pokes him in the side.

“What,” he grinds out. Tom isn’t deterred.

“You think I’m handsome?” he asks, the bastard’s head tilted to the side like a puppy. It’s infuriatingly adorable and Regulus doesn’t like those thoughts in his head. He should be mad, damn it. Not melting.

“I’m in denial, not blind. Now let me wallow in misery in peace. You’re still on thin ice.”

Tom leans closer. Regulus can already feel his cheeks burn. “Well, I think you are very pretty. Do you want to know how much?”

Does he? He’s been told that he’s beautiful at many points in his life. Blacks always are. It’s practically expected of the since birth, growing from adorably angelic babies to the cream of pureblood society.

And yet.

Regulus lifts his chin, unwilling to give in. He simply refuses to look away from those hunger-filled emerald eyes. “How much?”

He sees Narcissa erect a privacy ward around them as she stands up with the children in tow and leads them out of the library, probably engaging them in small talk or whatever else that strikes her fancy. Regulus doesn’t really care right now as Tom curls a dark lock of his hair around his index finger and tugs him forward. By now there are mere inches separating their noses.

“Darling, haven’t you noticed the way I look at you? How my breath catches every time I see you step through the door?” he purrs, his pitch-black pupils widening more and more as he utters every world. “Why, I think I’d rather tie you to the bedframe with your favourite flowers than let you leave my side for the rest of our lives.”

...

...

...

...Why. Just, why the bloody hell is his heart starting to beat faster. Surely, he should run while he can, no? This is a total red-flag. With trumpets and a whole carnival announcing its presence.

...Though he has to admit it, he kind of likes it. A bit.

...

...

...

...Shit.

Regulus scrapes together all the dignity he can manage instead of commenting on that. He doesn’t think his heart could take it. No amount of pureblood training had prepared him for— for— that.

He cradles Tom’s face with one hand, making the man lean into it with his long eyelashes softly fluttering, and sighs internally.

He’s absolutely, totally, officially fucked.

Regulus tightens his grip and Tom’s eyes snap wide open. He can barely see the beautiful emerald of his iris’. “I certainly hope you know what you are getting yourself into. Blacks do not share,” he says with sudden venom in his voice.

“Do not fear, my dear.” Tom’s rumbling chuckle makes a shiver run down his spine. He’d be lying if he said it feels unpleasant. “You’ve captured my soul the first time I laid eyes on you, soaked to the bone but still standing so bravely. I don’t think I could ever let you go, even if you begged me in the sweetest way.”

Aaand there goes his self-control.

Regulus lets his hand sneak up into Tom’s hair and searches for a firm grip. “Blacks do not beg,” he says. And then he crushes their mouths together.

It’s not a gentle kiss, not by far. It’s wild and desperate, just like Regulus. It’s unlike anything he’d ever imagined. His previous thoughts of this all being a game to Tom are thoroughly wiped out of his mind by teeth clashing against teeth, lips meeting lips, calloused fingers slipping into his hair as they moved his head to the right angle even as they fall onto the couch, Regulus ending up plastered against Tom’s chest. Every single motion is filled with hunger.

When Tom starts nipping at his lower lip Regulus can’t help it; he drags him closer. Did he expect Tom to hesitate at the first sign of causing him pain, even if Regulus only clutches his shirt harder? He doesn’t know and can’t ponder on it as the man slowly slips his tongue between his lips. Regulus is sure his brain short-circuits then, because the next thing he knows Tom flips their positions without their mouths losing contact, his larger body bracketing Regulus’ own. He repositions his arms around Tom’s neck as the man slowly slides a knee between his legs.

Just when Regulus thinks he would happily suffocate if only he got more, he’s allowed to catch his breath for a moment as Tom breaks their kiss. When his eyes flutter open, he sees the man stare down at him, eyes shining with wonder.

“You are on slightly thicker ice,” he manages to get out between two gasps, not minding the grin it brings onto Tom’s face as he starts to place light kisses all over his neck. “...And I’m partial to Delphinium.”

Tom’s resounding chuckle is swallowed by his lips being claimed again.

Chapter Text

They are in the middle of their Tuesday Potions lesson when Regulus struts into the lab and exchanges a passionate kiss to Tom.

Harry feels like they are very fortunate their dad is only supervising and not actually brewing anything at that moment, judging by how much attention he turns towards his husband. He’s sure they wouldn’t even have stopped at one kiss if him and his siblings weren’t in the room.

He expectes at least some discontent to rise up in the back of his mind at seeing his dads so lovely-dovey all day, but instead he just finds them cute. He hopes someday he’ll have someone to hug and kiss too; it seems nice. Even though he dreads the day they decide to share the specifics.

“Remember the letter we got from my grandfather?” Regulus asks, turning to them after escaping from Tom’s grabby hands. Which, well. It’s very strange to know that they have a great-grandfather now. Harry didn’t even have living grandparents before!

He wonders what the man is like. Regulus’ mum was apparently just as horrid as Aunt Petunia, but he didn’t really say anything about his dad, which... might be either a good or a bad sign.

Hermione gives an indignant huff, probably at Regulus questioning her impeccable memory. “Of course. Arcturus Black III, current Lord Black without a named heir,” she states while stirring some honey water into her potion.

Harry is quite impressed, still stuck at squeezing out his boomberries; he hadn’t even started the brewing process. He sneaks a glance at Ron, who’s sceptically inspecting his vial of salamander blood.

...Yeah, Harry doesn’t think Ron will take this class to NEWTs. He, on the other hand, had re-awakened the excitement he felt before that first Potions class with Snape. With Tom actually teaching them why they use the particular ingredients and how those interact with each other to get the desired effect, Potions is quickly becoming one of his favourite subjects, straight behind Defense. It’s just like baking and cooking, only with magic!

He's sure somewhere Snape feels like someone walked over his grave.

“He wanted to know where the hell you’ve been and how you managed to hide your triplets,” Ron says after gingerly putting the vial of blood back onto the desk.

“Language, Ronald!”

He shrugs. “Sorry. But what about the letter?”

Regulus whips out an already opened jet-black envelope from behind his back and grins. If Harry’s new twenty-twenty vision isn’t deceiving him, the wax has silver glitter in it. “He wants to meet his great-grandchildren.”

...Ah.

“...Does that mean we tell another family member our deep dark secret our do we try to dupe him?” Harry asks sceptically, making Regulus freeze mid-movement.

He doesn’t look like he thought this through as well as he thought.

“...Ah. Well. I mean, we could try? It would be good practice—”

“We can’t,” Tom cuts him off. “He will recognize me in an instant.”

“...I’m almost afraid to ask, but how?”

“I spent a winter break with them once. Three days after it ended, Orion got engaged to Walburga.”

“...Please tell me my brother isn’t actually your bastard child,” Regulus says in a flat tone, making Tom splutter.

“Wha— Of course we did not— Why would you even think that?!”

Regulus only raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know. You were being really cryptic about the whole—”

“No,” Tom cuts him off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We didn’t f— we didn’t do anything of that nature, though Walburga did raise a right ruckus about my presence there. I don’t know if they couldn’t find Orion someone else or she blackmailed her way into the engagement, but rest assured, I never went there again.”

Harry likes his apparent grandmother less and less the more he hears about her. It’s good that she’s already dead.

“So when do we visit?” he chirps, breaking the brief silence that the room fell into.

Regulus goes back next to Tom and kisses him on the cheek. “He’s expecting us on Friday at ten,” he says softly and caresses Tom’s face, making the man lean forward when Regulus lets his hand fall back to his side and starts walking out of the door. He chuckles as Tom grabs his waist and drops a kiss on the back of his neck. “I’ll leave you to brewing. See you at lunch.”

With that, Tom lets him go and Regulus walks out of the potions lab.

Harry squints up at his dad’s longing expression. “You did stop at kissing, right? No further debauchery?”

“My, I see someone’s breaking out the big words,” he says wryly.

Hermione grins at Harry in delight as her potion turns a perfect turquoise colour. “Oh, I am rubbing off on you!” she says, making Ron groan into his cauldron. At least he started to fill it.

Their dad lets out a sigh and goes over to Ron to help with his potion. “For your information, no, we hadn’t gone further than kissing,” he admits with a pout Harry isn’t sure he knows about. “Not that that’s something you should concern yourselves with. We are, after all, married. And,” he adds with a smirk, “we did promise Nagini a godchild eventually, no?”

Harry and his siblings groan at the unwanted mental pictures. The memories from when they accidentally busted some couples while searching for unoccupied spaces at Hogwarts isn’t doing them any favours right now.

Tom is wandering between the rows of books that make up their library. He has meant to do this sooner, but he just couldn’t put time aside until now. Not with all the paperwork he had to get to Garnak in time, the lessons he taught in the mornings to the children, the quality family time he refused to cut back on...

The point is, the impending visit to Black Manor reminded him that he really, really needs to research Necromancy. Like, preferably yesterday.

But anyway, he’s here now (after acquiring another illegal portkey to Paris so Regulus can get them some clothes for visiting their grandfather, because ‘No, Tom, there’s no chance my children will be wearing muggle clothes for that, no matter how nice those are or how much you paid for them’).

Walking amongst the bookshelves fills him with nostalgia. Truly, he missed his calling as a scholar. With a very wide berth.

Technically, he doesn’t exactly knows what he’s looking for, or if he’s even in the right aisle. And he supposes he doesn’t have that much time on his hands until everyone comes back inside...

“...Hey, Castle? Could you help me find—”

Tom has to duck to avoid getting a concussion.

He lets out a huff as he bends down for the innocent piece of literature that a moment before was sailing at his head at breakneck speed. “You do know I’m perfectly able to follow subtler signs, right?”

Two books at eye-level imitate a shrug, startling a chuckle out of him.

Never mind. Their home just needs some time to get acclimated to them.

Tom glances down at the book in his hands. Judging by the worn brown leather, it must be one of the older ones, the yellowing pages and unfaded ink filling his heart with a strange calm. It has no title or author on the cover, but opening it Tom notices a tiny, scrawled C. P. at the bottom of the first page.

He’s not worried about the castle pelting him with random or useless literature. After all the years it stood, the magic seems to have made everything a part of it within the radius of the wards, and thus he trusts the castle to know what he’s looking for and aptly provide, albeit a bit roughly still.

Tom goes back to the seating area before he could further sink into the thrill of research and get a cramp in his legs, standing for hours where he momentarily happens to be. Multiple occasions of just that taught him to hold himself back (and his roommates’ ‘Told you so’s were ample motivation too).

He doesn’t know how long he’s spent sitting in one of the comfortable armchairs when Cadmus steps into the painting above the fireplace.

“What brings you here?” Tom asks the portrait of his ancestor, looking up from the interesting passage he’s reading in, as it turned out, a journal about communing with the dead. He just got to the part where the writer details the sygils he was experimenting with in order to assemble a working runic circle.

“Just came to check on you while little Ronald trounces the others in chess again. What are you doing here on your lonesome?” the man asks, his curiosity clear in his voice.

Tom allows a smile to spread out on his face as he holds up the journal in his hands. “Just some research. I’m planning on summoning the ghosts of Harry’s parents.”

“The ones you murdered in cold blood?”

Tom sniffs. “Insane me. But yes, those ones.” He pauses for a moment. “...Say, did you ever perform one of these rituals?”

“Perform? I invented them, you foolish boy. You are reading one of my own journals. Though... I think it’s one of the early ones. “Cadmus squints a bit at the messy scribbles on the worn parchment. “Yes, definitely one of the early ones. If you only want to summon them in a constrained space, there’s one particular ritual towards the end that shall work. It should have a massive blood stain covering half the page.”

Tom swiftly begins turning the pages. “From some kind of blood sacrifice, or...”

“Ignotus cut himself with the kitchen knife and thrust his bleeding finger at my face.”

...Ah, yes. Siblings. He would expect the same from Nagini.

“Well, thank you for your help. I shall perform the ritual this weekend,” Tom says after finding the correct page and inspecting it with care.

“Do make sure to make proper precautions. I heard you almost fainted last time.”

Tom scowls up at the grinning man. “I did not faint.”

“Sure you didn’t,” Cadmus allows in a mocking tone. “That’s why I said almost.”

Tom huffs as the portrait becomes empty again, its sole resident leaving with an amused chuckle.

He sighs and looks down at the book in his hand. They have asphodel and a pomegranate tree planted in one of the greenhouses, and the milk could be easily procured. They are running low on thestral blood though... Maybe the ones in the forest would be amenable to give him some? They did seem to take to them like—

The soft sounds of piano music cuts into his thoughts, slicing through them like a gentle silver blade. He shrinks the book and pockets it with nary a thought as he walks up to the door leading to the music room, unused until know. He silently opens it, not wanting to startle however is playing on the instrument.

...He should have known it would be Regulus he would find on the other side of the door. The way he sways on the stool to the rhythm of the music, his long fingers dancing through the notes of the song, sometimes pausing as if in deep thought... It’s quite the hypnotic sight.

Tom doesn’t know how long he stands there in the doorway. He neither dares nor wants to disturb the moment; why do so, when the sight is so lovely he could stare at it all day?

Alas, the currents song comes to an end all too soon and Regulus doesn’t start another, only stares at the keys in awe for a long moment.

Tom claps his hands together and smiles when the man looks back at him, startled.

“I— I didn’t notice you coming in. Did I disturb you or...?”

Tom waves off his worries as he goes to stand next to him and leans closer. He doesn’t see any music sheets. “Don’t worry, it was a welcome disturbance. What were you playing?”

Regulus glances down at the keys.

“I... Don’t actually know?” he answers uncertainly, running his fingers over them without applying any pressure. “It’s been a while since I last played the piano, and the title of the song escapes me for the moment. Was it... Was it bad? I didn’t think anybody would be here to listen and—”

“It was beautiful.”

“...Oh. Thank you, then.” Regulus seems to debate with himself for a moment. A blush creeps over his cheeks as he straightened his spine and turns his rosy cheeks towards Tom. “Would you... would you like to learn?”

Learn? Of course he would. He would like whatever Regulus wants him to do if only he gets to have the man fill his vision for longer.

Tom’s feels his grin stretch as he leans even closer and tucks a stray lock behind Regulus’ right ear. “Only if you wouldn’t mind teaching me.”

And doesn’t he just adore the smile that blooms on Regulus’ face.

Tom chuckles as Regulus pulls him down onto the stool he was occupying and excitedly starts instructing him.

He can’t say he hates the thought of learning something new, even if it’s not necessary magic. But then, some would say music is a kind of magic on its own.

It sure is when Regulus is playing.

“...and that’s how the song goes. Now you try it!” Regulus exclaims as he grabs a surprised Tom’s hands and thrusts them at the keys, making the piano let out a few sharp sounds. He immediately lets him go. “...Oops. Err, you can try it now?”

Tom lets a huff escape him but does start to hesitantly push down the first few keys.

...Regulus made this seem a lot easier, he thinks after missing at least five notes and then accidentally leaving out a whole line. But eventually he does get the hang of it. He just has to stop thinking about Regulus continuously staring at him while he makes a mess of the simple lullaby.

...How did the song go again?

Tom shifts his focus entirely to the piano and the next time he tries, he hits every note right. He grins as he finishes the last few notes at the right pace at last.

Regulus flashes him a grin.

“See? That wasn’t too terrible. We’ll make a professional musician out of you ye— Oomph.” His words are cut off by Tom cupping his face and stealing the breath out of him with a deep kiss. And then another for good measure. And then eventually Tom draws him onto his lap and they are just making out on the piano seat, Regulus’ back pushed against the keys and occasionally producing some sounds from the instrument.

Tom lets him breath for a moment after a while (a long while). He isn’t heartless, after all.

“I’ll be eagerly awaiting our next lesson,” he whispers into Regulus’ ear as he cages him against the keyboard. He feels a shiver run through the man’s body, making a smirk slip onto his face.

He thinks he finally understands what the fuss around Valentines Day was about at Hogwarts.

“Who taught you how to play the piano?” he inquires while dropping kisses onto the back of Regulus’ ear, his jaw, his neck. He’s determined to map out every visible patch of skin with his lips.

“My— my father,” Regulus says, still gasping for air as he runs a hand through Tom’s hair. “Who thought— who taught you how to dance?”

Tom grins into the crook of his neck and strengthens his grip on Regulus’ waist. “Your father.”

“...Yeah, no. Please get that picture out of my head. Now.”

Tom laughs as Regulus grabs his collar and smashes their mouths together. He supposes he won’t mind being the distraction this time around.

“Alright, kids. Everyone’s ready?” Regulus surveys the array of children standing before him. He’s not impressed. “Ron, wipe your nose, there’s some smudge on it and I pray it’s chocolate and not anything else. Harry, did you brush your hair this morning? Of course you didn’t, come here. I’ll do it for you this time, but you must remember to do this every morning. We don’t want people to think you’re uneducated in basic social necessities, do we? And Hermione—” He stops torturing Harry with the brush for a moment. “...Never mind, you’re perfect.”

Tom cuts him of before he could drive himself crazy. “They are fine, darling. Are you sure you don’t want a calming draught?”

“No, no, I’m alright; I don’t even know why I would be nervous. It’s not like we’re about to meet my crazy powerful grandfather, who’s also the lord to my family and whom, as you’ve kindly informed us, will definitely recognise you.” He pauses for a moment and shoots Tom a deadpan look. “...Oh wait. We are.”

Harry bats at Regulus’ hands to free himself from his clutches. “Oh, come on. We won’t even have to lie to him, so there should be no problems later coming to bite us in the butts. Look at how well Aunt Cissa took the news!”

Ah, yes. Cissa, whom the kids deliberately manipulated into avoiding manslaughter. Somehow, Regulus doesn’t think that will work on his grandfather.

Tom squeezes his shoulders from behind and drops a kiss on Regulus’ right cheek. “It will be alright, dear. I’m sure he won’t dare harm his only heir currently not locked up in prison. And you gave him great-grandchildren,” he adds with a smirk that Regulus itches to kiss off of his annoyingly attractive face.

He settles for a huff as he turns and fixes the bastard’s tie. Honestly, does he have to do everything in this house?

“Fine. But don’t blame me if we end up thrown into the dungeons for line theft.”

“He has dungeons?!” Ron exclaims with wide eyes, the smudge thankfully gone from his nose.

“He does live in an actual castle.”

“We live in an actual castle.”

“Well, he lives in a bigger castle. With dungeons. Now, if everyone’s ready—” he does a last sweep but can’t find anything to correct, “step into the flames after I’m gone and say Black Castle clearly. If you end up anywhere else—”

“We are to either immediately come back home through the floo again or use our emergency portkeys Dad illegally acquired to get us to you,” Hermione finishes for him with an exasperated look that has no business looking so much like Cissa’s. “Go on, Papa. It would be rude to make Lord Black wait.”

...Alright, fine. He may be possibly maybe deliberately stalling, but who could really blame him? They are about to meet Lord Arcturus Black. His grandfather. The one person who could ruin everything for them if he didn’t accept Regulus’ new family. And he doesn’t trust Tom not to deal with that situation in a drastic manner.

(He doesn’t trust himself to stop him either. Not anymore.)

Regulus throws the floo powder into the flames and with a last glance behind him says the name of his destination loud and clear. The next moment he’s spinning away into the green flames and spinning and spinning and spinning—

He’s spit out onto the familiar dark rug of Black Manor’s floo room (Yes, his grandfather has a room dedicated entirely to receiving guests through the floo. He lives in a big castle.) that he hasn’t seen for years. More than a decade, if he counted the time he was basically frozen in time. It certainly brings back memories of him and Sirius running through the wide, dark halls and getting lost in the hedge maze outside.

The tell-tale sound of a house-elf popping into the room startles him out of his forlorn thoughts.

“I’s be told to lead Little Master Regulus and guests into the drawing room,” the young elf dressed in a tiny black dress with a white apron says in a bubbly voice.

...Wait a minute. He knows this elf.

“Mipsy! How have you been?”

The house-elf gives him a bright smile. “I’s be sad that the Little Masters be lost but Little Master Regulus be found again! Mipsy be happy now!

...Yeah. Regulus had resigned himself to never shaking off the ‘Little Master’ title long ago.

“I’m glad. And that reminds me,” he glances behind him at hearing the floo go off,” Mipsy, meet my children, Carina, Asterion and Polaris.” Harry looks rather queasy as Ron hurries to steady him. Regulus spells the ash off them as they gather themselves and Tom steps out of the fireplace. “And my husband, Thomas. Everyone, this is Mipsy, one of Grandfather’s house-elves.”

He’s quite pleased at the chorus of greetings he hears, even though it almost makes Mipsy faint. And then she starts sniffling.

“Hic, Little Master Regulus’ mate and younglings are too kind to Mipsy. Please follow Mipsy to the drawing room.”

They stroll through the imposing halls in silence while Regulus tries to mentally summon some of his brother’s Gryffindor bravery. He does not succeed, but oh well.

“...Say, Mipsy. How did Grandfather react to...”

“Master’s be laughing when he be noticing the Little Master’s survival.”

...They are fucked.

Regulus feels like they reach the drawing room way too soon. Like, it might just be his memory going funky on the details, but surely it should have been much, much farther.

(He ignores the sad fact that the last time he walked through these halls he was half this tall.)

They stop before a large, dark oak double door and Mipsy leaves them after ominously wishing them good luck.

Like, thanks, Mipsy, but I didn’t know I needed luck for this.

They stand before the door in silence as no one moved to open it. Well, not until Hermione nudges him with her elbow and sends him a meaningful look. She also gestures towards the door for good measure.

Regulus tries to channel his brother again. He doesn’t succeed this time either, but he does knock on the door, so that has to count for something, right?

...Right.

The door opens with a sinister creak that has to be for the aesthetics. Regulus can’t imagine either his grandparents or the house-elves would tolerate it in any other case.

He lets himself smile as Tom grabs his hand for a moment and squeezes it, trying to provide some semblance of reassurance.

Stepping into the drawing room, the others follow him to the seating area in front of the large fireplace, the dark black settees surrounding a large oak coffee table. The midnight blue curtains don’t do much to brighten the room, what with the similarly dark walls and furniture.

Arcturus Black is standing by the gothic windows, looking out to the enormous backyard. When he speaks, his voice is just as Regulus remembers it: serious and demanding, with not a hint of budging. “Even if your mother might not have been understanding, one would think you would have felt secure enough to come to us upon discovering an unplanned pregnancy. Or did you think I would drive you away? Did I ever give you that impression?” He says with a certain tone of his voice that just screams ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed.’

That... will have to be addressed. Very soon.

“Please forgive me, Grandfather,” Regulus says, the man’s words making him quite emotional. He wishes his grandfather would have said something similar if he told him he didn’t want to be a Death Eater before his mother forced his hand. Literally. “I can only serve with an adequate explanation for what has transpired.”

Arcturus Black turns around, face stony as ever. And then his eyes get stuck on the children.

...Were the matching starry robes a bit much? Regulus didn’t think so when they let Pierre design them upon hearing they were meeting his grandfather, but the man seems so taken aback Regulus is worried they managed to give him a minor heart attack. He shakes himself out of it after a while though, and—

...

...

...

...He smiles. He bloody smiles at the children.

How. Just, how the hell does this work on everyone.

(He ignores the fact that one of the reasons he was so willing to marry Tom was so that he could get the children too.)

“Welcome, children, to the ancestral home of the Ancient and Noble House of Black. My name is Arcturus Black; It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” The boys bow and Hermione curtsies. “Oh, none of that now. Come and take a seat,” Arcturus continues, gesturing towards the settees.

The children hesitantly look up at Regulus, who gives them an encouraging nod. It’s quite out of character for his grandfather to wave the courtesies aside, but he isn’t going to look a gift Abraxan in the mouth.

They all take a seat, Arcturus only paying attention to the children for the moment. “Well, do introduce yourselves,” he says.

Naturally, Hermione is the first to gather herself, back straight as a rod and expression perfectly neutral and polite. “I’m Carina, and these are my brothers, Asterion and Polaris. It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Lord Black. As for our existence...” She glances at them. “Our parents will tell you everything, I’m sure.”

The boys adorably nod as Arcturus looks on with an indulgent expression. “Please, children. Just call me Great-grandfather, or Grandfather if it’s too long. We are family, after all.” He finally turns to Regulus. “Now you can start explaini—” He stops for a moment when he noticed Tom’s presence. “...Ah. Welcome, Tom Riddle. It has been a while.”

The children snicker, unbothered by Tom’s glare. “A pleasure as always, Lord Black. For your peace of mind, I would like to state that we weren’t and aren’t trying to deceive you.”

“Your efforts have been noted. But really, was my son not enough for you?”

Tom is entirely unmoving but for his twitching eye. “We. Never. Fucked.”

Arcturus raises a regal eyebrow. Regulus remembers him making the same expression when Sirius got him to help eat all the cookies and their grandfather found them with their hands stuck in the accursed jar. He doesn’t even know why they tried to deny anything at that point. Tom on the other hand isn’t familiar with the Eyebrow of Doom (even though he makes a similar face when the children try to scheme behind their backs) and attempts to prove his point.

“Would it help if I swore I never saw him as anything more than a friend? Like, he was one of my best friends, but definitely just a friend. No friends with benefits bullshit.”

“Language, Riddle.”

“It’s Black now, actually.”

“Is it now? Why, my son would have broken out in tears at the thought of him not being the reason for it.”

Here we go, Regulus thinks with dread.

Tom gives a few slow blinks, not comprehending that sentence. “...Pardon?”

“Oh, yes. He was so heartbroken after that winter break, he got engaged to Walburga,” Arcturus states with a solemn nod.

“...What,” Tom repeats like a broken record.

Personally, Regulus can relate. They’ve joked about his father and Tom, but that was it. Jokes. Simple, mere jokes to help him process that he’d willingly married his own father’s classmate and apparent best friend.

He’s really not enthusiastic to actually discover the truth behind those jokes.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Arcturus has that twinkle in his eyes that usually promises pain for everyone around. Regulus braces himself. “Your whole year was in love with you. Possibly the majority of the school. Why do you think he invited you over?”

“Wha— We were friends! Isn’t that what friends do?!”

Arcturus doesn’t answer, only looks at Tom in pity.

He throws his hands in the air and ignores the giggling children, though he shoots a glare at Regulus when he hears him chuckle. “...Why Walburga then?”

“Well. Dark and wavy hair, tall stature, a cocky smirk... I suspect he also had a competency ki—”

“Stop,” Regulus cuts in. Like... No. He’s heard more than enough already. Way more. “Just, stop. I learned way too much about my father than I ever wanted to today. Thanks for the mental scarring, by the way. Now, could we move on to why we are here?”

His grandfather lets an evil smirk stretch out on his face but does allow the subject change with a nod. He orders the house-elves to bring in some tea for the conversation.

“Right,” Regulus starts awkwardly as he takes a cup into his hands. “So... As you have noticed, the children only recently appeared on the tapestry.”

“Ah, yes. The tapestry.” Arcturus leans forward in his seat and pierces him with amused silver eyes, near twins to Regulus’. He doesn’t seem to get much fun between the bi-monthly Wizengamot meetings, going by how much he’s enjoying this.

“...Yes. So I suppose I should start with the fact that technically, they” he gestures to the children perching on the midnight blue sofa with big, innocent eyes, “are adopted.”

“Technically?” Arcturus raises an eyebrow.

“Well. Not yet officially, as the goblins are still processing the paperwork and our backstories are still under construction...”

By now both of Arcturus’ eyebrows are raised. “I think I might need some context for that.”

Context? Regulus can give him context. So long as he manages to gather his thoughts into something resembling a coherent narrative that excludes the apparent murder allegations.

Hermione, thank Merlin, swoops in like a phoenix to save all their arses. “Honestly. Great-grandfather, please forgive our parents. Their social skills seem to have become rusty.”

...Okay, no. That was rude. He doesn’t know where she got that attitude, but it surely isn’t from Regulus.

...It might have been Nagini’s influence. It usually is.

Arcturus at least seems happy, for he smiles at her with a conspiratory glint in his eyes. “Oh, do tell.”

She does. In great detail.

Like, Regulus would have happily left out the bit about him getting princess-carried through the entrance door or the time he fell down the stairs due to a sudden laughing fit. Or when Tom tried to teach him the tango and Kreacher pelted him with macarons. Or when the kids came to wake them up and found Tom happily snuggled around Regulus (even if nothing more happened. Yet.). Or when—

Ahem. So yes, there were many, many disgraceful moments that made Regulus go red in the face while his grandfather laughed in delight.

Well, at least they are having fun, he thinks as he looks around and sees everyone grinning and joking. Even Tom, though his cheeks are a slightly darker shade than usual.

“—and then we found Papa sitting on Dad’s—”

Nononono, abort mission, abort mission!

“I think Grandfather understands the situation well enough, sweetheart,” Regulus says while covering her mouth with his hand.

The man in question nods with a smile. “That I do. I’m glad you have found yourself such wonderful children.” At Tom clearing his throat he adds, “And a stupid spouse, of course. Now, what was that about your brother being unlawfully locked in Azkaban for the past decade?”

Regulus kicks Tom so he would wipe the scowl off his face. “Sirius wasn’t a Death Eater, that I can confidently state. Even if not in court, you understand.”

“Thought so,” Arcturus nods with satisfaction. “Such a shame the Ministry was all too happy to convict him.”

“Have you inquired about his trial, then?”

“That’s just it,” he huffs. He seems truly irritated about the subject, his brows drawing together in a severe expression that Regulus remembers making people shake in their boots on the celebrations he attended with the man. “We requested the transcripts of the trial after the war ended, but the only answer we got after sloughing through mountains of paperwork was that the records are restricted and he isn’t allowed visitors. Not even family.”

Tom takes a sip of tea and levitated a few scones before the children, who happily start breaking them apart and dunking them into some kind of jam. The etiquette lessons must have stuck then, because they didn’t drop them into their cups, unlike the first time Regulus sat them down to explain the proper etiquette of Afternoon Tea. Even if it’s only lunchtime now.

“Even with bribery?”

Arcturus’ scowl is all the answer they need. Something is definitely wrong with the situation.

“Well,” Tom says as he leans forward in his seat,” what if there was no trial?”

Everyone freezes. Because that’s... It can’t be. No one would be so foolish to—

...

...

...

...Oh, who is he kidding. They are talking about the Ministry.

“Are you saying,” Regulus starts in a dangerously calm voice that hopefully masks how angry he is right now, “that they put my brother in Azkaban without a trial?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

...Bloody fucking Bubotuber.

Regulus drops his head into his hands and lets out a groan, only slightly comforted by the tiny hands patting his back and arms, depending on how far the children can reach. He lifts his head to look at Tom with pleading eyes.

“Please tell me you have a plan.”

“I have a plan.”

“With honesty.”

“...I have the beginnings of a plan.”

Regulus drops his head back into his hands.

“Don’t worry, Papa,” Harry, his precious son, consoles him by snuggling in between him and Tom on the loveseat. “We’ll come up with something to free your brother.”

Hermione also comes over to lean her head onto his arm. “Yes, Papa. I could read up on the laws of Wizarding Britain and the war for some evidence to exonerate him. I think Dad mentioned this book—”

“Or we could just ask Garnak for the Potter will,” Ron interjects, drawing the attention of the entire room to himself. He blushes and starts fidgeting with the handle of his cup. “I mean, they must have written one, right? With their impending demise via dark lord and all...”

“...Ron, you’re a genius,” Harry says and launches himself at the stunned boy, taking them both to the floor.

Hermione sends a long-suffering look at their great-grandfather as her brothers try to suffocate each other with the decorative pillows, with the obvious meaning of ‘See what I have to put up with on a daily basis?’

Arcturus only chuckles at her misery. “A great idea indeed. If the Potters mention naming someone other than Sirius as the Secret Keeper of the Fidelius Charm, that would clear him of their betrayal at least. The murder of the muggles, on the other hand...

“What’s a Fidelis?” Harry asks while straddling a resisting Ron, panting and red-faced.

“The Fidelius Charm”, Hermione says with narrowed eyes as Ron gives up and sprawls out on the floor, making Harry let out a victorious whoop, “is a very powerful spell for hiding places or secrets. Possible to cast only by a truly powerful individual, the spell is bound to the Secret Keeper who then may allow other people knowledge of the secret, hence the name.”

Tom gives her a proud smile and pats her head, making her cheeks turn pink. “That’s right, dear. And we can just visit the man in question and get the full story, no? That will make things significantly easier.”

Yeah. Because visiting Azkaban is so simple.

“Are you sure about that?” Regulus asks him with a raised eyebrow. “Even if you could somehow sneak into the prison, the last time I saw him he was quite... unwilling to listen to whatever I had to say. And that was without a decade of imprisonment muddling his brain.”

Tom only smirks. “I’ve already applied for a visit. And he won’t really have a choice in hearing me out, will he?”

“Weren’t our identities still in progress?”

“Garnak works fast when he wants to.”

...Right.

Arcturus clears his throat to get their attention. “I await news of my grandson. Until then, how about we plan out how you’ll present yourselves to the Wizengamot? Because as far as I’m aware,” he looks at Tom and Regulus, “You either don’t exist or are legally dead.”

And so that’s what they do. Eventually the children get bored and Arcturus calls for Mipsy to get them a Wizard Chess set, so they at least occupy themselves quietly.

They only notice how much time has passed when the sky starts to darken.

“Great-gandfather, you must visit us sometime. And bring Great-grandmother too! It’s such a shame that she’s visiting her cousins now... But when you come, we can introduce you to Grimm and Lamya!” Hermione exclaims as she hugs Arcturus tightly, the boys nodding along next to her.

“...Did they name the Thestrals?” Regulus whispers to Tom.

“It sure looks like that.”

Regulus sighs. As expected when you take children in the vicinity of any kind of animal, they probably named all of the skeletal creatures. They should really think twice about taking them to a pet shop when—

Regulus narrows his eyes. “Which one was your idea?”

“...Malaria.”

He snorts and stops Tom’s spluttering with a kiss on the cheek. “Never change, dear.”

Chapter Text

They are having a wonderful Sunday and Harry is trying not to vomit from the nerves. He’s really, really trying, he swears.

It isn’t going well.

“Blimey, mate. Calm down! It’s not like your parents will be fully corporeal and slit Dad’s throat at first sight.”

Slit... his throat?

...Fuck.

Ron groans as Harry’s head snaps to him, eyes wide and breathing steadily accelerating. He yanks him into an embrace and sends a pointed look at Hermione, who’s sadly too busy pestering their father to pay attention to them. Ron squeezes him just a bit tighter.

Harry can’t believe what became of his life.

“Alright, if everyone’s ready— Yes, Hermione, I will show you the journal later, you don’t have to chew my arm off to get to it— Harry, are you alright?”

Why, yes, Dad. It’s not like we’re about to summon the ghosts of my parents whom you brutally murdered. And will probably brutally murder you and me and all of us when they get their arms back.

He wonders if there will ever come a time he won’t be such a wreck.

Something must show in his eyes, because the next thing he knows, Tom is kneeling before him and whispering something in a calm voice, though his eyes show his worry. Or at least Harry thinks that’s what he’ seeing. His vision is kind of starting fill with black spots.

What is he...

Oh. Oh, right. He has to slow his breathing.

In, out, in-and-out, damn-it-it’s-not-working-in-and-out—

Except it suddenly does work. It works very quickly. Too quickly. And something feels... It feels like...

Harry narrows his eyes and looks straight into Tom’s, nearly the exact shade his is. The same as his mothers. Whom the are about to summon and Harry is suddenly suspiciously calm about that fact.

“Did you just spell a Calming Draught down my throat?”

The bastard doesn’t even pretend to feel ashamed, just straightens up and ruffles Harry’s hair. “Guilty as charged, though I’m proud you noticed. What gave it away?”

Harry thinks about it for a moment but doesn’t shake off the hand that stays on his head. “The calm came too suddenly. And... I can taste the lavender.”

“Lavender?” Ron asks, confusion clear on his face.

“Yeah... You know, lavender and peppermint? That’s what you mainly taste when you drink it and—”

Hermione elbows her way in front of him. “Harry James Potter—”

“Technically that’s not my name anymore—”

“—how do you know so well how a Calming Draught tastes like?”

...Shit. Now how to get out of this situation—

“He snuck into the Hospital Wing and swiped a few vials,” his dad bloody snitches on him, the absolute git. And then he has the gall to give him a look when Harry glares at him.

“I didn’t take it that often,” he mutters, every eye turned on him and resolutely not meeting them.

Hermione has to just make it worse.

“Oh, Harry,” she says in a tone that immediately makes him feel guilty.

She sounds so sad, and Harry hates it. He knows that he’s the reason she’s about to cry and he can’t even do anything about it but let her hug him and lean her head onto his shoulder.

“...Well,” Tom says after clearing his throat, “if it’s any consolation, you didn’t develop an addiction to it, though I wouldn’t advise continuous use. From time to time it’s alright, but... After a while it won’t work properly if you take it too often, as you well know.”

Harry hides his face in Hermione’s hair. It’s a fairly hard job now that it’s more orderly. “It was only for emergencies.”

Tom sighs but doesn’t argue, only comes closer and tilts Harry’s chin up so he can look into his eyes. “Promise me then that you will try to find us in these emergencies. I don’t care which of us, but don’t try to tough it out alone. You don’t need to.”

Maybe that’s what finally breaks the dam. Harry doesn’t feel ashamed as he burst into tears and switches Hermione’s arms to their dad’s; He’s still small enough that they easily surround him like a safe cocoon that will hide him away from everything bad in the world as he mushes his face into Tom’s stomach.

He didn’t get to feel like that much in his life. Not outside his cupboard, and even then it wasn’t exactly safe there, was it? Only during the night, and even then he was usually more focused on pretending he wasn’t in pain for whatever reason.

After a moment he feels steady fingers comb through his hair, sometimes catching in a tangle because he forgot to brush it again. Regulus will surely scold him for it (unlike Aunt Petunia, who loved to have him look as different from her dearest Duddlykins as she was able to manage without too much public notice).

It’s... nice. Safe. He feels... better, after all.

Maybe... Just maybe, things will really turn out alright. Hopefully. If his parents were watching over him all along from the Afterlife... Then they must have seen that Tom keeps them safe and happy, right? They wouldn’t... They shouldn’t try to hurt him. Not if they want to have them continue living like this.

They can’t just stand there all day, so he squeezes his dad for the last time and lets him go.

“Let’s do the ritual,” he says with a confident nod and hopes the others fail to notice the tremble in his hands.

Tom sends him a searching look but doesn’t comment as he goes around him with a last pat on the head and exits the ritual chamber, presumably to find Regulus and Nagini.

They were oh so surprised when Harry declared he wanted everyone present at the ritual (in awe that he was even asked who he wanted there), but glad to meet James and Lily in the end. Or, well. Tom isn’t exactly glad, seeing their... history, but he’s the one leading the ritual, so. Though cookies, Harry supposes.

Ron and Hermione grab his hands again.

“They won’t be angry with you,” Hermione says, silver eyes calm and confident. “Maybe shout a bit at Dad, but not at you, Harry. Never at you.”

“You can’t know.”

“Well, you’ll just have to believe us, then,” Ron shoots back with a cheeky grin as he pulls the three of them closer to the circle.

It’s a nice circle. All squiggly lines and unfamiliar runes. On any other day Harry would marvel at what magic makes possible, but currently he can’t bring himself to care as long as it works. Hermione will fill him in on the details later anyway.

“Ready?” He hears suddenly from behind, startling him quite a bit. He glances back over his shoulder and sees Regulus step up to them with a sad smile. “I imagine you are nervous about the ritual, but believe me, they won’t be angry. They wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone standing outside the circle in any case.”

“You mean inside...”

“Inside they’ll be able to touch you, from what Tom told me.”

...Oh. Well. That didn’t even cross his mind, but... He supposes it would be nice to finally hug his birth parents. (If they even want to hug him, that is, after everything. Because what if they don’t? What if they took the whole adoption thing as a betrayal? What if they— No. No, he can’t go down that road. Not now. Not again.)

Harry lets Nagini ruffle his hair for the last time before he turns to Tom. “I’m ready to begin.”

His dad nods and starts chanting. Harry doesn’t understand it, but he doesn’t need to. Some rituals just make you get what their intention is.

He tenses as the magic surges and some kind of mist starts to take form in the middle of the circle; With every syllable uttered it grows and grows, coalescing into a humanoid shape.

Well, two humanoid shapes, Harry thinks as he squints at them. One of them is a bit taller and... darker? They are still ‘assembling’, for lack of a better word, and he can’t be entirely sure how much they will actually resemble his parents, but there definitely are slight differences here and there between the two... blobs.

Harry chances a glance at Tom, who has a frown on his face as he concentrates on the chant while directing the magic according to his will. He hopes it won’t be as hard on him as the ritual that gave Nagini back her human form, though he’s sure that Regulus would be happy to nurse him back to health.

A moment later Tom’s face clears as the chant ends. Harry wonders about the abruptness of it when he hears an unfamiliar voice.

“What a wonderful day for a bit of illegal Necromancy, isn’t it?”

His head snaps back towards the circle and comes face to face with the ghost of James Potter grinning down at him.

...

...

...

...What the hell.

He... he doesn’t look like the ghosts at Hogwarts, transparent and floating in the air. It’s as if he came back to life. Grin bright as day with a full set of pearly white teeth, tan skin unmarred by fatigue though showing some scars here and there, black hair a complete mess...

Now Harry understands why everyone said he was his exact copy, even though they don’t really resemble each other anymore.

Harry only realises he’s gaping when James’s grin turns into a smirk. “Why, I’m flattered at the through attention. Want a closer look?”

“I thought we agreed on a soft approach,” another voice says then, decidedly female.

Harry turns his head to the side and sees his mother take a cautious step towards to him, as if he were a skittish animal she didn’t want to startle. In contrast to James, her skin is pale and full of freckles, the kind that never tans but always burns, kind of like his new dad’s and consequently his too after the adoption. Her hair is shockingly like a waterfall of blood, not something he expected to associate with his mother from the stories others told him (Not Regulus, though. He had a lot of stories about how much his birth parents weren’t love at first sight. Apparently, Lily Evans could be quite creative with her curses).

The eyes, though? He sees the same ones every time he looks into the mirror. Maybe a bit brighter now and a lot more haunted than hers, but the shape and colour stayed the same.

At first he doesn’t understand why everything suddenly goes blurry. Like, where did his perfect after-adoption vision go? Or did some remaining mist irritate his eyes? But then he has to realise that he’s just crying again, something he doesn’t feel embarrassed about. He’s kind of entitled to it when first meeting his dead parents, no?

He runs inside the circle without a thought. Fortunately James already has his arms opened for a hug, so Harry is able to tackle him onto the stone floor without any pain on his part. James laughs as he squeezes him tightly and rolls around on the floor, as if Harry was a baby he needs to rock into sleep.

Harry hears his mother chuckle, and then James stops moving and a pair of hands pull him off his chest into another hug from behind. She smells like strawberries, which just makes Harry cry harder.

“Oh, come on, baby. There’s no need for tears,” Lily coos as he nuzzles into her arms. Harry doesn’t argue. He’s baby.

James only laughs at seeing him bawl his eyes out. “Oh, if this doesn’t bring back memories!”

“James.”

He pouts. “Yeah, sure, sure. Let’s get through the important bits before His Darkness passes out. Which reminds me,” he turns to the others, “it’s nice to actually meet you all! Thanks for looking out for our little Prongslet.”

Tom raises an eyebrow at that. “Even me?”

“Why, especially you!” James grins at his wife. “Looking at him from this close, you reeeally look alike.”

Her face goes red as she splutters at the offending remark. “Wha— We absolutely do not—” She leans closer to Tom, setting Harry off balance and making him sprawl in her lap. But then she starts petting his head and he can’t find it in himself to move away. “...Alright, fine, I see what you mean.”

Tom lets out a long-suffering sigh as everyone chuckles. “Not you too.”

“I think it’s the eyes. And maybe the nose?” Lily continues, ignoring him entirely. “At least you didn’t get my freckles, so there’s that.”

“Lils, I love your freckles,” James adds with hearts in his eyes.

“Shut up,” Lily shoots back, a hint of red tainting her cheeks.

James doesn’t shut up. “It’s so strange to have Hot Tom as my brother-in-law and not just an urban legend. And the scary demon snake as my new sister-in-law. Which reminds me, hi Nagini! You’re a lot better than Petunia!”

Harry can’t help himself; he bursts into laughter.

“Excuse me, what?!” Tom exclaims, seemingly having a mental breakdown again while Nagini just smirks at the side with satisfaction. It looks like their great-grandfather left lasting damage.

“Yeeeah. Mum and Dad used to refer to you like that. The handsomest, prettiest boy in the whole school, eyes like melted chocolate and cheekbones that could cut glass...”

“Please tell me that wasn’t what they actually said.”

“Would you like me to lie?”

“Yes.”

James grins. “Aaanyway, as Reggy's sort-of-brother I feel it is my responsibility to tell you—”

“Potter. Are you trying to give me the showel talk?” Tom asks as he crosses his arms, exasperated but at least startled out of his existential crisis at the ridiculous notion of anyone giving him the showel talk.

“Well, Siri isn’t here to do it.”

Tom pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Just get it over with.”

“But it’s not fun if you aren’t at least a little bit intimidated!” James whines. Which. Harry remembers looking forward to giving the showel talk to Tom’s eventual future spouse. Had a whole speech planned and all that.

And then they got Regulus. They were very intent on keeping their Regulus.

“Oh, goodness gracious, my bunny slippers just wet themselves in fear. Whatever shall I do,” Tom says in a monotone, making James pout and Regulus snicker.

“Now you are just making fun of me— Lily, stop laughing!”

“Sorry, got to appreciate my brother’s humour,” she says, putting her hands up in defence, which doesn’t suit Harry so he reaches up and shamelessly drags one back down to continue petting him.

“Your technically brother—” James deadpans.

“He is on paper. And I’m officially adopting him now.”

“He killed us, Lils.”

“But he’s been taking good care of the kids. And anyway, he’s obligated to make Harry happy now. And we can thoroughly bother him every Samhain.”

Tom looks at the exchange with a strange expression. “...Why Samhain?”

“Oh, oh, right!” James perks up, eager to enlighten the unknowing masses. “See, there’s this ritual in my family that will let us come back like this without the constricts of the ritual circle, though only for Samhain. The day when the Veil is the thinnest, you know?”

...Oh. That sounds... fantastic. These monthly summoning sessions are going to be amazing in themselves, but to actually have them around for longer than an hour... Harry really wants to show them their castle and the thestrals and how delicious Kreacher’s muffins are.

...Ah. Oops.

With everything going on, he kind of forgot to discuss one thing with his dad. He doesn’t want to kill the mood, but it has to be asked.

“Hey, Dad? By the way, why did you even come after us back then?”

...Harry is pretty sure the silence speaks for itself.

He doesn’t get an immediate answer, so he chances a glance up at him and... Yes, Tom has a complicated expression on his face, probably searching through his mind for any hint. He doesn’t look like he’s successful.

“I... would probably say it was the madness?”

Lily clears her throat. “Actually, it was because of the prophecy, but I’m sure the madness also played a part in it.”

...Did she just say—

“Prophecy?!” Hermione shouts in surprise, speaking for the first time since Tom started to chant.

“Yeah,” James says and changes to a spooky voice. “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...”

It makes Harry giggle despite the serious topic.

“That’s not the whole thing, but it’s all we know,” Lily adds. “Made by Sybill Trelawney at a job interview at the Hog’s Head, witnessed by Albus Dumbledore. This is all he told us before the Fidelius went up.”

“And you wonder why I hate him so much,” Tom mutters, though everyone hears him.

Which is... Yeah. Harry would like to know. It’s a conversation that’s very much overdue.

Ron narrows his eyes. “You never actually told us your reasons,” he says from next to an exasperated Hermione.

“Let’s see then.” Tom lifts his hands and starts to tick off his points on his fingers. “He mimics burning my wardrobe to teach me a lesson when I’m a penniless orphan, doesn’t tell me I may have actual magical relatives, discriminates against my whole Hogwarts house to this day, accuses me of everything he can, probably blocked every political move my friends and I tried to take, which likely worsened the madness and made the war break out,” he looks at Harry, “organises your parents’ murder, drops you off with abusive muggles, locks your godfather in prison, has everyone sing his praises to you, encourages your reckless behaviour...” He runs out of fingers. “Shall I continue?”

...Well. When he puts it like that...

It’s just, everything seems so... messed up. Which it is. But...

“I think we understand,” Regulus says wryly. “Now why don’t we think about how to thwart any other attempts that would be to our detriment while Harry gets his cuddles?”

James claps his hands together, ignoring Harry’s stuck out tongue. “Well said, my brother!”

“I’m not your brother.”

“Let’s plan, plan, plan!”

“Are you just going to ignore me?”

“So from what we observed from the other side of the Veil, I was thinking...”

Harry smiles as everyone starts to discuss their future plans. He’s a bit sad when it’s time to temporarily say goodbye to his parents, but at least he’ll get to see them every month. That’s way more than he would have ever got if not for that fateful night at Hogwarts. There was no shouting and relatively few scolding, and they weren’t even mad at him!

Merlin, he loves his new life.

“Oh, and by the way, make sure to mention to Padfoot that you’re partly Lily!”

“I’m partly fucking what.”

...At leaves his life is never boring, right?

Ron stares at the mountain of waffles before him one bright march morning, coincidentally on the date of his formal(?) birthday. With vanilla ice cream. And sprinkles. And his entire family smiling at him.

...So maybe not such a big concidence.

“Happy Birthday!” Harry chirps while Ron continues blearily blinking at the full plate. He wonders when Hermione will start in on his teeth rotting away just from the sight.

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “But... we agreed that we would be born in the winter? I thought...”

Tom gives him a knowing smile as he bypasses Kreacher and his out-stretched foot. “We can’t celebrate your original birthdays officially for obvious reasons, but we can make each of those days special.” He gestures to the plate before him. “Kreacher has todays menu planned out to a T. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. We can do anything you want after breakfast—”

“Within reason,” Regulus adds, tucking an errant lock behind Ron’s ear. In his defence, they are all still in their pyjamas; it’s Sunday, so dressing up hadn’t yet seemed necessary. He didn’t know he was going to be attacked with the existence of his birthday of all things. “If you want something that requires more planning, tell us next time. For now, we thought asking you what you want would be better.”

Asking him what he wanted? That’s already such a novelty that his brain is kinda struggling to process even the idea. Usually he would just get some clothes if his parents even remembered his birthday, not... this.

“I— It’s fine, thank you,” he manages to say, taking a bite from his waffles. It’s delicious as always, even if it doesn’t last long, but no one tells him to stop stuffing his mouth. Regulus just slides another full plate before him and continues meticulously cutting his waffles into tiny pieces with a fork and a knife like the ponce he is (and keeps trying to train Ron to be, fairly unsuccessfully he’s honest). No one says anything when he finishes his second plate too and then drinks a full cup of banana smoothie on top of it, apparently freshly prepared by Kreacher. They never do. He never has to be embarrassed now about how much he eats, even if he can’t help it.

It’s just... Magic uses a lot of energy. Witches and wizards eat more than your everyday muggle. He’s just— just special for some reason. Or... Maybe he’s constantly using magic? Like, he hopes not. He shouldn’t have to. Not now that he isn’t at the Burrow, hoping to slide under the radar while the twins stress out their mother who might just snap at the slightest deviation from the norm.

...Maybe it’s a subconscious habit of some kind. He... he should really look into it. They did make some progress with Occlumency...

Later. For now, he’s going to enjoy his birthday until the sun goes down and then he’ll check on his... his magical core. Because if anything is wrong with him, his core should show it.

Tom pinches the bridge of his nose as literally every one of his family members come to bid him goodbye as he prepares for his visit to Azkaban.

“I still don’t understand why you have to go alone,” Regulus huffs and tried to correct his perfectly fitted robe.

“Why, my dear, it’s not like they would lock you next to your brother at first sight.”

Regulus pouts. “You don’t have to be mean about it.”

The kids just stand there next to them indignantly with crossed little arms and adorable scowls on their faces.

They started pestering him for Patronus lessons on Monday morning and he didn’t see why they couldn’t try their hand at it. Seeing that most adults can’t even produce the mist from their wands, he wasn’t as hopeful as they were, though he has to admit his mouth dropped open when Harry managed just that on his third try, shortly followed by Hermione and Ron.

And now they want to follow him to literal Hell on Earth.

Tom sighs and bends down to be at eye-level for them. “I’ve already told you enough times. They don’t allow underage wizards and witched on the island, and I wouldn’t take you even if they did.”

“We know, but—” Hermione, I trusted you. “—with the cloak we maybe wouldn’t even need to produce our own Patronuses. And the guards would also be there to—”

“Sweetheart, I do hope you also hear how unnecessarily dangerous your plan sounds.” He cuts off her arguments with a kiss on her forehead and looks into her teary eyes. “I swear I won’t be in any danger. As you said, the guards will be there with their own Patronuses along mine if need be. I’ll be back home in no time.” He looks at Harry and Ron too. “If nothing else, trust in the fact that I was a dark lord once. I’m not that easily taken out.”

Nagini lets out a snort from behind them, then turns around on her heel and starts walking back towards the house. “Do come back with your soul intact; we haven’t yet figured out how to get those out of the dementors. Now hurry and wave him off with your teary handkerchiefs!”

Doesn’t he just love the affection pouring off her?

Tom decides to straighten up, but has to look down at Ron when the boy tugs on his sleeve.

“If he’s uncooperative, blackmail him with Harry.”

“Hey!”

“Will do,” Tom says with a grin and ruffles both of the boys’ hair. “Any other advice?”

As if waiting for his cue, Kreacher appears, thrusting a box into his hands. “Chocolate for the Disgrace,” he says and pops out again.

The children snicker and follow after Nagini, though not before hugging him tightly. Only Regulus stays with him as the activation of his portkey nears.

“...You know, we could have pushed speaking with him until after the actual trial. Azkaban is a bit...”

Tom cups his face with a hand and lays a soft kiss on his lips. “He won’t hate you,” he whispers as their foreheads touch, not letting Regulus turn his head away even when the man clearly wants to.

“You can’t know that. We didn’t exactly part on the best terms.”

“I will explain everything.”

“Then he will hate you more at least.”

Tom huffs in amusement and kisses his knuckles as he steps back. His portkey is about to activate. “Wish me luck then, darling.”

He doesn’t hear Regulus’ response as the ground slips out from under his feet and the picture of anxious silver eyes is replaced with that of the dark waves of the North Sea. If he squints, he can just about make out a black dot in the distance, likely Azkaban itself.

Tom sighs and walks over to the lone man sitting in a boat. “Good afternoon. You’ll be my escort, I assume?”

He’s wearing a red auror uniform, so Tom is pretty confident he’s got the right guy.

The man nods solemnly. “Auror Jasper Dale, at your service.”

“A pleasure, Auror Dale.” Tom steps into the boat and gestures to the rolling waves and the dark clouds crowding in the sky. “Is it always this lovely here?”

“You got one of the better days. Usually it’s raining cats and dogs.”

They don’t speak more as the boat sets sail towards the island, neither when they get out on the other side and trek up to the imposing door set into the gloomy stone walls.

Tom can already feel the misery trying to get it’s claws into him, soaked into the bare stone walls through centuries of the dementors occupying the place. His breath comes out as white mist and his arms have goosebumps, and not only from the cold. There’s a limit to how much he can find the creepy atmosphere acceptable, and this definitely goes over it.

The auror doesn’t even bother to check him for any kind of contraband or register his presence somewhere, just leads him through between the ground floor holding cells and up the stairs.

“So Black, huh?” he throws over his shoulder after a while.

“What about him?” Tom asks suspiciously, climbing higher and higher. Honestly, damn the unnecessarily many steps.

“Not many visit this one.”

“Well I assume not many have him concerned in their legal matters.”

Auror Dale squints at him. “You a lawyer?”

Tom shakes his head, steadily getting more and more out of breath the longer they climb.

He used his old last name when applying for a visit. It just seemed easier; they would have probably blocked him anyway if he wrote to the Aurors as Thomas Black. Or just straight up dropped his letter in the bin. People usually knew all the Blacks, after all.

“Private matters, sorry. But I assure you, the goblins were livid.”

“...Ah.” The man doesn’t pry further as he casts the Patronus Charm, the appearing silvery chicken chasing away a bit of the chill that seems to have seeped into Tom’s bones. And then they climb more.

Tom is going to resurrect and murder the bastard that built the prison this way and didn’t install any floo locations in lieu of a lift.

Finally, after many more steps, they arrive to the top of the damn tower, where the worst criminals of Magical Britain reside. Mainly his insane self’s Death Eaters, that is. The ones who were stupid enough to get caught.

Tom takes a moment to catch his breath and only after that realises the noise he hears.

It looks like the people here truly don’t often get visitors.

“It’s the one at the back. I’ll keep watch from here,” Auror Dale says as he leans back against the wall with his arms crossed. His patronus settles down at his feet and starts pecking at the ground.

Tom follows the man’s eyes to the last cell at the end of the hallway, ignoring the shouting and jeering of the other bedraggled men and women. He has to dodge a few arms as he walks through the wide hallway, and almost gets his face clawed by a women who must be Bellatrix Lestrange, but he does arrive in one piece before the barred door.

Sirius Black is leaning on the bars with his arms hanging out of his cell. He sends Tom a roguish grin.

“Why, I wasn’t aware Fudgey will be sending his new pretty secretary to visit little old me. Is it July already?”

Tom raises an eyebrow and looks at the man before him.

The former secret keeper of his dead ‘sister’ (no matter how strange he feels about that title. Especially after the... revelations). Regulus’ brother. Harry’s godfather. And now... A prisoner for a decade, for a crime he apparently very much did not commit, according to his first-rate sources.

Sirius Black’s emaciated frame casts an ominous shadow in the torchlight, his pale, too-thin face framed by a tangled mess of long, dark hair a ghost of Regulus’. The striped Azkaban uniform hangs on him, but at the same time doesn’t seem to provide him any warmth.

Tom looks into silver eyes that are way too familiar for his peace of mind.

“No and no,” he says with an exasperated sigh while he casts a Privacy Charm. It wouldn’t do for anyone here to overhear them.

“Oh? What then, did my former co-workers finally realise they have things to ask me?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m here for a family matter.”

Now that makes Sirius furrow his brows, the pretence of his good mood vanishing in an instant. “I don’t have a family.”

“Oh, but you very much do,” Tom shoots back. “While your parents may have already passed, there’s still your grandfather, your grandmother, your brother—”

“Don’t you dare speak of my brother,” Sirius snarls, suddenly the perfect epitome of the Black Madness with his eyes wide and glowing silver, his canines elongated like a mad dog’s. He slashes out with clawed hands that Tom is just able to avoid with a large step backwards.

He hears Bellatrix cackle from not as far away as he would want to.

“Everyone that counts is dead, especially my brother,” Sirius growls and retracts his arms, hands now gripping the bars with a strength Tom doesn’t expect from someone locked in a tiny cell for a decade.

Well. Here goes nothing.

“Regulus isn’t.”

“Stop lying!”

“I’m not,” Tom says with a scowl. He’s had quite enough of people calling him a liar all his life, even if he’ll now need to feed his cover story to anyone he speaks to. “He’s very much alive and well as of two weeks ago, thank you very much. Now, are you ready to hear how we are going to get you out of here?”

Sirius raises an eyebrow, clearly not believing him. He leans back on the bars with crossed arms. “What, going to stun the guard and fight your way out wands blazing?”

“As tempting as that sounds, the legal route is our best chance of ever having you walk free.”

“The legal route got my arse shipped straight to Azkaban without a trial.”

Tom smirks; that’s just what he wanted to hear. “Without a trial, hm? Why, it would be such a shame to bring this to the Ministry’s attention. And with the unsealing of the Potter’s will and finding someone else named as the Secret Keeper...”

Sirius watches him with a new-found wariness. “You wouldn’t be able to do that without the permission of Harry’s guardian.”

“Ah, but you see.” Tom is starting to enjoy this. “Technically, the House of Potter doesn’t exist anymore.”

“...What.”

Tom nods with a false sympathetic expression. “Oh, yes. It came as a surprise to me too when I did the Inheritance Test at Gringotts. You are talking to the new Lord Peverell, by the way. I had to temporarily assimilate the Potter Lordship into the Peverell one to obtain the assets.”

“Wha—” Sirius shoots up, infuriated by the news. “You had no right! Harry—”

“Doesn’t exist anymore.”

Sirius freezes. “He... he doesn’t...?” The poor man looks like he’s about to break down right then and there, which... isn’t what Tom wanted.

...Shit. Regulus will make him sleep on the couch if he makes his brother cry.

“Don’t worry, he’s alive and well. He just isn’t Harry Potter anymore.”

“...I’m not sure I understand.”

“Then get comfortable; this will be a long story.”

And it is, but Sirius’ attention doesn’t wane as Tom shares what really happened after the Killing Curse struck and failed. He makes sure to go into great detail in the hopes of Sirius being too mad about the abuse to think about the fact that the Dark Lord basically adopted his godson and married his brother.

“So, Peverell—”

“It’s Black, actually.”

“...What.”

“My name is Thomas Black now.”

“...Black like you are playing a bastard, or...”

Tom sighs. This is the part he’d have liked to skip. “I married Regulus. My birth name was Tom Riddle.”

“Oh.” Sirius blinks. “...Oh! So Tom like Hot Tom. I knew you were familiar somehow.”

Tom facepalms. “...Don’t tell me Orion called me that.”

“Found a photograph of him and his friends with notes on it. Now I get exactly what he meant.” Sirius tries for a flirtatious smile but Tom is absolutely not having it. He glares at him until the idiot’s brain catches up. “...Wait a minute, you married my brother?!”

Fucking finally. “And he adopted my children, amongst them your godson. Now, any other questions before I take my leave? I do have to think about how I will tell the Wizengamot they fucked up, you know.”

“You fucked my brother?!”

Tom pinches the bridge of his nose. “One, that’s literally none of your business, but for your peace of mind, no, we haven’t yet reached that stage. And two, don’t you have anything more important to ask?”

“I think the fact that the Dark Lord possibly fucked my brother is pretty important.”

“I’ve never been a dark lord. Other me was the dark lord.”

“Whatever,” Sirius waves him off nonchalantly. “So, you gave up the whole muggle subjugation and pureblood supremacy for domestic bliss?”

“I’ve had to deal with two corpses in 24 hours.”

“And? That was, like, a regular full moon to us back at Hogwarts.”

“Human corpses.”

Sirius shrugs. “I don’t see why that should matter.”

Tom throws his hands in the air and looks to the ceiling for some divine sign or a lightning rod to strike the idiot before him. Sadly, nothing happens and Sirius keeps grinning at him. He lets his hands fall to his side and resolutely doesn’t headbutt the bars. They are way too dirty for his tastes.

“Just. Anything before I go? We probably won’t see each other until your trial.”

Sirius actually looks like he starts to think, however unbelievable that sounds. “...Peter. He was the Secret Keeper.”

“The guy you blew up?”

“That’s just it. I didn’t.” Sirius’ eyes are thunderous as he says that. “When I went to confront him, he started monologuing about how I was the one to betray James and Lily, even when we both knew it was him whom Dumbledore bound the spell to. And you know what he did? He cut off his finger, blew up the street, then escaped through the sewers in his Animagus form.”

...Well. He has to give it to the bastard, that was an effective move. And Dumbledore’s in deep shit.

“What did he turn into?” Tom asks with renewed interest.

“A rat.”

...Shit.

“So, in theory, if we searched for a rat with a missing finger, possibly living with a wizarding family close to the old man so he could be well positioned upon his lord’s return...”

Sirius sends him a strange look. “That’s... strangely specific, but it would be smart of him. But how did you—”

“Black. Sirius.” Tom looks him in the eyes. “I think Harry slit his throat.”

A beat passes in silence, then another. And then Sirius bursts out in hysteric laughter.

“He— He slit his— Oh Merlin, if James had heard that—”

“He witnessed it with pride, I assure you.”

That shuts him up.

“...What?” Sirius rasps, voice breaking. “James...”

Tom looks at him with pity. He knows that’s rich of him and he’s entirely too conscious of the too little space between his chest and the bars, so he slowly takes a step back. And then another for good measure. As he’d said, better safe than sorry.

“And Lily. I found a ritual in our library that let us summon their ghosts. Suffice to say, Harry bawled his eyes out when they hugged him.”

“You murdered them.”

Tom sniffs in offence. “Other me. And I also merged with a part of Lily, if you will. Her protection took hold of me when I separated from the main soul, so by hating me you would also be hating a part of her. And she officially showed up on my family tree as my half-sister.”

Sirius glares at him but in the end lets out a resigned huff and puts his hands on his hips. “That doesn’t makes any sense.”

“But will you cooperate?”

A frow, but a reluctant nod. “I still hate you, though.”

“I expected nothing else, but I had to know whether we could work together upon your release. Which reminds me.” Tom leans forward and holds eye contact. “I need you to lover your shields for a moment.”

“Not happening,” is Sirius’ immediate answer. Which was expected, but still. Annoying.

“I need to overwrite some memories of yours, brother-in-law,” he enunciates slowly. A quick backwards glance shows the auror uninterested in the going-ons in the corridor, not even twitching at Bellatrix’s shrieks.

Sirius glares back at him, unmoved. “If you think I will spill anything, I’d rather sign an NDA or whatev—”

“They will give you Veritaserum, you inbecile,” Tom grinds out.

“...Ah.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, already feeling the incoming migraine. And they hadn’t even been conversing for more than an hour. “Quite. Now, will you make my life a bit easier or will I have to somehow blind the guard and body-bind you?”

Sirius begrudgingly cooperates. And Tom does get a headache.

He cracks his neck after finishing with rearranging the infuriating man’s memories to show a less incriminating picture of their little talk.

“Thank you. Now—” he takes out the shrunken box the elf showed at him, “—these may possibly contain poison, though I doubt Kreacher would want to make Regulus sad. Bon Appetit.”

Sirius takes it with a wary expression and they share a commiserating look. “So the little bugger hadn’t yet kicked the bucket, I take it.”

“Still going strong, as it stands. Though I think I’m growing on him by the way he glares at me less and less as the days go by.”

Sirius snorts. “Just you wait until he starts knitting baby jumpers and making comments about changing Reggy’s diet for a more nutritious one.”

“Right back at you, whenever I manage to get you out of here and hunt down the wolf.”

Because James had shared a lot of things. A lot. Tom knows entirely too much now about the Marauders’ Hogwarts years and Lily’s friendgroup.

Sirius barks out a self-deprecating laugh that grates on his ears. He much prefers the sound of Regulus’ laughter. “Believe me, if Remus wanted to see me, he would already have.”

“Would he have been able to?” Tom asks with a pointed look at the guard. “Do you really expect them to let your boyfriend through with his furry little problem?”

“Not my boyfriend.”

“My apologies. The moon of your heart, the yin to your yang, the only one your delicate virtue yearns for—”

“Hey!”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Was I wrong?” Sirius grumbles but doesn’t argue, so he allows himself a satisfied smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

“...No one’s supposed to know about Moony anyway.”

“Doesn’t matter. Now, I must say my farewells, for Auror Dale is starting to get antsy. If luck’s on our side, we shall hold your trial in a month’s time.” He does a dramatic bow. “May the dementors have mercy on your soul.”

“And may you step on a chess piece and have the rest attack your ankles. Give my regards to Regulus and Harry.” Sirius glances down at the suspicious box in his hands with an unreadable expression. “...And my thanks to Kreacher, I suppose.”

Finally.

Tom undoes the Privacy Charm and walks back to his escort with an air of satisfaction. The conversation with his new brother-in-law went much better than expected. He didn’t even need to blackmail him into cooperating!

He smiles at his escort as the man pushes himself off from the stone wall.

“Suppose you got what you wanted,” Auror Dale comments nonchalantly while leading him towards the stairs. Tom can surely say that the way back down is a lot more pleasant than the one up. He resents exercise with a burning passion.

“I did, Auror Dale. Thank you for your service.”

The guard grunts something in affirmation as they descend. They don’t speak more until they exit the prison doors and the dingy boat rows them back to the other shore.

Tom says his goodbyes and apparates home, where he’s immediately tackled upon entering through the entrance door.

What a warm welcome. Though his back could have done with a gentler one.

Regulus laughs as Tom climbs out of the puddle of children restricting his movements and helps him up from the hardwood floor. “How did it go?” he asks after a quick kiss on the cheek, relief clear in his eyes.

It’s entirely ridiculous. They shouldn’t have been so worried about a scheduled visit with an auror escort, even with the dementors there. He hardly even felt their presence! (That’s a lie. The place gave him the creeps and he never again wants to go back there.)

Tom draws Regulus back into a deeper kiss and ignores his stiff fingers’ clumsy hold on the man’s shirt.

“He coped with the situation as well as he could, I suppose,” he says as their foreheads touch and looks deeply into Regulus’ eyes. Even with the inferi keeping him captive for a decade, they are shining bright like the stars in the sky. “He’s not mad at you.”

“He should be,” Regulus whispers. “At us both.”

Tom lays a soft kiss on the man’s palms. “Luckily for us, I can be very persuasive. He sends his regards, by the way.” He turns to Harry, not letting go of Regulus. “To you too. He’s looking forward to seeing everyone again.”

The boy gives them an uncertain smile. “Maybe... Maybe he could join us the next time we summon Mum and Dad?”

That... that may actually be a good idea. Later. He’ll probably be admitted to Saint Mungo’s straight after the trial, and who knows how long they’ll keep him there. A decade at Azkaban would wreck even the strongest witch or wizard.

Tom reaches down and ruffles Harry’s hair. The soft black waves against his palm ground him just a bit more. “I don’t think he’ll be well enough by then, but I suppose we could make it work when we eventually have him over for a visit.”

The children cheer and run over to Nagini, who herds them down the stairs with a last backwards smirk.

Tom huffs. Does she have to send him those looks? He’s well aware that she deliberately left him alone with Regulus. He isn’t that oblivious, thank you very much.

He supposes she really wants that godchild.

Tom ends up smiling as Regulus drags him into the kitchen. “You need some chocolate right now. I don’t even know why I didn’t give you any before you went away. How was the trip? Do tell me all the details, will you. I think Kreacher put the cookie tin somewhere around here, but I might be wrong...”

Tom chuckles and reaches up for the tin in question from behind Regulus. Grumpy as he’s about it, he does tend to forget to summon the things he wants but can’t reach or see.

“I knew that,” Regulus says with a pout, leaning back against Tom’s chest. He fits snugly under Tom’s chin as always, hair soft against his skin and faintly ticklish. He smells of cinnamon, as if he’s been nagging Kreacher here the whole time Tom was away.

He probably has, now that he thinks about it.

“Sure you did, darling.” Tom drops his head and kisses the top of Regulus’. “Come; I’ll tell you all about your menace of a brother. Wouldn’t you know, he started our conversation by flirting with me, if you’ll believe it.”

Regulus lets out a gasp, his expression screaming of betrayal as he whirls around. “What the— He can’t do that! I already called dibs on you!”

A surprised laugh breaks out of Tom. That’s... aptly put, he supposes. And he wouldn’t want it any other way.

They empty the cookie tin by the time they leave the room to cuddle in bed.

Chapter Text

Instead of a slow, sweet awakening with his husband in his arms, Tom wakes via Hermione catapulting into their bed.

Bloody ow.

“It has arrived!” she shouts excitedly at the top of her lungs.

Which, again, ow.

Tom hears Regulus muffle a groan into a pillow and feels him grope around for the blanket. Then the bastard proceeds to throw it over his head and ignores their daughter’s bouncing on the mattress.

Tom sighs and opens his eyes. The sun isn’t even bloody up yet.

“They certainly took their time,” he mutters while dragging Hermione into his lap, trying and failing to calm her down in this fine mid-March morning. Or dawn. Or night.

“I couldn’t sleep and was about to go to the kitchen for a glass of milk when Hedwig knocked on my window with a letter in her beak and then I took it and—”

“Hermione, take a breath before you suffocate.”

She sucks in an enormous one and continues, silver eyes somehow shining in the dim light. “—and Ilvermorny sent us the booklist! They wrote that if we truly are serious about attending in the coming year we’ll have to take placement exams at the beginning of August to see if we’ve attained the necessary knowledge for Second Year but that it shouldn’t be that hard seeing that we are only twelve and please Dad can we go and—”

“Hermione,” he cuts her off, blinking slowly as he tries to comprehend all that. He casts a Tempus and groans at seeing the actual time. “Dear. It’s three in the morning. What the hell were you doing up?”

She sheepishly pulls on a few of her locks. “I couldn’t sleep, I told you. I don’t know why, but... Well, at least it wasn’t because of a nightmare? I checked on the boys and they were alright, too. It was just me. But, umm, can we go and get our school supplies? Pleeease?” She flutters her eyelashes at him, a typical form of emotional manipulation, which only makes Tom sigh.

“Sweetheart. I swear that you can rob Flourish and Blotts tomorrow—”

“But—”

“—but I have to attend the Wizengamot session today. I don’t think I’ll be in any state for an outing after that.”

She gives him a sceptical look. “The Prophet will report on your existence by tomorrow morning. Everyone will want to meet us.”

“Then Nagini will escort you; she remembers the streets well enough.” She pouts but accepts the decision with a nod. “Wonderful. Now, is there anything else bothering you?”

“...The papers will take you apart.”

Tom shrugs and runs his fingers through the tangled mess that her hair becomes every night. It seems like some things just can’t be out-adopted. Maybe they should start braiding it before bed? “I’ll manage.”

“They will take us apart, too.”

“There are laws in place for that, dear.”

“And the people of Wizarding Britain so love to obey them. It’s not like you are going to present them one of their many breaches of it today.”

Clever girl. “I will deal with them if they become a bother. Does that sound acceptable?”

Hermione gives a slow nod; he can always count on the implied threat of violence working. She nuzzles his head into his neck and leaves them with a soft goodnight.

Tom leans back against the pillows and closes his eyes in the hopes of catching a few more hours of sleep.

“Nice job,” Regulus sleepily comments from under the blanket after the door closes.

Tom throws a pillow at him.

“So... Will this be a regular occurrence?” Harry asks him way too chirpily at this ungodly hour while Tom stares at his empty mug with dead eyes. No tea for him this morning, thank you very much. He actually needs to look alive.

Fortunately for all of them, he doesn’t need to try to communicate via intelligible grunts while he waits for his coffee to brew.

“The Wizengamot gathers every second Thursday of the month,” Regulus explains with a yawn.

Because of course it does. Just what Tom want to do every month, get up at the crack of dawn and proceed to suffer through an entire day spent amongst idiots. For hours.

“But isn’t that a bit infrequent for the main legislative and judicial body of the country?” Hermione asks, a frown developing between her brows. Tom flicks it, invoking a glare that she definitely copied from him. Heh. “If they only get together once a month...”

“Not exactly. Stuff like emergency sessions and important trials can come up in-between the regular sessions, and they have to be there then too. Like Sirius’ will probably be.”

Tom perks up as his coffee finally gets done. He grunts something thanks-like towards Kreacher and downs the whole mug without adding anything for want of immediate results, ignoring the scorching heat that burns his tongue and oesophagus.

“...Dad, you okay?” Harry asks with wide eyes, stealing wary glances at Tom’s mug.

Just you wait until you take a sip of the Elixir of the Gods.

“No, dear, and I won’t be until we’ve got this over with.” Only now does he actually look at the two children sitting at the kitchen table in pajamas and barefoot. He raises an eyebrow. “Where did you leave your slippers?”

They look down at their feet, as if only now realising that they forgot them.

“...Oops?” Harry says sheepishly.

Regulus summons the slippers for them.

“Why even are you up this early?” his husband asks, handing them the adorable footwear he bought on his way to pick up a few of their new clothes from Pierre. The ginger cat heads on Hermione’s meow softly as she slips her little feet into them, while Harry’s snowy owls hoot indignantly at being forgotten.

“We,” Hermione explains with her chin tilted up, “as in Harry and I, because Ron forgot to set an alarm as it turns out, wanted to see you off on your first Wizengamot session.”

Her earnestness draws a small smile onto Tom’s face. “Thank you, darling, but I would have been happier if you’ve slept after your nightly adventure.”

She blushes but doesn’t budge as Regulus chuckles. “I hope you use your new-found free time wisely. After all,” he raises an eyebrow, “we are letting you miss a lesson of transfiguration and etiquette.”

The etiquette bit is definitely the part that makes them grin.

Tom waves them off after refilling his mug. “Off you toddle then, ducklings. We have world views to break and old men to irritate. And do not fly without supervision!” He shouts after them when they run off, still able to hear their laughs.

“They will totally fly without supervision,” Regulus comments, making Tom scowl.

“If I have to fix another broken leg—”

“It’s flying, Tom. What will you do when they start playing Quiddich at school again?”

“The first time Harry flew in a match, Insane Me’s host tried to kill him. Believe me when I say I don’t look forward to seeing him evade bludgers again.”

Regulus shrugs, seemingly unconcerned about their son’s impending demise. “I’m sure they’ll fix him up in no time. Now, are you done with replacing your blood with caffeine or do we need to brew another pot?”

Tom downs his currently full cup with a scowl just to make a point and follows Regulus into the drawing room.

“After you,” his husband says, gesturing towards the fireplace. Figures he wants to throw him to the sharks.

Tom mentally prepares himself to socializing with uppity idiots and floos through to the Ministry Atrium. He’s greeted by a cacophony of noise, a voice in the air informing him that he needs to submit to a search and register his wand at the security desk as he only classifies as a visitor as of now.

Just wonderful.

The Atrium is filled with people hurrying towards this way and that, some almost colliding with him while he waits for Regulus to arrive. He scowls at one rude man who shouts some mean comment he can’t quite make out.

Regulus doesn’t have to know of the mild Misfortune Hex he casts on the fool. It will only last until the evening at most anyway and leave him just a bit on the unlucky side. Nothing too bad or illegal.

Tom grabs his spouse’s hand the moment the man steps out of the flames and drags him towards the security desk, bypassing the offending gold fountain in the middle. And they wander why most creatures hate them so much.

Arcturus approaches them just as they get to the scrawny security guard blinking blearily at them at this early hour.

“I’m their escort,” the Lord Black says with unquestionable authority in his voice, making the poor man’s hands tremble as he swishes a long golden rod over their front and back.

They hold out their wands without question.

“Ce-cedar and Phoenix-feather, twelve inches?” the man asks nervously, almost throwing the wand at Regulus when he nods. He turns to Tom. “And... Er.” He uncertainly glances up at him. “...Swooping Evil Venom?”

“And Blackthorn, thirteen- and three-quarter inches,” Tom finishes with a bored expression.

“Oh.” The guard blinks down at the wand in his hand, dumbfounded as the snake’s scales shine up at him in a handsome dark green. “Foreigner?”

“Something like that. Now, can we go on our way or...”

“Ah! I, err, your names? Please.”

“Regulus and Thomas Black,” Arcturus pipes in from behind their back with, as Tom’s glance behind tells him, a shit-eating grin. With entirely too many teeth. The young security guard immediately drops his wand and pales so white Tom starts to get worried they will have to call Saint Mungo’s. He doesn’t say anything though, so they just leave him there and go on their way.

Which is towards the lifts. The tiny, very crowded lifts.

Tom already hates this.

“Blackthorn and Swooping Evil Venom?” Arcturus asks him with a raised eyebrow. “I seem to remember a different combination.”

“A family heirloom, made by a seer ancestor of mine. Suits me quite well, don’t you think?”

Arcturus nods. “A fitting combination.”  

They take the lift, which is playing some kind of torturous song by a witch that fancies herself an opera singer, though Tom’s ears would tell her otherwise. He suspects that this is part of Arcturus’ plan to make him regret unknowingly rejecting his son.

Tom practically jumps out of the lift at Level Ten, followed by the others’ chuckles that he ignores with dignity.

They walk towards the spacious antechamber in silence. Tom uses this time to look at the paintings of past ministers and other supposedly important ministry officials lining the walls of the long hallway, searching for any familiar names. Sadly, he finds none.

What a shame. He would have loved to have a few spies in these hallowed halls, but as it stands, he recognises none of the names from the list of portraits Garnak so graciously included in his portfolio. (James and Lily, of course, didn’t have the time to make one before their demise, and he didn’t yet have the time to check out the rest’s attitudes towards ‘bloodline-stealing impostors’. And he sure as hell isn’t going to touch the Gaunt portraits with a ten-foot pole until at least September.)

He shakes his head and turns his attention to the two aurors standing by the large double-door, a man and a woman. They bow to Arcturus but stop them before entering the antechamber.

“Visitors aren’t allowed entrance,” the woman says with a stony expression, unmoved by Tom’s well-practised charming smile.

Arcturus raises an eyebrow. “But my heir and a fellow lord about to claim his seat are, no?”

That brings them up short.

“...Of course, Lord Black.” The man gestures to the door to their right, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Your heir can follow you through to the antechamber, but the other must remain here in the side room.”

Tom gives a grateful nod that neither auror reciprocates. He doesn’t mind, nor is he surprised at their cold behaviour; in fact he quite welcomes the professionalism. It’s nice to see at least some people qualified for their jobs. He’s sure he’ll miss it the moment he steps into the main chamber.

It’s not like there aren’t fools trying their hands at lying their way into the chamber, and then successively being booted out of it by the ancient magic saturating the walls. So, no. He quite understands their scepticism.

Arcturus goes inside the antechamber with only a parting glance at Tom, but Regulus stays with him for a moment longer.

“Meet you on the other side,” he whispers and drops a quick kiss on his cheek, then hurries after his grandfather between the two aurors.

Tom is sure his mask slips for a moment and he must grin like a besotted idiot, but he does not care one bit. Let them see how happy he is.

The moment the door closes the male auror gives him a surprising grin, breaking his icy façade. “Don’t worry. If you’ve Lord Black sponsoring you, I’m sure everything will be alright.”

Which. Well. Where did the professionalism go?

His partner shoots him a glare. “He clearly doesn’t need your reassurance, so stop chatting. It’s unprofessional,” she scolds him with a huff.

“Yeah, well. It’s not like there’s anyone else here aside from us.”

“And the guy about to become a lord. So shut. Up.”

At that the man sends Tom an apologetic smile and sheepishly ruffles his hair with one hand. “My apologies. I wasn’t trying to be rude.”

“No offense taken,” Tom answers pleasantly. People trust you easier when you are friendly. “And it’s fine even if you go back to glaring at my back as I sadly shuffle off into the side room.”

That makes even the woman let out a huff. She kind of reminds him of Hermione on her grumpier days. “Let’s hope you keep that sense of humour even after you get shouted at by angry old men.” She gestures towards the side door. “Sorry if you wanted to charm the pants off them before the session, but there’s always next time if you’re really who you say you are. Do you need anything until you get called in?”

“No, thank you, Auror...”

“Enola Sharp.” the woman finally gives him a smile. A small one, but still. It’s a smile. “And the idiot next to me is Samuel Brattleby.”

“Hey!”

Tom chuckles as they start to snipe at each other. So his charm does still work on people.

Good. He was starting to have doubts.

“A pleasure. My name is Thomas Black.” He appreciated how their eyes don’t even widen at hearing his new last name.

Auror Sharp nods and pulls her expressionless mask back on. “Well met, Mr. Black. I hope we’ll be reading about a new Wizengamot member in the Prophet tomorrow morning. And please give our regards to Heir Black. His reappearance is a... pleasant surprise.”

Tom salutes them with a smirk and walks into the side room. He settles down onto a leather couch for an hour long wait.

Hopefully Regulus is kept safe by his grandfather and the other sympathetic lords and ladies. It’s not every day a man returns from his supposed death, after all. (Yes, he knows how ironic that sounds, even in his own mind.)

He doesn’t even want to think of the fact that they will probably be mobbed by the press the moment they walk out the door at the end of the session.

...

...

...

...He should have brought a book.

Tom spends the next hour contemplating what his kids might be getting up to, then what Nagini is teaching them that will definitely come back to bite Tom in the arse, then that he really hopes Dumbledore eats his beard when he gets his hands on his modified family tree.

Heh. What he wouldn’t give for a pensieve memory of that.

His back straightens at the sound of a gong. They are starting, it seems.

It must take them at least ten more minutes to call him in, though he doesn’t check it with a Tempus. That would just make the wait worse.

He follows Auror Brattleby through the door across the room, the man letting him step over the threshold and then immediately closing the door behind him.

He comes face to face with Albus Dumbledore. Granted, there’s several metres between them, but he can clearly make out the surprise and dread creeping into the old man’s smile.

Tom manages not to smirk at the last moment.

“...Ah,” Dumbledore says after a few seconds of tense silence. “Welcome, my boy. We were told you wanted to… take up your seats, was it?”

“Indeed I do,” Tom says, ignoring the irritating moniker the old man can’t seem to leave off.

“And you would be...”

“Thomas Black.” He gives a miniscule nod, just to keep up appearances. “Chief Warlock.”

“...Black?”

Tom raises an eyebrow and gives him an indulgent smile. “That is what I said, no?”

“...Yes, it is.” He doesn’t seem to believe him, but oh well. It’s not like it matters. “Might we inquire what lordships you came with claim on?”

“Why, you may. They are Peverell,” Get, “Gaunt,” Bloody, “and Potter.” Fucked.

Silence reigns in the chamber for a long moment. And then hell break loose.

Of course Tom didn’t really expect people to react calmy to his claims. He knew exactly what he was doing when he stepped through the door.

He could have done without bursting his eardrums though.

Even Dumbledore just stands there frozen on his podium, eyes wide with disbelief as people all around shout and scream, and someone from right under the old man’s seat even makes a pathetic attempt at throwing a... hat at him. If Tom is seeing right. It’s kind of tiny as it falls down in the middle of the marble floor and he doesn’t understand how the man expected to, one, throw it far enough to reach Tom, and two, do any damage. But he supposes that people have to get creative when the chamber doesn’t allow the casting of any harmful spells.

In the end a severe looking witch with a monocle needs to cast a Sonorus on herself and whistle just so people would stop losing their heads. Tom mentally thanks her as the old man gathers himself and pins him with an unreadable look.

“Very well, my boy.” Dumbledore floats a piece of parchment before him with a grave expression. “Swear to the Wizengamot then, and might your oath be considered true, we shall greet you with—” it looks like even saying the words hurt him, “—open arms.”

Tom plucks the parchment out of the air with two fingers and quickly runs a wandless Revelio through it. He doesn’t exactly expect the man to try to curse him before the entire Wizengamot, but better safe than sorry. He only looks at what is written on it when the results show it clear from tampering.

From what he can tell they gave him a standard oath to recite, the space for his name and lordships left empty.

“I, Thomas Elliot Black, hereby stake my claim on the seats of my families. I shall do my utmost for the betterment of our nation and people, and wield my power with the best of Magical Britain in mind. So I swear as the Lord of House Peverell, House Gaunt and House Potter.”

The moment he utters the last word of the oath, he feels his magic surge and meet the chamber’s ancient one. He wonders how it would feel to be rejected by the room. He wasn’t afraid of that possibility; not when Garnak assured him that he’s the only viable heir currently to his houses.

His thoughts get interrupted by the crest above the minister’s head glowing so bright it momentarily blinds him and the chime of bells ringing through the air.

When the light disappears and the room is left in silence, Tom blinks a few times to clear his vision, then begins surveying the faces around him bearing expressions of surprise, disbelief and astonishment. Not all, though. Arcturus and Regulus only send him bright smiles and Tom feels his lips quirk up into a small one too.

And then he notices the other familiar faces amongst the dark faction.

Lucius sits straight-backed next to Arcturus, eyes just as wide as everyone else’s even though Tom told him he would be taking up his seats today. Granted, he didn’t say which seats.

And then his eyes slide to the next Wizengamot member.

It’s Thaddeus Nott, who looks like he could be Tom’s father. (Granted, one that the ladies would swoon over, but still. Even if wizarding genetics only make him look half as old as he should be by muggle standards, he aged. And that fact hurts.) The dichotomy of the man’s current appearance and that of the boy Tom remembers sneaking into the library with in the middle of the night almost makes him blanch.

Almost. He has a very good poker face.

Thaddeus somehow notices him staring. He wipes the surprise off his face and sends Tom a conspiratorial grin.

...Oh, no. Nononono.

You weren’t supposed to recognise me!

Damn it.

Tom has the sudden realisation that next to Deus sits Corvus Lestrange, and then Archie Flint. And they are all staring at him now.

...Bloody buggering fuck.

No, nope. Let’s tune back into the end of Dumbledore’s half-hearted greeting speech about eternal love and whatnot.

“...and receive him with open hearts and friendly faces. You are free to find yourself a seat now, my boy. And I’m sure we would all be very happy to answer your questions, if you have any and—”

“Hold on for a minute, Dumbledore!” Cornelius Fudge, their illustrious minister, interrupts the man. “The Potter lordship is supposed to belong to the Boy-Who-Lived! And everyone knows all the Gaunts are dead. And who even are the Peverells?!”

“Ah, Cornelius, I’m not sure this is the right time—”

“It is if I say so!”

...Bloody hell, the head of their government is acting like a particularly fussy toddler throwing a tantrum.

Nevertheless, Tom schools his face into a pleasant expression and shrugs, something that prim and proper Tom Riddle would have never allowed himself in public. “I only know what the goblins at Gringotts told me when the lordships showed up on my inheritance test. I’m the closest viable heir to the lines apparently, though I also did wonder at the Potter lordship’s appearance.” He pins Dumbledore with a pointed look, unafraid to look him in the eye. And also unafraid to call him out on it if the fool tries to use Legilimency on him in broad daylight. “What did happen to Harry Potter, Chief Warlock? The newspapers’ theories are starting to get quite out of hand.”

And what theories those are. They usually have much fun reading all the ludicrous stories while having breakfast, the current favourite being that apparently the fairy queen had taken a liking to the children and they are now happily dancing away at their nightly feasts.

...He really shouldn’t let them go into the forest alone.

Dumbledore clears his throat. “I wish to know that just as much as everyone else. And to think that one of our colleagues disappeared too... No, my boy, I haven’t the faintest, but I have great faith in our Auror Department who are tirelessly working on the missing children’s case.” He glances at the woman with the monocle who, now that Tom takes a closer look, looks quite tired.

...Oops. Sorry, mystery monocle lady. You won’t find them.

And, by the way, was no one going to call the old man out on the fact that three first-years and a teacher disappeared from his school in the middle of the night?

No? Is he the only one bothered by it?

Well, at least if anyone asks why his children won’t go to Hogwarts, he will have an answer ready.

“Very well, Chief Warlock. Am I free to sit down now?”

He doesn’t know why that makes the man’s eye twitch. “Of course, my boy. The chamber will accommodate you, I’m sure.”

Great. Even though he was fully prepared to boot the sour-faced witch next to Regulus out of her seat.

Tom gives him a nod and starts to walk towards the stairs leading up to the chairs. The room looks sort of like the amphitheatres of Ancient Greece, with the seats rising upwards in a circle leaving the centre of the marble floor empty. The minister and his coworkers sit in the middle, with Cornelius Fudge taking up the centremost seat like a plum pidgeon; he suspects the ones sitting above them but not wearing the plum Wizengamot robes of the Ministry are the elected civil servants. Bracketing them he sees two staircases providing access to the rows. It’s quite interesting how the more progressive and the more conservative leading families congregate to the right and left side of the ministry personnel respectively, and then the neutrals opposite them between two other staircases again. The press sits above all of them in a thin row with good vantage point of the room, hurriedly flashing their cameras. He hopes they get his good side.

Tom climbs the stairs between the Dark and Neutral Factions, if he can even call them that with Wizarding Britain being small enough that the members of the Wizengamot number a hundred at full attendance. And it’s not like those are official factions either. Really, it’s mainly just progressives, conservatives and neutrals, but even those can change at certain topics, so it’s all a big mess. The main problem is that Dumbledore himself, though originally not holding any seats himself, is substituting for Arthur Weasley, and thus Tom couldn’t even kick him out even if he somehow managed to get the Wizengamot to re-elect the Chief Warlock. Which isn’t likely anyway with all the blind faith people tend to put into the old man. Not every member of the Wizengamot, of course not, but he has his fair share of supporters and sympathisers, and it’s just enough to be a problem. And it’s not like he usually does anything suspicious either. More like... pulling the strings from behind, puppeting people towards whatever outcome he desires. Just like in school.

Tom mentally sighs and banishes those unpleasant thoughts. He’s here now, another opponent for the old man to battle. He can help mitigate the damage both the man’s and his own actions had caused. He can... He’ll do better. Be better.

All so he won’t have to see those empty school halls again.

The sour-faced witch, probably a Burke going by the resemblance to his past employer, sniffs at him when he displaces her but fortunately for her she decides not to pick a fight. He would have punted her to the other side of the room if she deigned it a good idea to keep him from Regulus.

Tom holds back a self-satisfied smile as he checks out his husband. He proposed that they should wear matching robes in black, white and purple with silver accents, though their designs differ according to Pierre’s thoughts on what matches their individual characters. Nevertheless, his spouse looks positively delectable, and Tom can’t wait till he gets to try his hand at peeling the layers off him.

In a family-friendly way, of course. His house is full of children.

Regulus lets a smile take over his face as Tom sits down onto the seat next to him. He giggles when Tom’s lips brush a kiss onto the back of his hand.

Sue him, he needs some affection right the hell now.

He stubbornly ignores his former classmates’ shared grins that he can see from the corner of his right eye.

“I was starting to miss you,” Regulus whispers as they turn their attention back to the session, which... Someone apparently has a problem with the current thickness of cauldron bottoms.

Tom squeezes his hand. “Well now you get to enjoy my company for the next... How long will we be sitting here again?”

“Four hours until lunch, and then another four.”

...Bugger.

It has been an excruciatingly long four hours filled with utter hogwash when they are finally allowed an hour of rest to have lunch. Tom thanks the skies that this will only happen once a month as he stands up and stretches. It’s no wonder he didn’t get far with the political route the first time.

Lucius clears his throat. “Thomas? The minister’s just left; we should hurry.”

Ah, yes. The plan that he totally didn’t forget at the speed his braincells seemed to wither away during the first part of today’s session.

He grimaces as he feels his back crack. “Right you are, Lucius. Let’s go.”

He leaves Regulus with his grandfather and sends him a mental apology when he notices his former classmates starting to circle around them like hyenas, feeling the weight of a pair of twinkling blue eyes boring into the back of his head as he exits the chamber for the hallway.

Lucius quickly catches up to him and together they hurry after Cornelius Fudge, who according to Lucius doesn’t like to eat in the cafeteria with the rabble, so they head to Level 1. A young woman with her blonde hair arranged in perfect curls is manning the desk before the Minister’s Office, wearing an elegant powder blue robe and a cloud of sweet perfume. Seeing them approach, she quickly adopts a bland smile.

“Good day, gentlemen. What can I help you with?”

“I was wondering if Cornelius would be up for meeting our new Lord Peverell before everyone else,” Lucius answers easily, Tom stopping just a step behind him.

The woman gives them a nod. “I will ask him, though he usually doesn’t like to be interrupted mid-lunch.”

She goes to the double doors and sticks her head in. The enchantments on it don’t let Tom hear their conversation, which he supposes is for the better in the matter of their national security. Still irritating though.

“He’ll receive you,” she says after they are done and holds the door open for them, then closes it after they enter.

Fudge stands up from his desk and walks over with a bright smile, crossing the frankly ostentatious office and almost tripping on the likely very expensive Persian rug in the middle of the room.

“Ah, Lucius! And our newest Lord Peverell, what a surprise! I do hope you weren’t offended by the start of today’s session. Caught us all by surprise, you did. But what am I saying, sit, sit!” He herds them towards the seating area of the office. “I was just about to order something up. What would you like? I dare say the duck sounds delicious—”

...He sure loves to hear his own voice.

Lucius quickly gives his order before the minister could start speaking again and Tom follows his lead. He wants to portray an inexperienced but earnest new Wizengamot member and Lucius is perfect for playing the role of the mentor.

“The thing is, Minister, my cousin here wanted to bring something into your attention,” Lucius says, leaning forward and for the moment ignoring the meal that appears before him. “Something that may not be received well if it got out to the public before we could provide an adequate explanation.”

Oh, so there was a reason his insane self kept him by his side other than sentimentality and his vaults.

Fudge’s eyes widen. “Oh, that is troubling to hear. Troubling indeed. But your cousin, Lucius?”

That’s Tom’s cue.

With a humble expression, he says, “By marriage, Minister. You see, my dear Regulus and I—”

“Regulus Black?!” Fudge interrupts him rudely as he jumps up. “But— but he was rumoured to be a Death Eater—”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed him, but he was sitting right next to me during today’s session. And honestly, Minister, I would have thought you wouldn’t believe the rumours some people had spread after his unfortunate disappearance. But for your peace of mind, he doesn’t have the mark.” Tom sniffs, mock-offended. “As if a Black would bow to anyone.”

“But— but his brother—”

Got you.

“That is exactly what bothers him, Minister. You see, he was simply distraught to hear that the previous administration has locked his brother into Azkaban without even a trial.”

Fudge’s face reddens, his cheeks puffing up in indignation like a squirrel with a digestive problem.

“Wha— As if the Ministry would commit such breach of protocol when—” the man runs to the door and wrenches it open. “Audrey! Bring me the transcripts of Sirius Black’s trial!”

They wait for him to walk back to the settees and sit down, visibly fuming.

Tom gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m so very sorry to trouble you, Minister. It’s just, my grandfather-in-law has inquired about the trial many times before and they refused to provide them for him.”

“...Ah,” Fudge says intelligently. “I’m— I’m sure they had a very good reason...”

Tom smiles. He doesn’t think it’s a nice one. “Let’s hope so, Minister.”

They wait for the arrival of the transcripts while dining and making awkward small talk. Awkward on the minister’s part, that is. Tom is happy to ignore everything a just listen when he’s not being talked to.

After a good half hour passes, the door opens and the secretary sticks her head in. “Sir, they can’t find the transcripts.”

As expected, Tom thinks with just a hint of schadenfreude, watching as Fudge jumps up with a purpling face.

“Wha— what do you mean they can’t find them?!”

“There are no transcripts about the trial of Sirius Black in the archives, Minister. Nor did they find his name one the list.”

“...Ah. Thank you, Audrey. You can go now.” The moment the door closes, Fudge collapses back into his armchair. “To think that the previous minister would...”

“And on false charges too, according to the Potter’s will,” Tom pipes in cheerfully.

Fudge buries his head into his hands. “I can’t believe this! What are we going to tell the public?! And Lord Black, he will—”

Oh, Lord Black would be happy to skin them alive for daring to lock up his grandson. Probably the only thing stopping him all these years was that he still had family members to take care of, which might have been reasonably harder on the run from the biritsh magical government.

“If I may, Minister,” Lucius interjects, making the man peek up from behind his fingers just the slightest bit with foolish hope shining in his eyes, “think of the opportunity to right the wrongs done by Minister Bagnold. Won’t the people of wizarding Britain get their faith back in the Ministry if you crack down on the affronts committed? A retrial for Sirius Black should do the deed, no? And even if the man is found guilty again, we can rest assured that our minister did the right thing. No questions left to wonder, no accusations of possible coverups to be made.”

Fudge thinks about it for a long moment, staring out the big window showing a wide landscape of London. “...Yes. Yes, they would. I— I have to prepare—”

Fucking finally.

Lucius stands up, followed shortly by Tom. “Then we’ll leave you to it, Minister. Good day.”

“Hm? Oh, oh yes. You too.” Fudge goes back to his desk in a daze without another glance at them and so they exit the office. Tom wonders whether the minister is way too gullible to lead their country properly or if they are just that good at persuasion.

Possibly both. Which, while momentarily convenient, doesn’t exactly bode well for their country.

When are the elections again?

The lift dings, drawing Tom back from out of his thoughts.

“Thank you, Lucius,” he says when they step out of the lift, bringing a pleased smile onto the man’s face.

“There’s no need, Thomas; we are family, after all. Which reminds me.” Lucius pauses before entering the cafeteria, cane coming to a halt before the wooden double doors. “My wife wishes to accompany your sister when she goes to get a wand. She hasn’t yet had the chance to replace her ruined one, right?”

“Not yet, no.”

Nagini is understandably reluctant to go out and socialize with actual people. Playing with the children and teasing him and Regulus at home is one thing, but speaking to strangers? It’s been quite a while since she’s been able to do that, and sometimes she still slips into Parseltongue during casual conversation, though that one could easily be explained.

Still... Maybe some company would do her good. Merlin knows her and Narcisa seemed to hit it off concerningly well during their first meeting.

The fact that they apparently struck up a friendship while he was making out with Regulus in the library shouldn’t make goosebumps rise on his arms and he will deny it with his dying breath. He’s... he’s not afraid of their combined forces. He’s not.

Tom shakes the very much possible pictures of the two women scheming behind his back out of his head before it gives him goosebumps.

“I’m sure she would be delighted to have her join, though we planned to have her have a look at the wands in our vaults first,” he ends up saying, ignoring the most definitely listening ears of the loitering ministry workers that surround them.

Tom is used to the attention; fine with it really. He just doesn’t like some of the looks he gets through fluttering eyelashes.

Like, come on. His last name is Black, and he’s clearly not related. Are you really going to hit on a married man?

...On second thought he really shouldn’t count on people’s moral integrity in the heart of the ministry.

He pushes the cafeteria doors open and enters the large room. It’s filled with people, and the smell of food is less distracting than he expected, though someone ordered something with way too many onions.

He really hopes that person doesn’t sit near him when they are back in the chamber.

He’s about to cast a Point Me when he hears someone cry his name; it’s Regulus, a sore sight for his eyes after having to stare at the minister for the past half hour. He kisses him on the cheek and takes a seat at their table between Regulus and—

...Oh, shit.

“Thomas, why, we haven’t seen you for ages!” Thaddeus exclaims with a smirk that makes Tom remember why he used to go to him for pranks spells.

(Yes, he used prank spells. Those were perfectly harmless deterrents against the meaner upper years that didn’t get him in detention. Not that he would have gotten caught, but. Just to be on the safe side.)

“A decade or more, if I remember right.” Corvus says with a solemn nod, and are those bloody fake tears in his eyes?!

...Actually, knowing him, those are real tears.

Thaddeus nods. “Oh, yes, yes. Your wonderful husband has told us quite the tale. I’m curious though, why haven’t you told us about him?”

“And the children,” Archie adds, staring straight into his eyes. Tom stares back with his best poker face and tries not to faceplant onto the table. Archie just raises an eyebrow. “Well, are you going to explain yourself, young man?”

“We are waiting, Thomas.”

Thaddeus nudges his arm. Tom kicks his shin under the table. Or, he hopes it’s his shin he kicks. But even if it isn’t, all these bastards deserve it. (Maybe not Corvus, but he’s the exception that proves the rule.)

“I’m sure the curiosity is just eating you up,” he says and crossed his arms. It’s— it’s not a defensive stance. He’s not on the defence. He’s on the offense. “Unfortunately, you will have to wait until after the session. I doubt we have long enough for storytime before—” The bells signifying the start of the second part of the session ring. “—the bells. So shall we, gentlemen?”

Tom stands up from the table and holds his hand out for Regulus.

Deus chuckles at the sight. “Oh, we will get you for this, godson.”

...Excuse him, what the fuck.

Tom’s head snaps up. “I beg your fucking pardon?”

The bastard just smirks at him as he stands up as well. “Why, who else would our dear Tom name as his only child’s godparent?”

“I have a sister alive and another half-sister dead.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Corvus exclaims. “I call dibs on the living one.”

“I’m okay with the dead one,” Archie adds.

Bastards. Bloody fucking bastards.

“This. This is the reason I became a dark lord,” Tom groans the moment they step out of the floo and into their drawing room.

Hermione’s head snaps up. “Corruption and social injustice?”

Tom massages the bridge of his nose. He might be starting to see double.

“The sheer stupidity.”

Oh, wait, no. It’s just the two boys sitting next to each other in identical clothes. Good to know even they are fucking with him now.

“Don’t mind your father,” Regulus pipes up as he slumps down next to Hermione and draws her in for a tight hug. Now, Tom thinks she might even have bloody purred. Or his ears are deceiving him. At this point both scenarios are equally possible. “He’s just grumpy his old schoolmates teased him for the entire second part of today’s session and then demanded to come over in the next few days.”

Oh, wow. Thanks, traitor.

“Woah, new uncles!” Harry exclaims excitedly, and, no, kiddo. Those aren’t new uncles. Those are new headaches.

Ron scrunches up his nose. “Ew, more Slytherins? Don’t we have enough?”

“Mate. You’re a Slytherin. The heir to the house.”

Ron throws a pillow at him that Harry dodges.

Tom lets out a tired sigh. “At least Sirius’ trial got scheduled for two weeks from now, so there’s that.”

He gratefully accepts the headache cure Kreacher hands him while everyone cheers. He doesn’t even care if it’s poisoned.

Chapter Text

Hermione is going to get her books today if it takes dragging the boys out of their beds by their ears. And she would have done it, really, if only Tom hadn’t distracted her while Regulus went to wake them up.

She glares at Ron as he stumbles down into the kitchen still in his pyjamas. Honestly, at this rate they won’t leave the house by noon!

Her scowl only lessens when her dad slides a cup of coffee before her (with lots of milk because he deemed them too young for addiction. For now.)

“Hey, Papa? You’re in the paper,” Harry says, making her jump in her seat. Again. The boy always does this, walk around, silent and unnoticed until suddenly he speaks and scares the living daylights out of them. Bloody Dursleys training him for it. (She has a few choice words reserved for them. And some choice curses.)

Regulus hums as he takes the Daily Prophet from him and opens it up. “Figures they would notify the gold-diggers there’s fresh meet on the table. Oh, look.” He snickers. “All hail Wizarding Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelor.”

Tom sends the paper a mean smirk. “How heartbroken they will be then to hear you are very much taken.”

“They meant you, my dear ‘Cousin Thomas’.”

Tom’s expression immediately darkens. “Cousin my arse,” he says at the boys’ snickers. “Did they blank out when I kissed your knuckles?”

“Possibly, though it could just be because... Well. My parents.” Regulus hands the paper over to him. “You’ll clear things up today anyway.”

...Oh, right. His little errand keeping him from escorting them through Diagon.

Hermione sighs and relocates to the drawing room while she waits for the others to get ready.

It takes them an hour.

“Come on, the soles of my sensible Mary Janes are about to wear off from all the tapping!”

Ron sends her a scowl. “Well maybe you should show your sensible Mary Janes up your ars—”

“Children,” Tom scolds them with a raised eyebrow.

Hermione pouts. “I’ve been waiting for an hour, let’s go!” she whines, nearing a melt-down.

They are keeping her from books! It’s preposterous.

Regulus chuckles and ruffles her hair, making her scowl again. She finally has (mostly) reasonably manageable hair, and her dads keep messing it up!

“Alright, everyone,” Tom says as he picks up the tin full of floo powder and holds it outside of arm’s reach for her. “I go through first, and then everyone else. You go shopping in whatever order Hermione lets you—” Rude. “—while I satisfy the hyenas at the Daily Prophet. Nagini, you go and get a wand with Narcissa. We gather at Fantasia in Fantastic Alley.”

Hermione is sure she isn’t the only one staring blankly at him.

“...Never mind, just follow Regulus. He knows where that is,” Tom adds. “Now, as always, enunciate precisely. I’d rather not have the need to run to Knockturn and drag you out of a hag’s pointy claws.”

“We know, Dad,” Hermione says and gives him a push towards the fireplace. “Let’s go!”

Tom sighs but does put the floo tin back onto its place so it’s in arm’s reach again. As he’d said, he’s the first to go through.

“Ladies first,” Harry says and lets Hermione take a pinch of floo powder. She throws it into the fireplace, says Diagon Alley loud and clear as instructed, and goes spinning through the system in a dizzying ride. It’s very uncomfortable and she wishes magicals would invent a more pleasant way of travel.

...Or she could read up on what other countries have, if she found the time. They are about to get very busy, after all.

She wonders how they will get to their new school as she steps out of the iridescent green flames and lets her dad spell the ash off her clothes. Surely they will take a portkey to the States, but then they will have to actually reach the school and she’s pretty confident that Hogwarts is the only one that actually makes the students take a special train, not to mention—

Some bastard has the gall to interrupt her thoughts by almost knocking her to the ground. And then the man sneers at her before turning his back and walking away towards the entrance to Diagon.

She scowls and sends a Tripping Jinx at the arsehole that makes him faceplant into a patron’s fish and chips. Wandlessly, of course. Their dad taught them well since they left Hogwarts.

She lets Harry help her up from the floor.

“You okay, Mi— Rina?” he awkwardly corrects himself.

Good; he caught himself in time.

They had tried to get used to their new names at home, but smoothly calling each other by them in public will take some time still. At least the boy’s nicknames are similar enough to their previous ones that they should have less of a  chance at messing up.

She hopes.

“I’m alright, Ris. He won’t be able to say that for much longer though.”

Harry, the smart boy he is, doesn’t question her about that last part as they go to the others at the rear of the Leaky Cauldron with a nod to Tom the barman, who smiles at them as they pass him. Tom, their dad, raises an eyebrow at their arrival and Hermione looks deep into his eyes, trying to project that she’d already dealt with the situation. She may have taken a more advanced book about Legilimency and Occlumency from the Peverell Vault when no one was paying attention, but who wouldn’t have when they just left everything lying around?

Her dad’s eyebrow climbs higher but she isn’t going to apologise and he doesn’t say anything, just turns around and opens the entrance of Diagon Alley with a smug smirk.

The sight makes her breath catch no matter how many times she comes here (which isn’t many, because after her initial school shopping on her eleventh birthday she wasn’t allowed far from home, and at the time of her first Gringotts visit with her new family it was quite early and the alley wasn’t filled with people like now). It’s just so magical.

 “This is where we part,” Hermione hears their dad say, making her head snap to the side. And up, because he’s tall.

She frowns. “Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?”

Of course, she knows that he can handle himself. He was a dark lord once, after all. But she could come along as an intimidation factor and glare the journalists into submission. Even if that would set the book shopping back a bit.

He smiles down at her and pokes the place between her brows. “I can take care of them if they forget their places; wouldn’t want to keep you from looting Flourish and Blotts. And if everything goes to—”

Someone clears her throat behind them.

“I believe you should dial back a bit on the intimidation, Thomas.”

Ah, here comes their new Aunt Cissa, pretty as always in her cream dress closely following the lines of her body, a short embroidered coat in the same colour accentuating her hips. Her blonde hair is pulled up in a chignon today, partly obscured by a tiny beige hat with a white birdcage veil falling over her eyes. She certainly knows how to make an impression.

Harry runs over to hug her the moment they turn around, the woman receiving him with a fond chuckle.

Lucius is a fool not to make more babies with her; maybe some would have turned out better than their son.

“What are you doing here, Aunt Cissa?” Harry asks with big, shiny eyes, absolutely adorable.

She chuckles and sweeps his fringe out of his eyes. It immediately flops back into place. “I came to accompany your dear Genevieve to get her a wand. What will you do, darling?”

“Papa promised to get us new brooms!”

...Did he now.

Tom must be thinking the same thing, judging by his raised eyebrow.

“Yeah!” Ron exclaims. “And then he said we can take a look at Titan Toys before Hermione gets lost in the bookstore!”

Alright, that she will allow. If only just to stop him from continuously beating them at chess. It’s getting way too repetitive and she does not like losing so much. Or at all.

“That sounds wonderful, dear,” Narcissa says with a smile. “And did your sister know about all that?”

“She does now,” Hermione interjects with a pout.

That draws a chuckle out of all the adults.

Narcissa lets Harry go and leans down to tuck one of the errant strands behind Hermione’s ear that she hadn’t managed to wrangle into her braids, then straightens up and links arms with Nagini.

“Well then, have a good day, everyone. See you again in a few hours.”

The two women turn around and start quietly chatting as they leave, the rest of them left staring after them.

“...And there she goes, abandoning us.” Tom says in a flat voice as he turns to Regulus. “I shall finish at the Prophet by noon at the latest. See you at Fantasia?”

Regulus, Hermione notices smugly, sends him a very soft look.

She likes seeing them happy together, so unlike the strangely distant marriage her previous parents had.

She had also noticed Kreacher eyeing them with a calculating gleam in his eyes and wonders what that will result in.

“Destroy them, darling,” Regulus says and kisses his cheek. He also turns on his heel and starts walking into the direction of Quality Quidditch Supplies, so they quickly hug their dad and follow after him.

Hermione looks back exactly once to see Tom staring after them with an unreadable expression, but then he smiles and goes on his way too.

She turns back to the others. She doesn’t ask what the boys think about the face their dad made, possibly too elated to think at all at the prospect of getting new brooms.

She sighs. Maybe this is what the adults mean when they always told her ‘boys will be boys’.

Tom enters the office of the Daily Prophet. It’s chaos.

All around, people are running from one desk to another, screaming at each other for this interview and that piece of article. He’s pretty sure he saw one man pour a can of BlackMagic energy drink into his coffee and down it without a blink.

Tom doesn’t think clearing his throat would do anything, so he cautiously goes over to the man he previously noted. Just because he’s the only one staying in one place. “Pardon me, where could I find... Rita Skeeter, I believe? She asked for an interview yesterday.”

The man stares at him with dead eyes for a moment, then refills his mug. Tom... isn’t going to comment on that. Especially since he’s pretty sure he sees some Killing Curse-green sparkles fly out of whatever is in the mug.

“End of the hall, door with the bugs crawling all over it.”

...Great.

Tom thanks him with a slightly more fixed smile than before and edges around the harried people, then strides through the hall.

He does find the door he needs. And he absolutely abhors it. He doesn’t even want to count how many kinds of bugs are waving their little feelers at him.

He suppresses a shiver and knocks with a grimace on his face, quickly wiping it off when the door is opened by the blond witch that accosted him yesterday on the way to the floo. Her bejewelled glasses blind him for a moment with the sunbeams streaming off of them straight into his eyes.

“What now, Jimmy, I clearly said— Oh.” She flashes a sly smirk at Tom. He suppresses another shiver. “Why, hello, Lord Peverell. Pardon my manners, I hadn’t expected you this soon.”

Skeeter invites him in eagerly, even offering him refreshments that Tom graciously accepts and immediately checks for tampering. He finds none, but better safe than sorry.

“Seeing that I was already here, I thought I will give you a visit. Am I interrupting your work?”

She waves off his supposed worries as she pops down onto the poison-green armchair across the sofa Tom occupies, happily ignoring the mountain of paperwork on her desk. She kind of blends into the the seating with her robes in a very similar shade.

“Oh no, Lord Peverell. There’s nothing that requires my immediate attention, nothing at least that would be more important than doing this interview.”

Tom just keeps smiling, even if his facial muscles are starting to get rather stiff. “Wonderful. So what would you like to know, Miss Skeeter?”

She flicks her wand once, making a piece of parchment and a quill float towards them. “I’m very grateful that you took the time to come all the way here, Lord Peverell. Rest assured, your words will be written down verbatim. Now,” she leans forward in her seat, “I’m sure the witches and wizards of Magical Britain are absolutely eager to get to know our newest member of the Wizengamot by the name of Thomas Black. Tell me, how did that happen?”

“My name or my title?” Tom asks with mirth, making her chuckle in a high voice that grates on Tom’s ears.

“Why not both, Lord Peverell? Though I suppose whichever happened first would make the most sense.”

“Ah, right. Well, then I’ll start with my origins, just to clear things up a bit.” Showtime. “I was born as Thomas Riddle. Lived with my mother, saw my father every few months.”

Skeeter adopts an emphatic expression. “Must have been awful.”

“Oh no, they got married as a joke while drunk. He’s been pretty alright all things considered. Brought gifts whenever he visited but had to travel a lot unfortunately. Even kept in contact with my other sister, may she rest in peace.”

Now that makes her wiggle in her place. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Were you close? With your other sister, I mean. What was her name again?”

Tom doesn’t miss the sly glint in her eyes. He would be a very poor Slytherin if he did.

He stomps down on a smirk wanting to spread out on his face. “Lily. And, well. She didn’t want to get treated differently at school for not being considered a muggleborn anymore, so as far as I know none aside from us knew we were related. But we did go on a few trips together with our dad, and she visited us and mum too a few times.”

“Us?”

“Yes, my twin sister, Genevieve. Still alive, thank Merlin. I don’t know how I would have survived into adulthood without her help.”

Skeeter chuckles. “I’m sure the both of you must have been a delight to parent. But tell me, Lord Peverell, how is that none of us remember you from Hogwarts?”

Tom starts to break his rather dry biscuit into tiny parts. He feels like he’d choke on it otherwise.

“Our mother homeschooled us. Inherited paranoia from her ancestors, I suppose; after all, the Peverells were nearly hunted into extinction by Grindelwald.”

“Ah, yes.” Skeeter’s smile goes a bit rigid there, but she quickly moves on. “So that explains your inheritance of the Peverell lordship. That still leaves the other too, though.”

“And I will share my best guess of how I inherited them.”

“So gracious of you, Lord Peverell. Is there a reason that you only took them up now?”

“Well.” He takes in the garishly yellow curtains. They are atrocious. “Though I did grow up and get married here—”

“My gosh!” Skeeter interrupts him, gasping loudly. “Married, my lord?! I feel like you just broke our citizens’ hearts!”

Tom allows himself the tiniest of smirks. “I have a husband, yes. Though our first meeting was... interesting, shall we say, I do not regret anything about it. Fate brought us together and let me keep him, and then also gifted us with our dear children. Forgive me if I do not care for the delicate hearts of strangers. They will recover.”

“Such cruel words, though I suppose it’s understandable if you are living a happy married life.”

She takes a sip of tea, reminding Tom that he also has a cup before him.

Oops.

“Yes, finally I can say that I am happy. There is a reason I left for the States, after all.”

Skeeter’s cup clinks on its little plate. It’s shaped like some kind of bug too, he realises. Tom is tempted to ‘accidentally’ make it shatter on the floor.

“Oh, do tell, my lord.”

Tom gives her a wry smile. “Let’s start with the fact that my dear Regulus’ mother wasn’t quite delighted upon hearing that her son eloped with an unknown wizard while three months pregnant.”

“By Regulus you mean...”

“Regulus Black, heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.”

Skeeter’s glasses slide down a bit on her nose, her face paling a shade. “...So it really was him then.” She takes a deep breath. “I suppose... you did seem rather close at yesterday’s session.”

“We did, didn’t we?” Tom says with a blissful smile.

“...Yes.” Skeeter clears her throat. “So, about why you left Britain...”

“Oh, right. Well. I—” He hesitates for the dramatic effect and starts fiddling with the handle of his cup. He noted that the quill continued to write even then. Interesting. “You see, shortly after the triplets were born—”

“Triplets?!”

“...Yes?” Tom frowns. Her bulging green eyes make her look rather bug-like. ...He’s starting to recognise a theme here. “Are you alright, Miss Skeeter?”

She starts to fan herself with that morning’s Prophet. “Oh, yes, quite alright! But really, to have triplets at the first try—”

It’s Tom’s turn to clear his throat and will a blush onto his cheeks. “Well. That’s one story I won’t share today.”

“Oh, come now, Lord Peverell. I’m sure the citizens would love to hear it,” she counters with a giggle.

Tom raises an eyebrow. “And they shall remain in the dark about that night, I assure you.”

“Would you share the names you chose for your children at least? It’s common knowledge that there’s a particular tradition in the Black family...”

Tom sighs. “I suppose... It’s not like it’s that big of a secret. Regulus insisted on giving them proper names that wouldn’t ‘bring shame upon the Black name’. We decided on Polaris, Asterion and Carina.”

Skeeter picks up her cup again, her cheeks regaining their healthy colour. “Names fit for the newest members of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.”

She takes a sip of tea, sharp eyes not leaving Tom, who only reacts with a smile.

“Regulus’ choices. Asterion as ‘Little Star’, Polaris for the North Star, and Carina for the second brightest star in the sky.”

“I’m sure the children will grow into the shining beacons their names depict them as.”

Flattery, huh? Well, never say that parents don’t love to brag about their kids. In any other case, Tom too would give into the urge, though the constant scratching of the floating quill is a stark reminder not to get too carried away.

“Thank you, Miss Skeeter,” he says in the end and looks down into his teacup with sad smile. If the tea leaves make out a bug when he finishes the bland concoction, he’s going to hurl it at the witch and then obliviate her. “I just wish Regulus could have seen them grow up.”

He kind of does. It would have been... nice to actually have lived his lies.

Anything would have been better than watching Harry be in constant pain.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Skeeter edge closer in her seat. “Yes? Why do you say that, my lord? Did something happen?”

Tom glances up at her through his eyelashes, aiming for a terribly sad expression. He kind of wishes she fell off her seat.

“I— Shortly after their birth, Regulus went missing. I remember him getting a strange message from his mother that called him away. I told him to be careful, but he just looked so hopeful...” He drops his gaze onto his lap again. “And then he disappeared for nearly twelve years.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Your tone says otherwise, but whatever. “It must have been so hard to take care of the children all alone, with no one to help you... But what happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Tom lets out a sigh. Things are going well so far, but he needs to focus on projecting an appropriate amount of desperation, had he actually lived through what Regulus and him came up with as a perfectly respectable explanation for high society.

To be fair, it’s not that hard to imagine. Not anymore.

There would have been much more blood though, and he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be so willing to share his ‘feelings’ on the matter if this was for real.

“I know that the war ended one and a half years later, but... I didn’t want to raise my children while stumbling into a corpse on the streets every other day. I just couldn’t, not without Regulus. At that time, I—” He makes his voice break. “My sister came with us when I decided to leave Britain for good, so I can’t say I was all alone, but it was hard, that you were right about. As for how we got him back...”

Skeeter edges even closer and leans in, precariously close to falling right onto the plush rug.

“Yes?”

“I... I never stopped searching for him. I tried to make sure that it doesn’t affect the kids too much, but... Every free moment I had, I came back and scoured the countryside. The mountains, the lakes... I had a feeling that if I could just find a clue—” He looks at the woman with a mock-apologetic expression. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t really had to explain it to anyone before. The point is, I knew he was still in Britain somewhere, I could feel it, I just didn’t know where. But one day I found a spell that... It showed me a cave with a lake inside it. And inside the lake—” He chokes on the words again. “Inferi. Regulus was surrounded by hundreds of inferi, sleeping deep underwater amongst the corpses.”

Skeeter gasps, delighted if Tom has to guess. She doesn’t mask it very well.

“Who would even—”

“We don’t know. The last thing Regulus remembers is stepping through the door of his childhood home and seeing his mother’s cold expression. Nothing else.”

“Terrible, my lord, terrible. What happened next?”

Tom reaches for a small bit of his thoroughly dismembered biscuit. “I searched again, concentrating on the caves around any kind of water. I took me a while, but I... I found it. Found him.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry. I will skip that part if you don’t mind.”

She frantically shakes her head. “Oh, no, no, whatever you feel comfortable sharing. So you got him out?”

“I got him out,” Tom repeats her words with a nod. He realises that the biscuit in his hand has already turned into crumbs. He picks up another. “We moved back to Britain, to the house he would feel the most comfortable in through his recovery. That was at the beginning of summer.”

“How fortunate that you’ve found him. How is he faring nowadays?”

“Well, as you have seen at yesterday’s session, he’s recovered all right, though,” he chuckles, “if you asked our house-elf, he’s still too thin. But he’s happy to finally spend time with the children.”

Skeeter grins and repositions herself on the armchair. “Good to hear, good to hear. And speaking about children... How is that we hadn’t heard about three tiny Blacks running through the halls of Hogwarts?”

Tom puts his cup down onto the coffee table and leans back in his seat. He shakes the crumbs off his fingers. “They insisted on staying with us this year, so in the end I home schooled them.”

“Ah... Well, I’m sure they are keeping up with their studies all right. Next year, though—”

“They won’t be going to Hogwarts.”

That seems to catch her by surprise.

“...Pardon? But, surely with your lordships—”

“That’s precisely the reason why,” Tom interrupts him again with a deep sigh. “When I went to Gringotts to see to some legal matters, my account manager made me take an inheritance test. The things that showed up... The Gaunt lordship didn’t exactly come as a surprise. Chatting with the garden snakes as a child and then hearing my mother shriek in surprise when I sneaked it into the house, and then trying to explain that Basil just wanted to be warm and said he won’t even come out from under my covers until the weather gets better again tends to make you realize not everyone can talk to snakes.”

“...You are a Parselmouth?” Skeeter asks with a slight tremble in her voice suddenly.

Tom has to work very hard to not let a smirk appear on his face. He shrugs.

“Honestly, it’s not that big of a deal. It only served as a secret language for my sisters and I when we were little. Something that my children also seemed to catch onto when in public, though it doesn’t really have any use at home.”

“...I see.” She gathers herself and asks, “And what about Potter? I’m sure that’s the one everyone wants to know about, especially after the unfortunate disappearance of our beloved Boy-Who-Lived.”

“Ah... Yes. That one did make me confused too, though it shouldn’t have.”

Skeeter tilts her head to the side, confused. “Why do you say that?”

“Well.” Tom leans forward and sends her a conspiratory look. “As it stands, the Potters are descended from the Peverells, with the families also intermarrying later down the line. And with the only remaining Potter heir being underage... I suppose the family magic judged me a good-enough substitute until the child is ready to take his place.”

“So you don’t think...”

“Dear Merlin, I hope not. I wouldn’t wish harm on any child, especially not on one I’m related to.” He pretends to get lost in his thoughts for a moment. “He would be the same age as my kids, too...”

He is his kid. But Skeeter doesn’t have to know that.

The woman clears her throat. “Well, I’m sure our wonderful and competent aurors are well on their way to find the missing child.”

“Children.”

“Yes, yes.” She waves him off with her hands nonchalantly. “You still hadn’t explained why you don’t want to send yours to Hogwarts.”

Tom frows. “But I thought it would be quite clear?”

“Believe me, my lord, it isn’t.”

He drops the biscuit into his mouth. He was right; it almost gets stuck in his throat.

Ugh.

He has to cough into a napkin just to not suffocate.

“Sorry, sorry. Where were we?”

“You refuse to send them to Hogwarts because...”

“Ah, right. Well. Mainly, I don’t want them to be discriminated against.”

It’s Skeeter’s turn to frown. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you about the view of Parselmouths in Britain. Even you were stunned for a moment, hearing about my ability to converse with snakes.”

“Lord Peverell, I didn’t mean any offense—”

“And I didn’t take any, don’t worry. But surely you see what I mean. With the Potter heirship also in question... I don’t want them to be called traitors or thieves. And to top it all off, now a teacher and three children are missing? You can’t blame me for being less than enthusiastic about the idea of their school career there.”

Skeeter’s expression clears, as if having an epiphany. “Ah. Yes, I understand now. But, Lord Peverell,” she grins at him, “surely you don’t plan to keep them to yourself for all eternity? Homeschooling is all well and good while they are smaller, but eventually they will want to make more friends their age, and then eventually date—”

Tom groans and drops his head into his hands, making her laugh. It’s not even a fake reaction. He’s honestly not looking forward to parenting the Hell Triplets through bloody puberty.

“Please do not remind me of the oncoming threat of that.” He lifts his head and shoots her a mild glare. It’s a very dialled down version of his usual one. “I did say I only homeschooled them for first year. They will start second year at an actual boarding school. Not—”

“Not Hogwarts though, yes, I get it.” Fortunately. “Which one have you decided on?”

Hah. Absolutely not.

“Why, I think that I shall leave you guessing on that one.”

“But Lord Peverell—”

“How about another interview in September?” He suggested slyly. Wouldn’t want to suddenly have the desperate parents decide on sending their sorry offsprings to Ilvermorny too.

And just as expected, Skeeter breaks into a smile. “Why, my lord, if you are offering... Would you answer one more question though, please?”

“Ask away, Miss Skeeter.”

“The sudden re-trial of Sirius Black.” She plucks up the last biscuit from the tin, masking her eager gaze with as much of a nonchalant one as she can manage, he supposes. “Was that your doing?”

Tom smirks. “And why would you think that?”

“Oh come now, my lord. Suddenly there’s a new lord in the Wizengamot and it turns out the Ministry apparently tried to cover up the false imprisonment of our very own Lord Black’s firstborn grandson?”

“Well, when you put it like that...” Tom pretends to give in. “Alright, fine. That was me.”

Skeeter leans forward again. “Oh?”

Tom raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on her quickly changing behaviour. “I assure you, the trial will reveal everything. I’m sure that the minister will strive to correct the wrongdoings of the... previous administration.”

They wrap up the interview quickly after that and Tom is finally free to escape the madness of the Daily Prophet’s office. He suspects that the man that gave him directions has another similarly upgraded cup of coffee in his mug like before. He avoids him in a wide berth on his way out.

He turns right immediately and starts walking towards the end of the street where Fantastic Alley starts,  ignoring the staring and the low hush of voices that follow his steps. It seems like everyone had read the Prophet that morning.

Tom steadily refuses to make eye contact with any of the eager witches and wizards that try to fight their way closer to him, and thus almost misses his sister and cousin-in-law sitting at the terrace of Espresso Patronum.

“Ladies,” he greets them as he walks over. “Already done with shopping?”

Nagini sends him a smug smirk and draws out her new wand, an elegant thing made of dark wood with some pale green crystal going up its length in a spiral. She also waves a familiar little envelope before his face. “Our dear ancestor had thought of me too, it looks like.”

Tom leans closer and mirrors her smirk.

“Mine’s longer.”

“Well, mine’s sharp enough to stab.”

Tom takes a free chair from an empty table near them and sits down. He sticks out his tongue at his sister and steals a chocolate covered strawberry from her plate, complete with tiny charmed sugary butterflies that flutter their wings. Nagini kicks his shin for it.

“Ow.” He flicks the remaining sugar onto the sleaves of her coat and dodges her attempt of launching them right back at him. “What is it made from?”

“Fir like Harry’s, and Boomslang Venom. The crystal’s a jade, for stablisation.” She sniffs and slaps Tom’s hand away when he reaches for another treat.

Rude.

“Well, congratulations. Ready to meet the others?”

The two women exchange a look that Tom doesn’t even want to analyse. They eat the last few strawberries and stand up.

“Very well, Thomas. Tell us about your interview while we walk,” Narcissa says as she leaves the terrace. “We are just dying from curiosity.”

“Oh, really? Maybe I should leave you in the dark until it comes out then.”

Nagini snorts. “As if you won’t cave the moment the kids flash their large, teary eyes at you.”

As he’d sad, rude. “I’m not that gullible.”

Neither woman answer him.

Tom sighs and looks to the skies, not ignorant of how the crowd around them quiets down a bit. Bunch of nosy bastards. “Honestly, it’s nothing new. I just told her a bit about us. And before you ask,” he shoots a glare at Nagini, who just smirks back, “Yes, I did tell her I expect the article to actually be verbatim. I’m not stupid.”

“Debatable.”

“Shut up.”

They hear a giggle from behind and turn back to Narcissa. The women has a soft blush on her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, but you two are just...” Her eyes become misty for a moment. “You remind me of my sisters and I, back when...”

Sisters? Tom wasn’t aware she had sisters— Wait, no. Regulus mentioned something about...

...Ah. Yes, the perfect pureblood wife, the insane maniac and the Disgrace-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.

Tom casts a muffling charm to move with them just to be safe before cautiously opening his mouth.

“Why don’t you contact... Andromeda?” He frowns. “That’s her name, right?”

And oh, maybe he shouldn’t have said that, seeing the way Narcissa freezes onto the cobblestones in the middle of the street.

“I— I shouldn’t, she is—”

“Disowned?” Nagini asks, leaning deep into her personal space. “A disgrace?”

Narcissa shakes her head with a weary expression and starts walking again. “For a while after she run away, I tried to contact her, but... All my letters came back unopened. Then again when I heard she had a daughter, and after Draco was born and the healers said—” Her voice breaks and her steps falter. Tom can see that her hands are shaking, which is a clear sign that he really should have thought twice about asking anything concerning even the barest of feelings. “The point is, she won’t answer to me. Not back then, and certainly not now.”

...Alright. Plan B.

Tom herds them to the side and tries to cover her from the curious eyes of the street.

“Well then, we shall pay her a personal visit,” he says, offering her his handkerchief.

She takes it with a grateful smile and starts dabbing at her eyes, makeup wondrously still intact. (Because of magic, of course. At least he knows now whom he’s going to throw Hermione at when that part of puberty hits). “I don’t think she would be happy about that.”

“And why shouldn’t she be? I just want to get to know my extended family through marriage. I don’t see what problem she could possibly have with that. Regulus will be there anyway, she probably won’t curse us on sight.”

Narcissa doesn’t really seem convinced but does manage a small smile as she clutches the handkerchief to her breasts. It even looks real, so stellar acting on her part. “...I shall await the results, then. And Sirius’s trial, of course.”

Oh, yes. The trial that either goes well or goes south and he’ll be planning a prison break. Wonderful prospects, if he can say so himself.

Tom mirrors her smile. “Come now, cousin. Have I ever failed you?”

“I shall not give an answer to that.”

“...Fair enough.” He offers her his arm and she takes it with a raised eyebrow, any trace of her previous emotions wiped from her face. Nagini comes around to his other side, so now he has a lady on each arm.

“Well, brother?” She gestures to Fantastic Alley’s entrance before them. “Onward we go.”

Tom huffs but obediently starts walking.

Regulus falls into his chosen chair at Fantasia (elegantly, might he add. He’s not a savage.) while the kids take a seat around him and happily start chatting about something his mind isn’t processing.

He’s had a long morning, alright? They had been going from store to store for the whole time. Everywhere.

Except for Knockturn Alley, of course. He wasn’t stupid enough to bring the triplets there. He didn’t want to traumatize the clientele.

The original plan was to quickly buy brooms for the boys, then buy some board games that will make Ron less likely to pull out the chess board every night, and then get the schoolbooks with whatever else Hermione wants added. That was the plan. The reality was that the children haven’t really been in Diagon until now, and thus were so charmed they wanted to see everything. Which, while wasn’t unexpected in Harry and Hermione’s case, Ron’s excitement did surprise him. Apparently, Molly Weasley only took the school-aged children for school shopping at the end of summer and shopped alone or at local markets the rest of the time.

And look, it’s not like Regulus found it a chore to herd the kids around. On the contrary, he enjoyed it immensely, though the constant attention the entire alley paid to them did get old after the first hour. And then there were the giggles from the ladies that followed them everywhere.

So. All that might have gotten him tired in a very short time (or Tom had a point about taking some time to ‘recover’ from his ‘accident’.) The point is, by the time they actually got to Quality Quiddich Supplies, his head was so full that when the clerk asked him if these will be the boys’ first brooms, he said that no, they just needed new ones because they tried to race the thestrals and crashed into a tree.

Not his best moment, but anyway.

Then, after visiting many more shops and concluding that they will never buy any clothes from anyone but Pierre, because the thing they commonly call fashion here was simply atrocious and a hundred years behind, they finally reached the toy shop. Where the children proceeded to get lost.

Like, literally. How the hell did they dart away so quickly with their tiny legs?!

But anyway, they finally decided on something called... Cluedo? Apparently it was popular with the muggles and the shop caught onto it, making a magical version of the game. They also begged to get other games called Monopoly, Twister and the Game of... Life? in the same vein, modified of course so they would entertain the young witches and wizards. Honestly, at that point Regulus was willing to buy anything if only they would leave the screaming toddlers behind.

And then, after many more shops, they arrived at Flourish and Blotts. Where Hermione almost started a riot after discovering that not every book on their list is available there.

...Scratch that, barely any of the books on their list are available there. Like, they needed eight different books per kid for the first year curriculum. Eight. How many of those did they have in store? Three. And those only because they were included in the Hogwarts curriculum.

So then they visited Obscurus Books (with many, many shops between that and Flourish and Blotts, although Hermione seethed the whole time) and found another two. For one kid.

So. They will need to owl order, just as Tom predicted.

Fortunately Regulus had the common sense not to let the kids into any of the pet shops, because then they either never would have left or would have, but not alone.

And then finally, finally they reached the restaurant. Like. He didn’t expect to get tired by shopping of all things, but he did. He really, really did. And now the menu appeared and—

...Oh. Those sound good.

Regulus decides on ordering drinks for now until the others arrive. He looks up from the menu and surveys the children’s focused expressions.

“If you’ve decided, just tap the name of the item you want with your wands,” he says. Theynod absent-mindedly, clearly still deep in thought and looking adorable with the tiny frowns on their faces. Honestly, they look like they’ve never been to—

...Ah. Right. Two muggle-raised and a poor pureblood.

They spend roughly twenty minutes quietly chatting over their drinks when Regulus sees their companions appear across the street. The two women bracket Tom between them, presumably so he would have no way of escape from their clutches.

Regulus raises his purple drink that’s continuously generating a soft, glittery mist that flows over the rim of the cup but doesn’t stain the immaculately white sleeve of his coat. “Finished at last?”

Tom sends him a smile as he politely draws out the seats for the ladies before sitting down himself next to Regulus and leaning in for a chaste kiss. They are in public, after all. (Not that Tom seems to care much about that, judging by the slap Regulus has to give to his wandering hands. And the man has the gall to give him a pout. Dark lord, his arse.)

Regulus turns to the women knowingly smirking at them. “Got everything you wanted?”

“Oh, yes,” Nagini purrs. “Look at my new wand, dear brother-in-law. Isn’t it pretty?”

“Very. Is it fir?”

Nagini’s smirks widens. “Exactly. Good for transfiguration, of all things. What are the odds, right?”

Regulus hums in agreement and turns his gaze to his cousin, noticing the suspicious redness of her eyes. He raises an eyebrow. “Allergies acting up, Cissa?”

She doesn’t look up from browsing the menu. “The wind must have blown something in my eyes.”

Regulus looks at Tom, who sends back a look that means ‘Later’. So no more secret corpses in their backyard then.

Good behaviour deserves praise, so Regulus crosses their fingers under the table. “Well, we’ve been to every store in the alley, if you were wondering.”

Tom gives a slow blink. “...Every store?”

He nods, smile widening. Ron scoots a bit further from him. “Every store.”

 “...I see.” Regulus seriously doubts that, but anyway. “Any highlights?”

Ron’s head snaps back towards them. “We got brooms!”

“I didn’t,” Hermione adds with a bored expression on her face, making the boy send him a scowl.

“Well, you didn’t want one.”

“And I don’t see why you needed one when we have perfectly good ones at home—”

“Those are old!”

“You are just salty that one of the thestrals won against you when you raced over the treetops.”

“Lord Slipperyscales is a dirty cheater and you know it—”

Harry stands up and walks over to Tom, holding up a box that... Oh, right, he did buy that. “Look, Dad! Papa bought me lots of paint and a set of colouring pencils! They are shiny.”

...Yes, as everyone could see, Harry is the most well-behaved of the three currently. Regulus just hopes the other two won’t get into a fight when they start attending official functions.

Tom smiles and pats the boy on the head. “They are very pretty. Do you want to try them out when we get home?”

Harry hums and gives him a wide grin. “I’m going to draw a dragon!”

“That’s nice. Did you get anything else?”

“Board games!”

“...Really?” Tom asks. He looks to Regulus for help.

“We spent an hour at the toy shop and ended up with four board games. I don’t remember the names.”

Tom raises an eyebrow and turns back to the children who had stopped arguing by now and are just scowling at each other with crossed arms. “And you allowed that?” he asks Hermione.

“...So long as it wasn’t chess,” she grudgingly admits.

Tom looks to the skies. “Of course. So,” he looks over all of the children, “which games did you decide on?”

“We bought, Twister, Cluedo, The Game of Life and—”

“Monopoly!” Harry exclaims with shining eyes.

...Regulus doesn’t remember that one.

Tom just stares back at the boy with a blank face. “And I guess you chose that one, didn’t you?”

...Should Regulus be concerned? He feels like he should. That’s what he gets from his husband’s exasperated tone. “What’s that one like?”

“Oh, it’s really nothing,” Tom says with false cheer, turning to him, “it’s just going to tear our lovely little family apart the instant someone gets the upper hand.” He tilts his head to the side. “Did you buy the game without actually knowing what it was?”

“...In my defense, I just wanted to get out of there. We still hadn’t been at Flourish and Blotts at that point, and a two year old already tried to bite my ankle twice. I... I don’t even remember shrinking it down.”

Regulus glares at the snickering women.

“...Papa?” Harry asks, and Regulus just has to turn his attention to him at hearing the hesitation in his voice. The poor kid looks honestly guilty for some reason, lips bitten between his teeth and vivid green eyes peeking out from behind his messy fringe like a kicked puppy. “Did— Did we choose a bad game? If you don’t like it we could take it back and—”

“No, no, kid. No.”

“...No?” Shit, Harry has tears in his eyes.

“I mean— I mean no, you choose a great game! And we all would be very happy to play with you. Wouldn’t we, dear?”  Tom’s chuckles aren’t helping. Regulus elbows him in the gut. When he still doesn’t get an immediate answer, he jabs his elbow to the side again. “Wouldn’t we, dear?”

Tom huffs. “Sure. But just so you know, I take no responsibility for any bodily harm caused in the wake of victory.”

“Ha— Ris wouldn’t do that.”

Tom turns his gaze to the child in question that has, now that Regulus is taking a closer look, his best innocent expression on his face.

Decidedly suspicious.

“Wouldn’t you, Ris?”

The boy gives them a sweet smile. “Of course I won’t. I can’t speak for anyone else though.”

...What kind of game is this?!

“Oh, look! Food’s here,” Ron exclaims, distracting everyone but Regulus and Tom.

Which. What the hell.

“How does he even know about this... game?” Regulus whispers to his dearest husband over his newly arrived plate of appetizers. And oh, the bacon wrapped dates are simply divine. And the cheese... Hmmm.

“Well, if you would just stop having an orgasm over your meal—” Regulus kicks his shin for that. “Ow. Anyway, long story short, his cousin that rather resembles a fattened-up pig used to bully him, which didn’t really allow for many fun experiences, especially not when locked in a cupboard. People watching, on the other hand...”

“Ah.” Regulus squints at his husband’s goat cheese bruschettas and steals a tiny cube of strawberry from the top. “So he knows how to play, at least.”

Tom leans closer to whisper into his ear, making goosebumps appear on Regulus’ arms and a soft blush climb its way onto his cheeks. “Believe me my dear when I say he probably has the strategy memorized already. But then again,” Tom smirks, “you will find that out very soon.”

...Bloody hell, he needs to get laid. Preferably yesterday.

The bastard drops a kiss on his cheek and goes back to munching on his bruschetta, leaving Regulus with a fuzzy head. He doesn’t even notice that he had finished his plate until Tom puts the menu in his hands with a melodious chuckle.

...The Lamb Chops with Blackberry Chutney sound really good right now. (Anything to get his mind off that sound.)

Regulus taps the item with his wand and turns back to Tom. “We’ll need to owl order from abroad.”

“Did you expect anything else?”

“Yes!” Hermione chimes in loudly, then slides a bit lower in her seat, cheeks aflame as the boys snicker. “I mean, we checked at Flourish and Blotts and even Obscurus Books, but we couldn’t find everything.”

Tom waves her off and takes a sip of his drink, the bubbles in it changing from deep red to an iridescent green. “You wouldn’t. Magical Britain is very... isolated, shall we say. And isolationist. Wary of anything from outside, critical of everything that gets published inside.”

“But— but that’s—”

“Terrible?”

“Illegal.”

“Well then,” he raises his cup, as if he was about to give a toast, “aren’t you happy that you’ll be studying abroad?”

Hermione scowls. “That doesn’t change the fact that the government is controlling the information people have access to.”

“Another for the list of injustices you’ll fix in the future?”

Her eyes could kill at that moment. “Yes.”

And then their main course arrives, cutting into the tension at their table.

Regulus takes a moment to survey who ordered what. Tom is already cutting up his beef wellington as Nagini mirrors Narcissa’s elegant manners in consuming her roast duck with some berry sauce. Speaking of Narcissa, she looks quite content with her cranberry and brie stuffed chicken breasts, if Regulus is seeing it right.

And then he gets a look at what the children ordered.

“H— Ris, you ordered ribs?!”

“Yes!”

“...That’s quite a long one. It’s— it’s the size of your arm.”

“I have ketchup and chips!”

“...Good for you.” Regulus turns to Ron, blinks, and lets out a sigh. “...How’s the Tomahawk steak?” He gets something intelligible as an answer, what with the boy having his face stuffed full. “Err... Bon Appetit. Rina—”

“The lemon pasta with smoked salmon is delicious, thank you for asking, Papa.”

Regulus slowly blinks at the three children happily munching away at their lunch— actually no, they are way past lunch. More like early dinner.

He turns to his dear husband. “I thought children stuck to small portions of some simple meat and chips? Or that they went for the sweet stuff immediately?”

“Not these ones,” Tom says with a chuckle. “These are special.”

...Indeed they are.

Chapter Text

The letter to Regulus arrives Saturday morning, among many others filled with regular ass-kissing that he doesn’t really care for and thus the castle magically stores away for later perusal (so he could decline the continuously incoming party invitations because, umm, hello, trauma). This one though is brought by the single grumpiest owl that Regulus has ever seen, straight through their kitchen window.

The owl glares at him for a moment before sticking its foot out, showing off the very sharp claws attached to it.

What a wonderful way to start the day, right?

Regulus cautiously reaches out a hand and disentangles the letter tied to the owl’s foot, which lets him take his first glance at the sender.

It’s... It’s from Severus Snape.

...Shit.

“Papa?” Harry asks, looking up from his plate of drop scones currently drowning in blueberry syrup. “Who’s that from?”

Who it’s from? Why, the Hogwarts Dungeon Bat, a.k.a. your Worth Nightmare, apparently.

“A... friend of mine.”

And now he has the attention of the entire room. Great.

“Which one?” Harry inquires curiously at the same time Ron exclaims, “You have friends not in prison?!”

That, while extremely rude, isn’t a thought Regulus can blame him for. Or at least not since he’d been enlightened that most of his friends really are in prison.

“Yes, Ron. As it stands, some of my friends managed to avoid getting locket up.” Regulus frowns down at the letter in his hand. “At least I do hope he still considers me as such. I really don’t want to end up in Saint Mungo’s on a Saturday.”

The boys send a wary glance at the seemingly innocent white envelope.

“The wards wouldn’t let through anything harmful,” Tom pitches in helpfully.

“Oh, cool,” Harry says as he moves closer. “But who’s it from?”

He sees the name of the sender and lets out a horrified cry, which Regulus would call an overreaction had they not told him about their Potions lessons.

Ron snorts and takes a bite of his scone. “Oh come on, mate. It can’t be that bad.” He also gets up and comes closer, then mirrors Harry’s reaction. Tom just looks on with amusement.

Regulus has enough of everyone silently staring at the envelope, so he opens it up and takes the letter out of it.

...The contents don’t fill him with much hope about his continued survival, considering the exact words Severus used to express that he wants to meet up.

At the Hog’s Head.

Tomorrow.

...He’s going to get kidnapped, isn’t he.

“Ugh, you were friends with Snape?” Ron asks with a disgusted expression, unable to look away from the letter.

“I am friends with Severus,” Regulus insists as he folds it back up. “And what’s with that reaction?”

Like, fine. He will freely admit that Severus isn’t the friendliest or... Yeah, he isn’t friendly in the most common meaning of the word (or any meaning of the word), but they make him seem like the second coming of Grindelwald.

The boys share a look across the table.

“It’s just, Professor Snape is... Well.” Harry looks at Hermione with a lost expression, then at his plate of scones, sneakily being refilled by Kreacher. At least someone’s making sure Harry eats his fill. “He... doesn’t really like Gryffindors?”

I wonder why.

“Oh, come on. He can’t be that bad—”

Hermione looks up from her book and opens her mouth. “He tried to kill Harry.”

...SEVERUS DID WHAT—

“And Hermione lit him on fire,” Ron adds helpfully, the boys sitting back down.

“I repeat, he tried to kill Harry.”

“Yeah, and you’ve turned him into a really nice torch.”

...Alright. Regulus will be the first to admit that sometimes Severus struggles with being impartial; he would have never expected him to name any offspring of James Potter as his star pupil. But attempted murder of a minor is stretching it even for him.

The kid has half of Lily’s genes, for Merlin’s sake. That has to count for something.

Regulus leans back in his chair and looks at his dear husband for help, who sends him a smile.

“Actually, Quirrel cast the curse on the broom,” he says. “Severus was in the middle of countering it when they decided to intervene.”

Silence falls on the kitchen, stretching for a full minute.

“...I lit the wrong member of the faculty on fire,” Hermione mutters without any emotion, empty eyes staring at the wall.

Ron pats her shoulder consolingly. “At least his robes burned a very pretty blue?”

...Sure, kid. Focus on that part and not on the fact that you nearly killed your teacher in the middle of a quidditch match.

Regulus glares at Tom when he hears him chuckle. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asks with an angelic smile.

“Don’t say anything. Their morals are messed up enough as it is.”

“I was just going to tell them—”

“Don’t.”

“Oh come on, setting fire to one’s professors or classmates isn’t even that serious—”

“What the hell happened to you at Hogwarts to make you say that?!”

“Defense classes, darling. With Galatea Merrythought.” He picks up today’s Prophet and calmly pages through it. “Oh, look. Some elderly witch says she saw our kids best a dragon in Albania. How... Imaginative. Though I still prefer the Fae Court theory. Would that make us its king and queen?”

“...I’m not even going to ask.” Regulus pushes himself away from the table. “Thank you for your work, Kreacher, breakfast was delicious. If any of you need me, I’ll be in the library contemplating what I’m going to tell Severus that would ensure that my life-expectancy doesn’t decrease drastically in the next fourty-eight hours.”

“Make sure to sprinkle in the fact that I’m not the Dark Lord!” Tom shouts after him.

Regulus walks out of the kitchen without another comment. And spends the rest of the day in the library. And comes up with nothing.

“He’s going to kill me, Tom,” Regulus laments and continues knocking his forehead against the mantel of the fireplace. “Kill me and dissolve my corpse in some strange potion, if he doesn’t loot it for useful ingredients before—”

Because he knows Severus. The man definitely won’t be happy when he hears the news that Regulus has eloped with the alter ego of their former boss, no matter how much Regulus will plead that Tom isn’t— Isn’t Him.

Tom is Tom, and he’s Regulus’ now. And he would be very sad to have to off Severus just because the man decided that this is too much for their friendship.

But then again, he knows that he would do anything for his new kids. And his new husband. Even if Tom probably has a dozen ways already planned to dispose of any suspicious corpses that might crop up in the next few days.

(“Really, Tom? Thestrals?”

“What was I supposed to do? They started eating it by themselves! And it’s not like the kids were that bothered by the sight—”

“You let the children watch it?!”)

“Darling.” Tom puts his hand between the fireplace and Regulus’ forehead. “You are going to give yourself permanent brain damage at this rate. Why don’t you sit down for a moment?”

Regulus doesn’t protest when Tom pulls him down onto the sofa and tucks him into his side, instead he swings his legs over his lap and drops his head onto Tom’s shoulders.

They are very fine shoulders.

“He’s going to kill me and the children will weep,” Regulus whines, voice muffled against his husband’s flattering, sage coloured shirt. It’s a nice colour on him. Makes him look all soft a mushy, like a fairy tale prince someone drew just for him.

“He’s not going to kill you,” Tom counters firmly and pulls him closer, the warmth of his body seeping into Regulus. Or a warming charm. He won’t complain either way.

“Drown me in a cauldron, or just show a vial of some disgusting sleeping draught down my throat and drag my unconscious body up to Dumbledore—”

“He’s not going to kidnap you either.”

Regulus squints up at him. “You can’t know that.”

“I spent the past semester watching him; he’s not going to kill you. Even if he made a bunch of eleven-year-olds piss themselves in fear on his first Potions lesson.”

“That’s not really reassuring, I hope you know.”

Tom releases a deep sigh, Regulus’ head moving along with his chest. “He’s not going to kill you,” he slowly enunciates, “because Kreacher will stun him the moment he even twitches suspiciously in your direction.”

...Ah, yes. Right.

Regulus lifts his head the same moment Tom leans down and drops a kiss on his forehead.

“You will return to us safe and sound,” he says with a smile as sweet as honey, making a shiver run down Regulus’ spine, “or else I will make sure that the Order of the Phoenix won’t stop finding his pieces for months. And then I’ll hunt them down one by one and revel in their screams until we finally have you back.”

...Well. If that isn’t ample motivation, he doesn’t know what is. And to think he almost forgot whom he just married...

“I thought the Order of the Phoenix disbanded upon Other You’s demise?”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Do you really think the old coot won’t gather them again upon my supposed return?”

...Yeah, fair.

“But then why would he let Severus—”

“You assume Dumbledore has control over everything,” Tom says with a smirk and runs his fingers through Regulus’ hair, essentially turning him into a pretty putty. “But even if he knows his potions teacher is planning to meet you, he used to use Severus as a spy in the war, no? It wouldn’t be that far-fetched to think he would count on my immovable trust in him and send the man into enemy territory again.”

“That’s cruel.”

“But is it unbelievable?”

It... it isn’t.

Tom’s right, of course he is, but... Regulus wants to believe that Severus wouldn’t harm him, but war changes people. He doesn’t know if he’ll even recognise the man he’s about to meet.

His head drops back onto Tom’s shoulder, making the man chuckle.

Regulus doesn’t necessarily want to lie to Severus, but would the man ever make peace with the fact that Regulus basically married the Dark Lord? A dreamy version, but still. He doesn’t think Severus would even hear him out unless he ties him to a—

His head shoots up, almost knocking into Tom’s chin were it not for the man’s quick reflexes. “What if we don’t give him a choice?”

“...I don’t follow?”

“Like, just—” Regulus gestures around wildly, almost smacking him in the nose. Oups. “He’s not going to believe me anyway, so there’s no use in trying to dupe him. Why not just... I don’t know, kidnap him?”

“...You want to kidnap your friend?”

He huffs. “You don’t have to say it like that. It’s not like you didn’t plan to dispose of Narcissa if she ever lifted a finger against any of us.”

“I would like to remind you that she drew first blood and I didn’t—”

Regulus waves him off. “Yes, yes, you were a very good boy and you got your reward for that. Anyway, if I tell him I’d be glad to introduce him to my husband and children and then you just, I don’t know, have Nagini jump him after we floo through—”

Tom lets out a snort, the sound somehow managing to come out attractively. He grins down at him. “I thought you said he was your friend?”

“Well. “Regulus sniffs and tries to sit more elegantly in his lap. “Better safe than sorry, no?”

Tom’s laugh burrows warmly into his chest as he pulls him down for a very much not chaste kiss.

Regulus steps out of the iridescent green flames onto the filthy stone floor of the Hog’s Head Inn. Not showing his disgust at the sights and smells, he goes over to the barkeep.

“Good evening. I believe my companion has made a... reservation?”

Aberforth Dumbledore, a gaunt man notoriously on bad terms with his famous brother, gives him a surprisingly neutral nod. “Lad’s already up there in Room 7. Stairs at the back. He has booze.”

...Right.

Regulus nods and goes up the rickety wooden staircase, a sure safety hazard if he ever saw one. He’s standing before a dark wooden door in no time, the number 7 sloppily carved into it at eye level.

Well, Here goes nothing, he thinks and opens the door.

Miraculously, he doesn’t need to dodge any chairs or Stunners flying at his head, though probably only because Severus continues staring into his mug full of... some unidentifiable liquid. Regulus doesn’t trust the establishment to serve them regular alcohol that won’t make him black out for three days and wake up naked in the middle of a fairy circle.

He closes the door behind him and tries for a smile. “It’s been a while, Severus.”

No answer comes.

Regulus sits down across the man and really looks at him. Severus—

...Wow, did teaching make him look like shit. The greasy hair, the dark circles under his eyes... Regulus hadn’t seen him like this since NEWTs.

“So... How long until Moody drags me away for interrogation?”

Severus lets out a snort. “Somehow I doubt he could take you, going by that particular brooch that simply oozes power.”

Ah, Severus and his keen sense of magic.

He isn’t exactly wrong, per se; there was no way Tom would have let him leave without making sure he had a way of escape at the ready. It just so happens that this particular brooch had some... extras built in beforehand, shall we say.

Severus raises his weary eyes for the first time since Regulus entered the room. “Where were you, Regulus? We thought you dead.” He puts his mug on the table and straightens up on his rickety chair. Regulus sees now what the kids meant when they said Severus had a certain presence that made lesser men quiver in their boots.

He sure grew into his glare.

“Well. We... could say that my attempt at heroics didn’t go as planned.”

Severus leans forward with a glower. “As planned?”

“Technically—”

“Do not ‘technically’ me, Regulus Black.” Oh wow, that’s a very familiar tone. Almost nostalgic, what with the use of his full name. The only thing that’s missing is— “In case you haven’t yet realised with your pea-sized brain, I do not take kindly to lies. Spill or I leave.”

Ah, yes. The insults. That’s what was missing.

Regulus sighs and keeps himself from leaning his elbow on the table with all the stains of mysterious origin on it.

“Fine. I may have trapped myself underwater in a cave filled with inferi.”

“You... May have trapped yourself in a cave, filled with... Inferi.”

“Oh, no,” Regulus waves his hand, “The cave was mostly empty. The water was filled with inferi.”

It seems like Severus doesn’t share his sentiments, for he faceplants onto the table and groans. “You foolish, imbecilic—”

“Hey!”

“—son of a—”

“Language, Severus!”

He shoots up with the fury of a thousand harpies. “Language?! You really think that my use of the English language is the problem here?! It’s a miracle you aren’t dead!”

Regulus shrugs. “Well, yeah. There was a stasis charm on the lake, apparently.”

Severus pinches his nose and very slowly lowers himself onto his chair again. “Pray tell, then, how in the bloody hell did you get out of it?”

“...My husband came for me.”

Regulus refuses to look away from his wide black eyes, dark and wide as a bottomless void. aAnd entirely too ridiculous for his liking.

“...Pardon me, I must have misheard it. Did you just say your husband came for you?!”

“...Yes?”

Severus looks at him like he’d never seen him before. “You aren’t married, Regulus.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“Yes, I am.”

They stare at each other in silence.

“...I can’t do this sober,” Severus ends up saying, which is just what Regulus wanted to hear.

He gives him a wide smile as he shoots up from his seat in a second. “Wonderful! We have much better quality alcohol at home. Do you think we can apparate from here?”

For some reason Severus doesn’t share his enthusiasm, staring at him with unflinching eyes. “...We. As in, plural.”

“Yes?” Regulus raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to get drunk or not?”

Severus stares at him a bit more, then throws his hands in the air. “You know what, sure. Let’s get drunk.”

Regulus smiles.

All according to plan.

Severus lets Regulus apparate him. A hazardous decision on the best of days, but he couldn’t care less at the moment.

They arrive before a bloody castle. Not out of character for the Blacks, though the design of the door reminds him of something he can’t quite put his finger on.

They step inside and he has to stop for a moment. First, the interior of the estate is light and airy, not something he expected. Second, there’s a slightly familiar man just to the left of them, shooting up from a pink couch with a pleasant smile.

Severus saw the poor-quality picture of him in the Daily prophet two days ago. He also heard Albus choke on his lemon drop when he laid eyes on it.

Apparently, the Dark Lord is back and masquerading as Regulus’ cousin.

Joy.

And Potter is still missing.

Severus keeps himself from glaring at the man as he bounds over to them and—

...Based on how the man in question just gave Regulus a very passionate kiss, he would bring that cousin status into question. Hopefully. And the Dark Lord part, if only for Regulus’ sake.

...Merlin, his friend better not be snogging their former boss in front of Severus’ eyes.

Please, let Albus be wrong. Just this time. Please. My sanity won’t survive it if he isn’t.

Severus has to clear his throat twice for the man to let a dazed Regulus go. He smiles (why is that so familiar, what does it remind him of, why can’t he—) and sheepishly runs a hand through his hair, messing it up a bit in a very familiar manner. He just can’t quite put his finger on—

“Pardon me, we just weren’t sure you’ll let him get back in one piece. I’m Thomas Black.” The man holds his hand out for a handshake, a surprisingly muggle gesture for a pureblood Wizengamot lord. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Severus has to immediately occlude the unexpected picture of Lily holding his hand out for him on their first meeting, way too familiar green eyes staring back at him like smaller ones decades ago.

(“I’m Lily Evans. It’s nice to meet you! Now, will you please help me get that ribbon back in one piece? My sister will complain for a week if I tear it and I can’t reach that far up even from here on the tree.”)

Now, Severus isn’t one to believe the codswallop that the papers in Britain seem to litter their daily life with, nor is he prone to believe in Albus’ every word without question. He prefers to make his own judgement instead of having others do the thinking for him, thank you very much.

And this man just doesn’t seem like the Dark Lord.

The muggle greeting, the effortless smile, the way his eyes lit up at the mere sight of Regulus... No, he doesn’t think the Dark Lord would be a good enough actor to dupe both Regulus and him. (Or just him in general. Lately he has doubts about Regulus’ mental state.) He doesn’t even have the menacing aura that the Dark Lord was known for, his magic failing to make him shiver in dread just by being in his mere presence. No sign of any sliver of powerful but somehow corrupted magic making his skin crawl, of barely masked power threatening to bring him to his knees. This is just... A man. A handsome one, he would give him that, and definitely not weak, but still clearly mortal, unlike a certain individual that had lost all but the barest resemblance to one.

A man who somehow managed to seduce his friend, apparently.

Severus shakes the offered hand. “Severus Snape. And I’m pretty sure the pleasure is Regulus’.”

Again, the man laughs. Severus doesn’t think he has ever heard the Dark Lord laugh and didn’t immediately wish to vacate the premises.

“Oh, do call me Thomas. Any friend of my husband is a friend of mine.”

Well, that confirms that at least. The Dark Lord would never be on first-name basis with anyone, let alone using such a muggle name.

“Severus, then. Regulus tells me you would be able to provide me with better quality alcohol than the Hog’s Head.”

The man, Thomas, laughs again.

“That we could, if you would just follow me.” He turns around and starts off towards the stairway Severus had spied upon entrance. “Pretty sure we have something that would fit your tastes. Anything you crave?”

“As long as it gets me through Regulus’ tragic backstory, it doesn’t matter.”

They reach the long corridor at the bottom of the stairs in a short time, the window to his right giving him ample view of the inner courtyard where strings of fairy lights illuminate the outside. Truly a picturesque sight, though again, not something he would have expected of Regulus.

Maybe he should reevaluate his view of his friend, too.

They turn the corner and cross a, presumably, second drawing room if he also counts the one with the pink couch, then enter a literal pub-area. There’s a bar straight in front of him whose leather bar-stools call to him right now with a very tempting melody.

Or, which is more likely, Aberforth put something in his drink again.

Nevertheless, he takes a seat at the bar and waits for his current dilemma to serve him something drinkable and preferably alcoholic. Regulus seems to have left for Merlin-knows-where, so it’s just Severus in he—

“Dad? Is that you?”

...Fuck.

There’s a child there. Somehow he had missed the archway to his right this whole time and a child just came through i—

Correction, there are three children in the room connected to the pub, staring at several pieces of paper with muggle pencils in their hands.

...Merlin help him, Regulus had spawned. Just what this world needed, more Blacks. As if the current ones weren’t enough of a blight to everyone in their vicinity.

“I do not presume you mean me, child,” he manages to grind out. The children, two boys and a girl if he sees right, though he wouldn’t bet his money on that guess after a decade into teaching, freeze. Their heads slowly turn towards him with identical expressions of dread.

That’s the moment Thomas comes back through the door behind the bar.

“I didn’t really know what you would like so I just brought wine and whiskey, a bottle each. Choose whichever you want, though I would recommend trying the wine first. It’s supposed to be quality vintage.” Only then does he seem to register the staring contest Severus and the children are unwillingly stuck in. “Ah, I see you’ve met the kids. Green eyes is Polaris, silver is Asterion, and our only daughter is Carina. Children, meet Regulus’ friend, Severus Snape.” They timidly wave at him. He waves back. The situation still baffles him. “Wonderful. Now that you know everyone— Oh, hey. Right. Severus,” he looks up at the man upon hearing his name, “To your left is my sister, Genevieve. Genie, this is Severus.”

A woman with an eery resemblance to Thomas and... someone he refuses to even consider, steps up behind Severus and sends him a sharp smile. “A pleasure. What are we having?”

Severus knows danger like the back of his hand. He had danced with it through the ballrooms of battlefields and ominous meetings in pureblood manors for years and years, and before then alone inside stone hallways with no one to watch his back.

He doesn’t wish to traumatise the children by having them see him get strangled on this fine evening.

He carefully pushes the bottles closer to the woman, which earns him a baffling pat on his head. “Good boy. Thomas, why can’t you be more like him?”

“Our relation overrides my self-preservation instincts.”

The woman pops open the bottle of wine. “Touché.”

...Well. This is quaint and all, but Severus also wants to get drunk.

He cautiously holds out his wineglass that magically appears before him and gives her a thankful nod when she fills his glass to the top.

...Hmm. Certainly better than Aberforth’s.

Regulus comes back while he’s tasting his drink and goes over to the children that keep looking at him with matching suspicious expressions. He doesn’t know why. They aren’t even his students.

“What were you doing?” Regulus asks in a low tone, leaning down and taking a quick peek at the sheets of paper messily spread out on the table.

It’s the green-eyed child that answers him, still sending Severus unsure glances. “We... Umm, we were just... drawing? You know, uh, what R— Rion told us about? The dragons, I mean. I... I drew an Antipodean Opaleye. Since, you know, there’s my wand for reference and... Err. Yeah.”

By the time he trails off he manages to work up a deep blush over his cheeks, the sight making Severus have a flashback to the time he asked Regulus who he was writing a letter to in third year and he had spluttered out the name of his house-elf. To this day Severus doesn’t know how to react to that, but the child looks just like Regulus did then, so he proceeds to ignore the kiddie table to his left. Which leaves him with... the siblings. Twins, possibly, which doesn’t fill him with any hope of keeping his sanity if only going by his experiences with both the Lestrange and the Weasley twins.

He immediately regrets his decision and turns back towards Regulus. “I was promised a story, I believe.”

And it better be a bloody good story or Merlin help him he’ll fling a barstool at his friend.

“Ah... Yes, I believe I did do that.” Regulus straightens up and comes over, sending a quick glance to his husband across them on the other side of the bar. “Well. Do you want the good or bad news first?”

“Bad.”

“...So, don’t kill me, but technically Dumbledore isn’t wrong in his belief of the Dark Lord... being back. In the most basic sense of that word.”

The sound of three little heads hitting a wooden surface can be heard in the silence following that statement.

Severus’s eyes slide to the smiling man in front of him. “...Really.”

“...Yeah.”

He keep his eyes on Thomas as he continues to converse with Regulus. “This wouldn’t be in the slightest bit connected to the fact that you are apparently married now.”

“...It might be.”

“With children.”

“Yes.

“Three children. Two boys and a girl, to be precise.”

“Would you like the good news now?”

I hate it so fucking much when the puzzle pieces click in the worst way possible.

Severus puts his wine glass down and prepares himself to flick his wand out of his holster at the slightest abrupt movement. He also searches himself for any signs of poisoning that he can pick up, but alas, he finds nothing.

His head snaps towards Regulus. “What I would like is an explanation before I get dismembered by the Dark Lord, whom you are now married to. Apparently.”

 “...So, good news is, you aren’t going to be dismembered?”

Severus has had enough. To hell with Regulus, to hell with Albus, to hell with the still smiling Dark Lord across him and to hell with the children in the adjoining room whose identities he’s ninety percent sure of by now.

He turns to the Dark Lord and throws caution to the wind. He’s willing to have Lily punch his lights out sooner than expected.

“So. Thomas, if that is even your real name—”

“It is.”

“I have not the slightest care for that information right now, but anyway. Do tell me why I am apparently likely to survive this encounter, if you would be so inclined.”

The Dark Lord snorts. “Yeah, I see what Regulus meant by better safe than sorry.” He sends a look to his ‘sister’, who on the other hand Severus doesn’t know any bloody thing about.

She leans closer. “Ssseverusss, if you do not behave yourself, I will be forsssed to... ressstrict your movementsss, shall we sssay. And neither of usss would want that, yesss?”

...Yeah, no. Talking back to the Dark Lord whom he’d been calling Thomas of all things for the past twenty minutes? Fine. At most he’ll get an Avada in the chest and be done with it. Talking back to a women who had just implied would either rip his throat out or turn into a snake and possibly swallow him whole? Not the way he wants to go.

Severus sits ramrod straight, unwilling to even blink. She pats him on his head again, which earns them a snort from the Dark Lord. Thomas. Whatever.

“In hindsight, we could have just led with this,” the man comments, head cocked to the side. Severus is starting to see the resemblance to his previous look. If in nothing else, then in his behaviour. “Though it’s certainly... less troublesome to have you cornered in our cellar.”

“For hiding a body?” Severus can’t help asking. His hands don’t tremble, but only due to an ingrained habit he had to develop through long Death Eater meetings in the past.

The Dark Lord just looks on, amused. “Oh, I was serious about Regulus’ friends being mine as well. No bodies to hide today.” That doesn’t say anything about tomorrow or after. Or before, judging by Quirrel’s still missing status. “Unless of course someone decides to be a threat, you understand.”

Severus isn’t afraid to admit that the sight of that thing on his face few would call a smile makes him gulp.

He’s about to answer when the sound of quiet snickering hits his ears. Slowly, very slowly so as to not even rouse the possibility of depicting himself as a threat in any way, shape or form, he turns his head to the left where one snickering boy is muffled by the other and steadily kept being kicked by the girl.

...What the bloody hell.

His head snaps back to the front when he hears a snort, coming from Regulus of all people.

Treachery. Betrayal. Lucius would never.

“Forgive me if I am mistaken,” he drawls while flexing his fingers in lieu of being allowed probably nothing more, “but I seem to have been left out of some kind of joke, for I am unable to find anything funny about this situation.”

Regulus looks up at him with shining eyes.

...On second thought, his reaction might have been from the stress. Maybe, just maybe he’s being held here against his will?

A man could dream.

Severus makes sure to look him straight in the eyes and in a last-ditch effort cautiously lets a sliver of a thought drift over into Regulus’ mind.

‘Blink twice if you are held here against your will.’

Regulus bursts into laughter. Quite uncalled for in his opinion.

“No, no, I— Hah— Sorry, Severus, I just— I swear, I wasn’t trying to— to—” He just continues laughing.

...On third thought, Regulus is an idiot. An imbecilic, slug-brained little—

The woman beside him tops up his glass as the Dark Lord (of dubious identity) lets his smile take on a gentler edge.

“Drink up, mate. No snake jail for you tonight,” Genevieve, or whoever she is, says.

He downs the full glass in one go.

Fuck, it truly is quality wine.

“Is this why he was sending those longing glances at the bigger cauldrons?” one of the brats, he can’t quite guess which one at the moment, asks the rest of the little peanut gallery in a whisper.

He can’t help himself. “The reason for that, children, is that your miserable concoctions had been steadily draining my will to live for the past decade. Do forgive me for fantasising about either drowning myself or one of you.”

“No drowning,” the Dark Lord pitches in.

“...No drowning,” Severus grudgingly repeats. Which still begs the question. “So, which part was the prank? Because Regulus,” he looks at his ‘friend’, “if you made me feel worry for your sorry arse in vain, I will—”

“Go and snitch to Dumbledore?”

Severus narrows his eyes. “No. I am reasonably sure that your new sister-in-law wasn’t kidding about restricting me and I do not wish to incur her wrath.” He readies himself. “But I will get up and leave, and I will never speak to you again from this day onward.”

“Did he really just gave the I-won’t-be-your-friend speech?”

“Shut up, brats.”

They shut up. Regulus on the other hand just gives him a fond smile. “Oh, Severus—”

“I swear, if you are going to try and feed me another lie—”

“I haven’t lied to you since I stepped through that door at the Hog’s Head.”

“...Really.”

Regulus nods and leans closer, smile disappearing in the matter of a second. His eyes, normally shining silver things, look more haunted than Severus is used to seeing his own every morning in the mirror.

“Would you like to take a look at my mind, friend? Would you like to feel the biting cold of the chilly lake water? The grasping hands of the inferi tearing at my skin as they drag me down and down and—” He stops when the... man at his side touches his arm. “The thing is, Severus, I hadn’t lied to you. I did go there to die. I did spend the past decade underwater, surrounded by animated corpses, ignorant of the passing of time. I was rescued by Thomas, who is my husband.” He, the bloody idiot Severus deigns to still call his friend for some reason, tilts his chin up. “So would you like to hear a story tonight, or walk away unharmed but with your memories modified?”

Severus doesn’t have to think twice. He glares at Regulus and holds out his glass again to the women to his right.

“Top up. I refuse to leave until I get his miserably adequate explanation.”

The next morning, a very much hungover Severus sweeps through the door of the headmaster’s office in all his daunting glory. Which doesn’t seem to bother Albus one bit as he continues to wonderingly stare at his mountain of paperwork, but oh well.

Severus clears his throat. He really should have done this after getting something for breakfast, damn his morning classes.

“Albus, I have news.”

That does manage to get the man’s attention at least.

“Oh, Severus. Is something...” Albus frowns. “My boy, do you feel quite alright? A lemon drop, maybe?”

“I. Have. News.”

“...Very well, though you really should do something about...” He gestures to Severus’ very being, which he ignores.

“I met Regulus yesterday. Today. Whatever.” He doesn’t understand why Albus’ eyes grow more worried. “The point is, he’s married.”

“...I see. And that bothers you because...?”

“He’s married to Thomas Black.”

Albus chokes on his lemon drop.

Severus is filled with immense pleasure at the sight as he continues while the man hurriedly reaches for his cup of tea. “If you had shown us an actual memory of the last Wizengamot session instead of waving the grainy picture in the Daily Prophet into our faces, I could have told you days ago that your supposed Dark-Lord-in-disguise is actually Lily’s brother.”

Albus chokes on his tea too.

Chapter Text

Tom has a terrible feeling about this day.

He, the idiot he was, had promised his friends that they could visit him and meet their... god-grandchildren, apparently. He doesn’t know what he was thinking at the time, though he suspects the life-sucking Wizengamot session had contributed to his temporary insanity. And his friends, the absolute bastards they are, capitalised on it.

So. Here he is now, walking in circles before the drawing room’s fireplace on this bright Wednesday afternoon, awaiting his fate.

Or, well. Not really that bright, judging by the clouds gathering on the grey sky.

“This is stupid,” Regulus comments from his place on the sofa.

Tom shoots him a glare. “I didn’t hear you say that when you were going off to meet Severus.”

“I wasn’t sure he won’t kill me upon first sight or during explaining the situation. You don’t have that worry with your friends.”

“Oh, no. They will just absolutely embarrass me. Which is worse.”

Regulus just sends him a look, clearly transmitting how much he thinks Tom’s an idiot.

“Dear. You literally had to fish me out of your murder lake. I don’t think they can tell me anything that exceeds that.”

Somehow, Tom doesn’t think his husband understands the seriousness of the situation.

“Clearly you underestimate them. And what about the children? My so-called friends will make sure I lose all the respect I had managed to retain until now in their eyes!”

He dramatically throws himself onto the couch and embraces Regulus by his hips, mushing his face against his side. All he gets is a raised eyebrow.

“Fine. Let me rephrase that. I don’t think they can tell me anything worse than Nagini already did.”

...Bummer. He momentarily forgot that his new sister can speak English again.

“I wasn’t aware you had regular chats about me.”

“Oh, we do.” His husband starts to card his fingers through Tom’s neatly arranged tresses, irrevocably messing them up. Tom finds himself caring about that last bit less than he should. “Usually while you work your way through your mountain of paperwork so Garnak doesn’t manifest in the middle of the kitchen and drag you off by your ears.”

For a while they just sit there on the powder pink settee in peaceful silence, Regulus’ careful ministrations managing to calm his nerves a bit. Until, of course, his much beloved husband speaks.

“Say, did you really get the castle snakes to guard your friends while they slept?”

For fuck’s sake, Nagini. Did you really have to tell him about that?

Like, it wasn’t his worst moment (looking at you, horcruxes), but he wouldn’t call it his finest either.

“...In my defence, the upper years were notorious for their overnight pranks on the younger kids. Better safe than sorry, I say.”

Regulus hums. “And I’m sure tying tiny bows around their necks was a necessity too.”

“The boys were unable to tell them apart!”

“Sure, dear. Let’s leave it at that.”

Tom pouts. No one respects him in this house.

He’s just about to say that out loud when he hears the floo flare, Regulus’ black trousers gaining a green hue as Tom pulls himself even closer to him. He isn’t going to disrespect his husband by pulling away at the first sign that his friends notice them, and thus he ignores the whistles and chuckles coming from the direction of the floo.

“My, what a picture you two make,” Thaddeus comments, amusement clear in his tone. “Now I believe that your eyes really ‘glistened with tears that you refused to let fall’ while giving that interview to Skeeter.”

Tom feels a pat on his head from decidedly not his husband. He shoots a wandless Stinger behind him and revels in the yelps it causes. Then he turns his head and comes face to face with a pouting Corvus.

“I was just checking if you were asleep!” the man says, massaging his right hand. “See if I ever worry about you again. As if disappearing for a decade wasn’t enough. This is just plain abuse!”

“There, there.” Thaddeus conjures a snake-patterned band-aid and slaps it onto his hand without much care, drawing out another yelp from Corvus. Archie just claps him on the back none-too-gently.

That’s also the moment Tom tries to fully turn around, and subsequently proceeds to fall off the settee. The others, as expected, burst out in laughter. Including Regulus.

He gets himself off the floor quickly and kicks Thaddeus’ shin (because he’s the closest currently and also deserves it).

“Bloody ow, mate. Do I look like a doormat to you?!”

“Oh, I don’t know, some days—”

“You—”

Regulus clears his throat, trying to mask his subsiding chuckles as the room’s attention turns to him. “I— I think I better go and find the children. Call if you need us.”

And he just leaves him there, alone amongst the hyenas. Just... just bloody amazing. But fine, he can do this.

Tom slowly turns around. His friends are staring at him, earlier mirth nowhere in sight, easy smiles replaced with stone-hard faces.

He takes back everything. He can’t do this. He... he doesn’t want to do this. Not today, not ever if he can help it. Explaining things to Regulus’ important people wasn’t this hard, at least not to him.

He doesn’t know how they will react, what they are expecting. He isn’t, can’t be the same man that self-destructed a decade ago on Hallow’s Eve. He doesn’t... He doesn’t want to. And if his friends expect him to take up where he (not him, never him, Other Him) left off...

Well. He will burn that bridge when he gets there.

“...So.” His throat is dry like a desert. Did Regulus feel the same when Narcissa came? When Severus did? “I... suppose we should sit down. I—”

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” Thaddeus finishes for him, taking a step closer. “Where were you?”

Tom gulps. “I—”

He stops. He doesn’t know how to start. Where to start.

Thaddeus smiles. It’s not a nice one. “Why, did a kneazle got your tongue? It’s not every day you find yourself searching for words, Tom. Or is it Thomas now, godson?” he mocks, leaning ever closer until Tom is sure he can read the dread straight from his eyes.

“To be fair, you added the godson part, not m—”

“Cut the bullshit. The initial happiness at your survival had passed. What we want to know is, where. Were. You.”

And Tom... Tom starts laughing. he doesn’t know why. It’s not a happy sound.

“Why—” His voice comes out as a rasp. It wasn’t supposed to. Or was it? He’s not sure anymore. “Why couldn’t you ask me that when I kept coming back to the dorms in the middle of the night? Or, you know, after the incident?”

Corvus frowns. “How does that—”

“The girl,” Archie cuts him off, one hand curled around Thaddeus’ right arm (his wand arm, Tom notes unconsciously). “So you did do it.”

Tom goes around them and sits down. He tries to wandlessly pour them all tea, though some of it sloshes outside of the daintily painted cups. He doesn’t care. He has to do something, even if all he can do is such a menial task instead of blowing up the wall opposite him.

“So you killed the girl. And?” Thaddeus has a bit of a hard time following him with Archie’s hand still keeping his movements restricted and Corvus now coming over to sit next to Tom, effectively shielding his left side. “It’s not like anyone missed her. I don’t see why that would matter any—”

He stops. Tom doesn’t look up as silence falls onto the room. He can’t, not when they are probably replaying a bunch of memories in their minds that he either does or does not remember.

The silence is harrowing.

“...Tom?” Corvus gently nudges him. “What did you do?”

Tom laughs, the sound painful even to his own ears.  “At this point, it’s more what didn’t I do.”

He starts talking. It’s as if the words are tearing their way out of him, leaving him bloody and raw. He talks about the war back then, how much he feared that he would die every time he had to return to Muggle London. He doesn’t remember ever sharing that, too afraid that they would leave at the first sign of weakness. But now he knows that they wouldn’t have.

They didn’t leave because he was weak. They left because he was a bloody idiot who ruined everything, including himself.

So he talks about what little he remembers about the end of their school years, and then the remaining few after graduation, the memories becoming fainter and fainter as he goes on until all he can grasp at are the barebones of emotions (boredom and displeasure and so, so, so much anger), until the words peter out and stop.

And then he talks about Harry. Sweet little Harry, left an orphan and thrown at the worst relatives Tom could ever imagine (slim wrists and worn-out clothes and the crushing hunger for more even when he gets nothing, the poor thing barely able to move some days).

He talks a lot about Harry. Those are memories he remembers very clearly.

But eventually he runs out of words, and then comes the waiting. Oh, the waiting. He hates the waiting, but it’s not like he can do anything about it. All he has left to do is to sit there and wait for his friends to pass judgement.

If they will even be willing to call him their friend after everything. If not, then...

Then he’ll need to come up with a plan fast.

“So... you are fully our Tom, but you haven’t really been our Tom since... Fifth Year?” Corvus asks, brows furrowed as he stares into his cup, hopefully not trying to decide his reaction based on the tea leaves. Tom’s had enough of divination for a lifetime.

But hey, he didn’t get screamed at during his explanation once! That has to count for something, right?

...Right.

“I... can’t say that I was, no. Not really. And... I don’t remember most things after graduation.”

It was an... experience, to say the least, the first time he became aware inside Harry’s subconscious. One that made sure to teach a lesson. Unable to do anything but think, only knowing what happened until graduation and straight before his... creation, and nothing about the time in-between... And then Harry. By Merlin, some of those days he wished he wasn’t aware of what was happening outside. Because even with the ability to help speed up the kid’s healing... Life then wasn’t good (his fault, his fault, it was his fault—). And then came Hogwarts, which was... bad. Worse, in a way. Walking amongst the halls filled with such a tiny amount of children, seeing his kid dragged from clue to clue in a game he wasn’t aware he was even playing, unable to do anything aside from throwing a few stray thoughts that would hopefully keep him safe but which steadily went ignored in favour of other, more infuential ideas...

Suffice to say, he doesn’t want to know what would have happened had the children decided on not going through with that particular suspicious ritual.

“So,” Thaddeus adds, taking a last sip of his tea. “War’s officially over, right? At least, that’s what I got from your monologue.”

“Oh, war’s definitely over. It shouldn’t even have started.” Tom puts his cup down with a clatter. Maybe this isn’t the best time to ask, but... He has to. “Why did you let me do it? The war?”

He looks up, but none meet his eyes.

“I... suppose we thought it would be an easy win,” Thaddeus admits, fidgeting with the handle of his cup. “We were young and desperate, eager for some kind of change after Dumbledore started restricting everything he deemed ‘dark’ with his after-Grindelwald fame. You...” He glances at Tom’s hands, clutched together in his lap. “Hate to break it to you mate, but you were the perfect tool to reach what we wanted, harsh as it sounds. You were our friend, we used to have similar ideas, and with your charisma that could move mountains...” He manages to produce a wry smile. “But then with the situation heating up so quickly... I suppose we didn’t really realise that things were going awry until it was...”

“Too late,” Archie finishes solemnly for him. He glances at Corvus, who’s squeezing his teacup with whitening fingers. “At least for some of us.”

...Oh. Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange.

He’s an idiot.

Tom clears his throat. “Corvus?” The man looks up, eyes taking on a misty quality the longer the silence stretches. “I heard about two wizards and a witch named Lestrange when I visited—” Corvus begins to cry. “...Azkaban.”

“Good job, mate,” Thaddeus says in a dry voice as Archie pats Tom’s shoulder. And Corvus is still crying.

“I— Corvus, are you perhaps related?”

Corvus cries harder.

Thaddeus takes pity on him. “It’s his kids and daughter-in-law,” he whispers and draws Corvus into an embrace, the man continuing to cry into his shoulder.

...Damn it.

Tom has a lot ahead of him then.

He nudges Corvus with his foot, waiting to get a peek at his teary brown eyes. “Did they really do what they were accused of? Because Regulus’ friend was with them and he has doubts about— I mean, he doesn’t think any of the boys would have been able to...” He gestures around in a ‘you know’ motion and waits for an answer.

It doesn’t come for a long while.

“...You know what’s— what’s the worst of it?” Corvus asks, choking on the words as he lifts his head. “Even they don’t know. I— I was allowed to visit them upon their... their incarceration, and once a year since then and... I was able to speak to Rabastan. He doesn’t even know how they got there in the first place. And Rodolphus... He didn’t answer me at all, he never does and—” The tears start to flood again. “Oh, Tom. They were so—” Corvus turns back to Thaddeus’ shoulder.

...Well. At least the beginnings of a plan had started to formulate in Tom’s mind. It’s... a start, if nothing else.

“Corvus. Corvus, hey!” He snaps his fingers before the man’s face until he lifts his head again. “Good. Now that I have your attention, to what extent do you think I would have to modify their memories to get them out?”

Corvus blinks. “You... To—”

“Modify their memories, yes.” Tom points at his own face. “Gifted at the Mental Arts, remember? And anyway, Sirius Black’s trial will be the perfect opportunity to have the Ministry revisit the trials of the end of the war.”

Corvus starts to cry again. “You would— To have them—”

He throws himself at Tom. And Tom... Well, he tries to open his arms, but doesn’t have enough time, so he kind of just... sits there and tries to pat his friend’s back with restricted motion as Corvus cries on his shirt and hugs him like a teddy bear.

From over his shoulder, Tom can see Thaddeus send him a grin. “Glad to have you back, mate,” he mouths, Archie nodding in approval next to him.

...He supposes it’s good to be back.

Nevertheless, they decide to relocate to the living room after a while, that one having much more comfortable couches and being less... well, formal.

Tom has much fun seeing them gape at how lived-in the colourful room looks with all the pillows and blankets left in the form of a blanket fort they forgot to dismantle yesterday, the pack of UNO cards he picked up on a whim on their trip to Muggle London still in a messy heap in the middle of it.

Yesterday was a No-Sleep-Night, usually meaning that Harry had a nightmare, with his other two children somehow having gained a sixth sense for it and ending up waking him to immediately provide comfort. He didn’t mind it. He’d much rather be there and drown himself in coffee in the morning than wake up to Harry’s swollen eyes with dark circles under them, the usually lively child barely a ghost of himself.

Fortunately Kreacher got rid of the empty bowl of popcorn and mugs that previously contained hot chocolate, so the room isn’t as big of a mess as it was in the morning.

“It’s... not something we expected from you,” Corvus comments as they sit down, eyes soft as he surveys the room and still a bit red, but thankfully no longer filled with tears. “It suits, though.”

Tom lets a smug smile appear on his face. “As it should. I’m a father now, after all. And—”

Speaking of the devil, he’s immediately interrupted by the arrival of his family.

“Dad! Ron fell off Bruce again! Zorro caught him though, so you won’t have to set his arm this time,” Hermione informs him as the rest file in, led by Regulus and Nagini bringing up the rear. She has to push the kids inside though, because they freeze in the doorway.

“...Didn’t he say they were coming on Wednesday?” Hermione whispers to the boys from the corner of her mouth.

Ron frowns. “What day is it today?”

“Umm,” Harry scratches his head, “Tuesday, no?”

“It’s Wednesday.” Their heads snap to Tom as Regulus and Nagini take a seat on either side of him. He smiles. “And I gave you a warning during the weekend. And today free of lessons. Which reminds me, what did I say about flying without supervision?”

They blush, but do come closer.

“Err... Papa was there?” Ron tries weakly, but Tom just raises an eyebrow.

“From the beginning?”

“...We had our dearest Aunt with us?”

“I thought we agreed on responsible adult supervision.”

Nagini pouts as the kids proceed to sidle behind the couch they are sitting on, shooting unsure glances at his friends. The men in question look on with amusement, Corvus even letting out a slightly wet chuckle. (Probably being reminded of his own twin boys, as it turns out. Tom still can’t believe he missed that detail.)

“You weren’t like this with Narcissa,” he comments and gives Hermione a look, her being the easiest to influence amongst the three.

She lets out a huff. “Aunt Narcissa is family. A week ago we didn’t even know you had friends.”

Which, ouch. But her words at least lighten the mood, his friends bursting out in laughter.

After they finally manage to get themselves together, Thaddeus slaps his tights and stands up. “Well, they have inherited your snark perfectly.”

“They are adopted.”

“Yeah, yeah. Your influence domineers as always, bla-bla-bla. Now, what we’ve all been waiting for,” he reaches inside his coat, giving Tom an answer to why they were so reluctant to take them off (for the dramatics, obviously). “Presents.”

...Oh. He really should have expected this.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“Hush. This is like the baby shower we never got.”

Tousché, he supposes. Still—

“Oh, please. You haven’t even introduced yourselves and you’re already trying to bribe them.” Tom turns around and gestures to the children to come out from behind the couch. “Kids, these are my old friends, Thaddeus, Corvus and Archie. Don’t call him Archibald, he hates it with a burning passion.”

Thaddeus puffs up in indignation. “Did you just call me old? If I remember correctly, you were the first to be born—”

“Don’t worry, you aged like fine wine. Or cheese, I guess.” He points to each child. “Anyway, from right to left these are Harry, Hermione and Ron, officially Polaris, Carina and Asterion. Regulus you already know, and this is... Nagini.”

Corvus frowns while the others just raise an eyebrow. “You... named your sister after your snake?”

“My sister is the snake.”

He quite enjoys the picture his friends make with their slack jaws and bulging eyes.

“But— but she—”

“Was a Maledictus all along, ergo actually human in snake form due to a bloodline curse that I managed to break a month ago. You wouldn’t believe what we’ve got in the library.”

“...Oh.” Corvus replied intelligently, still stunned at the revelation. “...I suppose she deserves the first gift then.” With that, he reaches inside his coat and pulls out a light wooden box with intricately painted golden snakes gliding amongst colourful flowers, the art possibly his own work if Tom has to guess, considering how much Corvus loved to draw and paint in school. He hands it to Nagini with a faint blush on his face. “We... kind of called dibs on each of you as godfathers, and... Well. I hope you like it.”

Nagini accepts it with understandable awe directed at the box, or from the fact that anyone would ever give her a present, which he completely understands (even though the kids always bring her some kind of flower after every Herbology class Regulus holds, now that he managed to relegate it to him).

“You—” Corvus clears his throat after his voice breaks. “You should open it.”

She does. Lifting the lid reveals a simple silver chain bracelet with a snake cradling a gleaming emerald in the circle its body makes. She smooths a finger over the animal’s spine, momentarily ignoring all the sweets the rest of the little nooks are filled with.

“I— In hindsight, it doesn’t seem that good of an idea anymore, and if you don’t like it I can get you something el—"

Nagini breaks out into a smile so bright Tom has a hard time looking at her. “Thank you; it’s beautiful. Did you choose it yourself?”

Corvus blushes. “I— My wife helped with the bracelet, I just chose the sweets and... Well. I... painted the jewelry box?” He shyly peers up at her from under his eyelashes, Tom’s heart clenching at the familiar sight even with the years that passed.

Nagini’s slender fingers follow the gleaming golden scales on the lid, the painted snakes nuzzling against her hand. “Thank you,” her smile widens into a grin, “Godfather.”

Tom groans. Judging by Corvus’ teary eyes, he’s already smitten with her new ‘goddaughter’. He wonders how he hadn’t predicted this development.

“This is so strange,” Thaddeus comments.

“I know,” Tom says with a nod. “...Wait you are married?”

“...Mate, we all are.”

“To whom.”

No way. Why would anyone—

...Oh, right. Not in Hogwarts anymore. Riiight.

Still. His friends... married? He... supposes he should get used to the idea. He, too, is married now, after all.

But who would even—

“Well, we had to get over you somehow,” Thaddeus jokes with a grin.

Tom nods, finally understanding the situation. After all, tragic heartbreak is a perfectly understandable reason—

“...Wait, me?!”

Everyone, aside from him that is, snickers while he’s gaping at the audacity. Like the bloody traitors they are.

Fucking hell, not again. Do they have to get to this subject every time? He doesn’t deserve this treatment.

Archie just looks at him like he’s an idiot. Which, rude. “Tom. Mate. Everyone had a crush on you.”

...Everyone? Surely not.

“What? Of course not. You lot did not.” He stills his drumming fingers, trying to salvage every scrap of dignity he can. It’s not going well. “Like, Lord Black basically slapped me with the fact that Orion had a crush on me, but surely—

“I took you flying on my broom,” Archie says in a deadpan voice as Thaddeus laughs.

“We— we had library dates,” the latter adds after regaining the ability to breath, eyes twinkling in mirth.

“I literally filled three sketchbooks with drawings of you,” Corvus adds quietly. He doesn’t look up from his clasped hands.

...

...

...

...Oh.

Tom leans back in his seat. “...Bloody hell. Was I really that blind?”

“Abraxas taught you to play billiards and Orion to dance. Both in very inappropriate positions,” Thaddeus adds with great amusement.

Tom throws a pillow at him (which he dodges, but anyway). “Alright, you can shut up now. Anyway, whom should I send my condolences then, if you’ve gone to such great lengths to ‘get over me’?”

“Very funny. But now that you’re asking—” Thaddeus holds a dramatic pause and beaks into a grin. “—Madeline. I’ve snagged Madeline Bloody Sharp.

Tom gapes, suddenly reminded of who exactly that is. “No way. She hated you.”

“With a burning passion,” Thaddeus says smugly. “And as the saying goes, love and hate are just different sides of the same coin.”

Tom wonders how he’s still alive if he married Sharp. The memory of her almost slicing his friend in half during a Defence lesson is still clear in his mind. And his answer was trying to light her on fire. Which almost ended with the classroom on fire too.

...On second thought, they did exchange some intense gazes during their fights.

Tom shakes his head to get rid of those vivid pictures in his mind. “I... see. Wasn’t she a half-blood though?”

Thaddeus shrugs. “Mother didn’t care about it so long as she got grandchildren out of us, and she managed to somehow charm Father.”

“Ah.” That was... well done. “...Unrelated question, does she still like Acid Pops?”

Better safe than sorry, if he’s to interact with her in the near future. Thaddeus just continues smirking, so Tom takes that as a yes.

He turns to Corvus. “You also got a wife then?”

The man nods, a soft blush climbing onto his cheeks again. “I... Estelle. She’s called Estelle. From the French branch of the Malfoys.” He hesitantly glances over to the children who are intently soaking up all the new information like tiny, starry-eyed sponges, then looks back to Tom. “You wouldn’t know her, she’s a few years younger than us and went to Beauxbatons, but... but I think you’ll like her. When you meet, that is.”

Corvus is by now entirely red in the face, so Tom moves on to Archie. Who just stares back with a flat expression.

Tom raises an eyebrow. “...So?”

“So what?”

“Oh come now, Archie. Who did you snag?”

Because he can’t remember any moment with his admittedly spotty memory that would imply a school-sweetheart of any kind. With Archie, it was always trying to somehow plant the least suspicious amount of information to get him to pass History and Quiddich. No in-between. Or at least not often, except maybe when he sometimes snuck out to pet the creatures on the days they didn’t have Care.

...Alright, in retrospect, it was quite the whiplash-inducing scene when they found him buried under a bunch of puffskeins.

Tom subtly shakes himself to get his mind back to the present where he’s sitting across his friends and definitely not laughing at Archie as a Mooncalf delivers an uppercut to his chin.

Archie looks him in the eyes, and after a moment of consideration, says just one word. One damning word that has Tom reevaluate everything he knew. “Reyes.”

Reyes... As in, Taron Reyes? The boy that he’s pretty sure he saw bite down on one of the snitch’s wings after he dove off his broom for it? The same one that Archie used to use as target practice every bloody time they both stepped onto the quidditch pitch?

“You... married Reyes.”

“Yes.”

“Taron Reyes. the Hufflepuff quidditch captain.”

“Yes.”

“The same Hufflepuff quidditch captain who was also the seeker, half your height, and you hit him off his broom with a bludger more times than I dared count with a sane mind.

“Yes.”

Tom wonders if it was the brain damage that made that union possible.

“Give him my regards then. Now,” he claps, “you mentioned gifts?”

Thaddeus snorts and nudged Corvus with his elbow. “Since you’ve already started...”

“...Right. I—” He clumsily pulls out three large, ambiguously shaped packages with drawings of tiny golden stars on them and takes a deep breath. “Right. So I— I might have... misheard your ages and— Well. Just... Here they are, open them.”

He throws each child a present as if they were burning his fingers, nailing Ron straight in the nose unfortunately. It mustn’t have hurt that much though, because it bounces right off and into his hands.

While Ron immediately tears the wrapping paper straight off, Harry and Hermione are more careful in unwrapping their presents. The results are the same though: three stuffed animals.

...Were those nifflers?

...Those were nifflers.

Then children blink down at the plushies (Tom hopes at least that those aren’t real, going by their reasonably large size, though they are wiggling and nuzzling against the children all the same), and then blink up at Corvus with wonder.

“I... I’m sorry. I mistakenly assumed you were a lot younger and—”

They unanimously throw themselves at him and start babbling about how much they like their new plush nifflers. A black one for Hermione, a brown one for Ron, and a spotty black-brown-and-white one for Harry.

Tom really hopes they only go for their attached stuffed gold coin, lest he need to quarantine them from... basically all the furniture.

Alas, the children leave Corvus teary eyed but smiling as they hug their new stuffed nifflers close and chorus a ‘Thank you, Uncle Corvus’ in sync.

Archie pats his shoulder, effectively bringing the attention to himself.

“You are... Uncle Archie, right?” Ron asks, shy again at the close scrutiny they come under. Archie nods and pulls out three smaller boxes wrapped in green paper with brooms flying across. He gives each child one too, having a much easier time than Corvus did now that they came over from behind the couch. The children open them, revealing fancy boxes containing...

Wand holsters.

Finally something useful that Tom actually forgot the kids needed.

“No witch or wizard should keep their wand in their back pocket, lest they burn their arse off,” Archie says as he knocks his knuckles against the side of Ron’s box, him standing closest to the man. “Corvus helped with the aesthetics, so your parents wouldn’t complain about my taste.”

And thank Merlin for that. If it depended on Archie, they would have gotten three of the first one he saw in whatever shop he bought them instead of the finely crafted ones with golden details he can glance in the children’s hands, Ron having received a brown one while Harry and Hermione are clutching black and white ones respectively.

And then Archie looks them in the eye, saying words that make Tom facepalm. “So... Any of you play quidditch?”

They boys exchange a look while Hermione lets out a deep sigh.

“...Yes?” Harry asks, a bit confused at the sudden change of subject, but Archie just nods and stands up.

“Good. Lets g—”

Thaddeus grabs the edge of his cloak. “Sit down.”

“But I want to play—”

“We aren’t finished yet.”

Archie frowns but obliges, sitting back down onto the couch.

“Good,” Thaddeus says. “Now, some people forgot to tell me that we’re going with uniform gifts, so you will have to just deal with it.” He pulls out three flat boxes wrapped in eye-searingly pink glittery paper. There are already pieces falling onto the carpet.

...Is this payback for the time Tom mixed glitter into his shampoo in fourth year? It has to be. There isn’t any other reason for this travesty he’s being witness to.

Ron is the first to open his present, which is...

Oh, no. A three-man chess set.

By the gleam in the boy’s eyes, he’s already planning to beat them. He thanks Thaddeus eagerly, and Tom looks over to Hermione see what she got—

Good. Good. A book. Something that Tom is sure the man chose and she would absolutely love. The only question is what it’s about—

...The fuck.

“...Deus. My friend. Did you just give my daughter a book titled The Art of Secrets?”

“What? She will need it, with the whole secret identity and all.”

Tom facepalms and completely misses the moment Harry opens his present. He only looks up when the child gasps, and comes face-to-face with Thaddeus’ smug smirk. Apparently he got Harry a colouring book depicting all kinds of magical beasts, the black and white paintings moving around as the child brushes his fingers along the pages.

...Alright. Tom will forgive him for the glitter.

Thaddeus reaches inside his coat again. “We’ve also included some sweets,” he says and gives each child a small box. “There’s more inside than you would think.”

“Which you won’t consume before dinner,” Tom adds, then looks his friends over. “You are staying, right?”

“Why, of course. And—” Thaddeus pulls out another box with a wink. “This is for you two, though I’d advise you open it later. In private.”

...Tom resigns himself to shooting a dozen charms on it before coming near the box. He doesn’t even want to guess at what’s inside.

Archie stands up, making Tom sigh.

“Quiddich now?”

“You can kidnap them after dinner for an hour at most. With supervision. And watch out for the thestrals, they haven’t yet met anyone aside from us to my best knowledge, so I don’t know how they will react to three suspicious men following the children. Now come along, I’ll show you to the dining room.”

“Fine.” A beat of silence. “...Hold on, you have thestrals?!”

“Food, Archie. After the food.”

“...Fine. Also, you forgot to tell me that my new dead goddaughter was Lily fucking Potter.”

“...Did I really? My, it looks like my memory is failing me in my old age—”

“Tom fucking Riddle, you come back here this instant—”

Severus is sitting in the middle of the Burrow. And he hates every single second of it.

For one, Molly Weasley is shrieking her head off as usual, her husband nowhere in sight as usual (and Severus envies him for it), serving up a mountain of food for her guests as if they were in a tavern, the useless friendly chatter camouflaged as planning their course of non-existent action filling up the kitchen-living-dining area.

For two, he hates everyone here. Which isn’t unusual, considering that there are few people alive that he tolerates out of his own volition (Regulus graciously kept included after the frankly disastrous explanation he managed to shake out of him). But the room is filled with Albus’ friends, though it would maybe be more accurate to call them devotees, and he can practically count the collective braincells present on one hand, his own included and basically being the only one in attendance.

And due to Molly’s dinner plan the entire house smells like dead fish, which consequently makes him nauseous.

He so hates fish.

“But my boy, are you sure about the identity of Thomas Black?” Albus asks him from over the rim of his glasses as if Severus hadn’t been telling him just that for the past three days.

“Yes, Albus, I’m absolutely certain,” Severus grits out between his teeth. The suspicious glances from the so-called ‘old guard’ aren’t helping his mood. “And anyway, Regulus is the sweetest Black you’ll ever meet. I seriously doubt he would condone the kidnapping and mind-wiping of three random children.”

“He’s a Black,” Moody grouches, lured back to the Order with the disappearance of Potter and his friends, furthered by the hypothetical news of the Dark Lord rising again. And for some reason he brought his fledgling auror trainee with him, who so far knocked over her teacup thrice.

It already soaked Severus’ left sleeve twice and he would like it mentioned that he did not commit murder today. Yet.

Severus pinches the bridge of his nose as he hears a crash from that direction. He doesn’t turn his head.

“So is his brother. And as much as I hate the man, according to Thomas and the Potter’s official will, he didn’t betray them a decade ago, which is the main reason for him trying to get him released from Azkaban.”

“He could be lying to get a loyal soldier out of Azkaban. Or you could be lying for all we know—”

“I saw that fucking parchment with my own fucking eyes, and why would I even lie, you—”

Albus interrupts them with a grandfatherly hum and twinkling blue eyes that look oh so very gougable right now. “Gentlemen, please. I have full confidence in Severus’ tale, and though I still have doubts about the man’s identity, I will allow the possibility that he’s merely a... relative, as he’d admitted in our very own Daily Prophet, subtle as it was. Do not fear, though, my friends; my search is looking to bear fruit any day now in that area. Soon we’ll know exactly who is masquerading as Lord Peverell.”

Personally, Severus thinks he’s full of shit, but understandably doesn’t voice his opinion. He’d rather get back to his quarters without getting hate crimed in the middle of a countryside kitchen.

“But Albus, what about—” Molly starts, but the headmaster cuts her off.

“All in due time.” He turns back to Severus. “Truth be told, you may be right, my boy. If everything is as Peverell says it is, then we have to consider Sirius a... loose cannon for now, perhaps. A new variable, if you will, at least until we manage to find Harry. The young man we all thought we knew would have never worked with the murderer of James and Lily, after all.” And who set them up for it, huh. Fucking hypocrite. “Never mind, then. I will just speak with him after the trial if it is successful.”

With that, Albus says his farewells and disappears into the green flames of the floo, leaving Severus to somehow sneak away without notice and avoid getting stuck with a mountain of fried fish.

Honestly, the lengths he goes to for Regulus and his new terrors (added so Lily doesn’t take his head off whenever Thomas actually comes true with his promise of letting him attend one of their summoning sessions).

He goes back to Hogwarts and ignores the two couples he comes across on his way to his quarters. Filch’s infernal cat will take care of them anyway. He has a letter to draft.

Chapter Text

The trial of their uncle is tomorrow, meaning that everyone needed a distraction today. Which ended with a family trip (or just Nagini and them kids, because their parents would rather distract each other apparently) to the nearby town that they sort of forgot about until now.

Honestly, for Harry the existence of Hogsmeade was enough of a surprise to begin with. And now they are being told that there are other magical settlements aside from that and Diagon Alley?

Preposterous. Must check out immediately.

But anyway, turns out that witches and wizards like to live in hidden towns all around the countryside. And they have one such town right beside their home!

Well. It was a thirty-minute walk from home, but still. People.

Fairbrook isn’t exactly a big village, per se. It’s definitely smaller than Little Whinging, though according to Ron it’s bigger than where he’d lived, which basically consisted of only a few houses under the name of Ottery St Catchpole. It was, like, basically a muggle street with wards to keep any actual muggles from whatever little town its attached to unknowing of its existence.

But the point is, only magical people live here in the picturesque Tudor-style homes (according to Hermione), so different from the boring boxy house of his former relatives that just the sight brings a smile to Harry’s face. And having not one muggle in sight means that people are able to freely practice magic out on the streets without fearing discovery! And sure, having no electricity around kind of sucks, but Harry is willing to pray that price for magic. He’s willing to pay nearly anything for magic since his discovery of it. And anyway, a bit further north there’s a muggle town, so if you want more civilisation, it isn’t much further.

So far they had met at least a dozen old ladies who pinched their cheeks because they are ‘just so adorable, how come we haven’t seen you here yet dearies,’ and they successfully spread bits of their fake backstory. Which, if Harry is going based on the residents of Little Whinging, is going to be known by everyone come tomorrow. Or sooner.

According to two young women with kind smiles, the picturesque village has both a preschool and a primary school, which does make sense with the roughly 160 families that live there, and also makes the prying questions about their identities understandable. It also explains why they hadn’t yet met anyone their age, though it’s only a matter of time until they can try out their skills at subterfuge. Because apparently ‘isolation is bad for their growing minds’, though Harry doesn’t see what their dads are on about. They have each other around, don’t they? And they can always bother one of the adults around, or go over for tea to Aunt Narcissa, and their new uncles also extended an invitation to visit them. And Uncle Archie already got them tickets for the next Puddlemere match and—

So no, he doesn’t see what part of their lives is isolated, but he isn’t complaining about stepping outside their home. Fairbrook is nice and very much like the villages and towns he imagined when he sneaked into his primary school’s library and reverently browsed their fairytale selection. Dudley and his gang never stepped inside the library, so it was a perfect safe haven until he had to go back to his relatives.

They walk around and familiarise themselves with the neighbourhood. Apparently, the two smiley ladies have a four-year-old daughter named Olivia who just had her first accidental magic in the form of launching a chair straight through the window at the noisy neighbours because they interrupted her tea party (and she didn’t even get grounded for it, so... Yay for her?).

And amongst the old ladies, Mrs Hawthorne has six children and somehow managed to remember and list all her grandchildren’s names in birth-order, of which there are many, five amongst them currently at Hogwarts. Harry remembers no Alexander or Charles or Georgiana, though he hadn’t really spoken to any of the Ravenclaws, least of all the upper years, so. Good for her, though.

And Mrs Fable’s great-grandson Atlas is a magizoologist travelling around the world, which, wow.

And Mr Daunt was pushing his newborn son in a pram and Harry was allowed to tickle the soles of his little feet and—

So. They had a good morning. And then they had lunch at the local bistro, ordering dishes that Mrs Fable swore were delicious (and she didn’t disappoint).

After lunch, they decided to visit the playground. It isn’t a big playground, but Harry has never seen a magical playground so he’s appropriately awed. He climbs inside a tiny mushroom-shaped house; it’s bigger on the inside. And it looks like a mushroom there too! He goes up the stairs, it being a multi-story construct, and goes down a slide which turns and bends and goes upside-down and Harry is pretty sure he should have reached the end long ago.

...He wants to go another round.

Some of the swings are normal while some float and other ones have little bouncy balls that you can kick while you swing back and forth. Further away there are colourful shapes on the floor that bounce when you step onto them, and those bouncy animal-shaped seats that the muggles use to fling themselves back-and-forth actually move with you without the help of springs and make the sound of the creature they depict. Probably. Harry can’t tell what half of those are supposed to be.

So. They have fun. They have so much fun that Harry only realises that the playground became filled with kids when he almost slides into another kid who forgot to get away from the end of the slide in time.

...Oops.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Hey, umm, are you all right?” Harry asks the... the toddler (damn, the kid is tiny) sheepishly, though the boy just grins and throws a handful of gravel at him.

So. No harm done?

Harry goes back to his aunt who’s chatting with some other ladies to the side. He understandably doesn’t interrupt her. It’s not a common sight, seeing Nagini happily chat with strangers (not that she gets many chance to), but so far the residents were only nice to them.

Maybe it isn’t Harry and his siblings that need to get out more. Just saying.

The whole time he was running around, Hermione had stayed at a bench and been reading... something from the library. She looks up from her book at his arrival.

“Had enough of hogging the slide?” she asks with an upward tilt to her lips.

Harry sits down next to her and bumps their shoulders together. “I suppose I better stop before I actually flatten a kid.” He looks at Nagini for a moment; she’s currently engrossed in conversation with a wildly gesticulating women sporting a turquoise pixie-cut. “How long has she...”

“An hour at least,” Hermione answers, following his gaze. By now a short lady with dark skin and a colourful headband is leading the conversation, though she occasionally glances towards the seesaw (one that looks like two dragons and every time someone lands the heads spew tiny puffs of orange fire, how cool is that) where she probably has a kid playing. Or several, if one follows Mrs Hawthorne’s example.

Harry swings his legs on the bench. He’s still too short for them to reach the ground. “Cool. Did you see where Ron went?”

Hermione frowns in thought. “...I think a few boys are teaching him to play football?”

She looks towards the large patch of grass next to the playground where true to his words, Ron is running straight towards one of the goalposts Harry only now notices. And then he promptly loses the ball and faceplants onto the ground over another boy’s ankle.

Hermione lets out a sigh. “That’s also been going for an hour. Want to join him?”

Harry contemplates it for a moment, but in the end shakes his head. He doesn’t exactly have good memories about balls and team sports.

They sit there in silence for a while, Hermione having gone back to her book (A Compendium of Enigmas apparently, which he isn’t going to question by the eyes at the front page shifting to blink up at him and then away, thankfully) and Harry content to watch the playing children and eaves-drop on the chatting parents. Apparently, the dark-skinned lady’s husband has messed up his DIY project and now their tree house is chanting in ancient Greek instead of singing lullabies when they knock on its windowpanes. And the turquoise-haired lady has just yesterday painted a moving mural of colourful tropical birds on her eight-year-old’s bedroom wall and Harry really wants to see it or at least get the spell for that because it sounds so cool and—

...There’s a small white snake gliding along the fence towards the grassy area where the kids are carelessly running around while playing football.

Uh-oh.

Harry immediately shoots up and runs over to the snake, which he realises halfway through the playground might be a bad idea, so he skids to a halt a few metres away from it and slowly crouches down.

“Hey?”

The snake startles. “WHAT?!” it screams in a high voice, not unlike a child’s, and whips its head towards Harry.

Uhh. Good start, he supposes. Could have been better.

“Hello?” he tries again, trying to not spook the clearly young snake. “Umm, could you please not slide any closer to that grass? It’s just, there are kids playing there and I’m afraid they will step on you.”

The snake looks towards the grass, then back at Harry. “But… my friend is there?”

Shit. Another snake? For all he knows, it could already be—

“Cool, cool. Err, if maybe you could tell me where exactly you last saw your friend—”

“I can’t see over the grass. I’m tiny. But I can feel him around,” the snake chirps, ignorant of Harry’s ongoing mental breakdown. “Can you lift me up? I can tell you which one’s my friend!”

Harry reaches down for the little white snake with apprehension. They better not spy it’s friend’s corpse from here, or he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

The snake calmy accepts being manhandled a bit until it has a good enough view, and then starts wiggling around in his grip. “There, the blue one!”

Harry squints but can’t see any other snakes around, least of all a blue one, not even if he turns around and—

He’s bowled over by a very enthusiastic boy in a blue hoodie.

“You speak snake too?!” the boy asks with a bright grin and wide eyes a few shades lighter than his hoodie.

Harry shakes his head to clear it and takes a better look at his assailant. The boy must be close to him in age, though Harry can’t tell if he’s taller or shorter than him due to the fact that they are still laying in a heap on the ground. The small snake has already wound itmself around the boy’s neck and keeps nuzzling against his face, which brings his attention to the manic glint in the boy’s eyes framed by a smattering of freckles.

As he’d previously stated, uh-oh.

The boy doesn’t stop grinning as he stands up and pulls Harry with him. “Sorry, sorry. But you speak snake too! I heard it!”

Harry just stares at him in silence. Did he just—

“Hey,” Hermione says, coming between them. Her scowl doesn’t fill Harry with much relief. “Is there a particular reason you have assaulted my brother in broad daylight?”

The boy sheepishly scratches the back of his head. He seems quite flustered suddenly as he keeps sneaking glances at Harry. “Yeah, I— Sorry. I just saw him carry Snowflake and he spoke to her and—”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Snowflake?”

“...Yeah? Cus she’s a special little snowflake. Also, she’s white and her venom melts people, so,” the boy adds and shrugs, unconcerned.

Hermione’s scowl somehow worsens. Harry can already see her hair start to swish around her head like a particularly angry halo. “And you just let her wander around, unbothered if she melts my brother—”

“She wouldn’t do that!” the boy argues, stroking the snake’s head protectively. “And anyway, your brother spoke to her, like, he...” He turns to Harry, more unsure now. “…Please tell me I didn’t imagine it. Because I will look really stupid if you don’t understand me now.”

Harry contemplates messing with him, but... He clearly knows Parseltongue. And... and Dad said people usually didn’t react well to that. So. He decides to answer.

“I— You didn’t. I spoke to, err, Snowflake. She was going to enter the area you were playing and I didn’t want her to…” He glances at Hermione’s stunned expression. Bummer. She isn’t any help. “And, umm, hello? It’s nice to meet you? I’m H— Polaris.”

He almost said Harry, damn it. He needs more practice.

He sticks out his hand, hoping this isn’t another Malfoy-scene. That would be... awkward, to say the least. But the boy grabs his out-stretched had and shakes it with much enthusiasm.

“Nice to meet you! I’m Matt. And this is Snowflake, my familiar. Thank you for keeping her safe! She was supposed to sleep in my backpack, but I guess she woke up and wanted to find me.”

And then comes the silence.

...Maybe they do need to get out more.

“...Sooo.” Matt glances at Hermione, then back at Harry. “Do you both speak snake?”

That at least shakes Hermione out of her stupor. She facepalms. “Ugh. Of course this is how people find out.” She lowers her hand and lets Matt shake hers too. “Pleased to make your acquaintance Matt, I’m Carina Black. And yes, we both speak Parseltongue, along with our father, our aunt, and our brother Asterion whom you’ve been playing football with for the past hour. Do you ambush every person you hear hissing?”

Matt clearly needs a moment to process all that information, but then he gives her a grin. “I, uh, got carried away. Sorry. And, err, pleased to make your acquaintance too? I’m Matt. As I’ve said. Matt Sallow.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just, strangers rarely come here. So. This is new.”

Harry feels that on a soul-deep level.

“What kind of snake is she?” he asks before Hermione could start interrogating the poor sod. He doubts that the boy needs that so soon.

Matt looks down at Snowflake who’s currently trying to eat a flower from a nearby bush. “She’s a Seps. But I have permission to keep her, I swear! And, like, a bottle of antidote on hand.”

Good to know.

“She’s beautiful,” Hermione says, fearlessly reaching out and strokink the small snake’s head. And then she pins the boy with a meaningful stare. “So. Parseltongue?”

Matt grins. Harry feels a shiver go down his spine.

They stop before a large, two-storey house with vines climbing up the stone walls a couple streets away from the playground, a few trees and bushes in the front yard providing a bit of privacy for the occupants. The occupants being Matt’s grandparents apparently, one of whom also speaks Parseltongue.

Their dad is so going to faint.

They follow Matt through the black metal gate, the two small snakes decorating it hissing in greeting (not even a little bit on the nose, gees), Nagini herding them inside with a gleam in her eyes that spells trouble. Trouble for whom, Harry doesn’t know, but he’s happy to stall until he can.

“Are you sure we should—”

“It’s not like they will eat you,” Matt says without a backwards glance. Harry admires his confidence. “And I want to figure out how we are related.”

Like, sure, Harry is also curious about that. But Dad said the only Parselmouths in the entirety of Britain are the members of his maternal family. And according to him, they were assholes. No offense to Matt, but... He isn’t going into this with great expectations.

“Grandpa, Gramps! I’m home!” the boy shouts as he enters the house. “And I found some lost family members!”

There’s a crash from upstairs, and then the thundering of footsteps. And then there’s another crash.

“Get out of my way, you— ow, that’s cheating!” A voice can be heard saying from the left, and then two elderly men appear in the hallway.

Well. Harry says elderly, but really, they look more like those handsome slightly-older-than-middle-aged Hollywood celebrities his aunt used to sigh over when paging through her magazines.

So. Matt’s hot grandpas appear. And they just... stand there.

Harry waves. One of them slowly waves back.

“Matthew,” the other says with furrowed brows. “You can’t just kidnap people off the streets.”

“I didn’t! They speak snake! I heard them!” Matt, or Matthew as it turns out, whines.

The man just raises an eyebrow. “Do they.”

“They do.” Matt turns around and looks straight at Harry. He has quite similar eyes to his grandfather (the one that didn’t wave but spoke first) now that Harry has something to compare it to, though his are a few shades darker. Something about the man’s eyes though... “Say something!”

“Please, Matthew.”

“Please say something,” the boy repeats with pleading eyes.

And Harry... Harry’s brain comes up blank.

“I...” He looks around, furiously thinking. Of all the times to— But he can do this, he can. He just had to think about— His eyes get stuck on Snowflake, still neatly tucked around Matt’s neck. “I... We are sorry about the intrusion. We just... We moved nearby not long ago and we were just checking out the village when I saw Snowflake slide towards the tall grass and... And I picked her up. I didn’t want her to get hurt, but then Matt came barrelling into me, and then... And then everything got out of control.” He fidgets with his jumper. “So. Sorry.”

He gets more silent stares from the two man while Nagini snickers from behind him.

“...Hey,” Matt’s other grandfather says, nudging his spouse with an elbow. “Is he messing with us or—”

“He’s a Parselmouth, Sebastian.”

“...Cool. So, which one of your—”

“I’m thinking, so kindly shut up.”

The one named Sebastian throws his hands up in defense.

“I can practically hear you roll your eyes.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Sebastian sighs and looks around their audience. “Fine. Come inside, then. We’ve got some Eccles cakes baking.”

The tea is good. The cakes are good. And this is an absolute clusterfuck.

“You are lying,” states Matt’s grandfather by the name of Ominis of all things (and Harry isn’t judging, really, he saw his updated family tree) calmly after they give them the run-down of their backstory.  

The fake one, that is. Which apparently isn’t enough.

“Why do you say that?” Nagini asks curiously while the rest of them try to keep calm and not stage an escape right then and there.

Like, come on. They’ve been practicing! There’s no way that they messed up that bad that—

“I have an innate sense for telling when someone is trying to lie, and Sebastian has provided me with ample practice on top of it,” Ominis (because calling the both of them Mr Sallow was getting confusing really quickly) explains, completely ignoring his partner’s indignant quack. “Anyway, don’t sweat it. Your little story is convincing enough for the rabble, I’m sure.”

Because that’s just so comforting.

Damn it, Harry doesn’t want to go down that route, but they should start considering some of the memory charms Hermione’s new book wrote about.

Sebastian grins, very reminiscent to the one Matt wore when tackling him onto the ground. “Yeah, sorry. I kind of also conditioned him to getting onto the bottom of things.” He leans forward in his seat with gleaming eyes, visibly not sorry. “I wonder which one of you will break first.”

Harry is starting to really feel their dad’s constant exasperation as Nagini just looks on, amused.

Damn. It.

“Can’t, sorry,” he says with the calm of a man walking to the gallows. “We’re kind of in witness protection.”

He gets jabbed in the arm by both of his siblings for that, which, ow.

Hermione pulls herself together first and intertwines her fingers over the table. Harry would swear that she stole that move from their dad.

“Please excuse my brother,” she says in a prim and proper tone while Ron reaches for another little pastry, apparently not caring about the whole situation. Or very much over it. “What he means is that we unfortunately don’t have the authority to share the details of our past with any stranger that comes our way and thus cannot provide further information.”

Sebastian snorts. “Listen, kid. You said your dad’s also a Parselmouth, yes? And that as far as he knows, he’s all British.” He waits for her nod to continue. “Good. So, what we know is that the only known Parselmouthes in Magical Britain were the Gaunts who, until roughly a week ago, were quite simply extinct with Ominis disinherited.” He tries to catch each of their eyes. “So. When shall we expect a family visit?”

A— a what?!

“Sebastian,” Ominis hisses indignantly. “I hardly think that we should bother—”

“Oh, come on. The kids seem nice and the aunt hadn’t yet cursed us, which is already several steps up from your family.”

“Still, you can’t just—”

“Grandpa?” Matt interjects, bringing the entire room’s attention to himself. “Can’t we go now?”

Go... now? What does he—

...Oh, nonononono. This is such a bad idea.

Ominis must be thinking the same, judging by his frow. “Matthew, I’m sure he’s busy—”

“He isn’t, though,” Nagini interjects. And Harry recognises that smirk, boy, he does. It only means suffering. Usually for their dad, though additional cannon fodder is acceptable in her book. “My brother and brother-in-law are just trying to distract each other at home while I kidnapped the kids. Tomorrow’s a big day, after all.”

“All the more reason for us to keep away. Preferably for a long time,” Ominis says dryly, seemingly the voice of reason in this family. This entire family, if they are right about their relations.

So, better question, should they erase this whole encounter from these people’s minds or modify the memor—

“On the contrary. I rather think he would be happy to finally have some family members who don’t try to curse him into oblivion at first sight,” Nagini says in a softer tone, making the man still.

...Damn it, Aunty Gini. Now Harry is having doubts. And so is Ominis, if he’s seeing right.

“...Oh. You... You aren’t lying,” he states, surprise clear in his tone. Then his face shutters, as if he suddenly thought about something unpleasant. “I... suppose I can relate. But—”

“Splendid!” Sebastian pushes himself away from the table. “We haven’t got all day. Chop-chop!”

“You don’t even know where they live!” Ominis shouts after him, bewildered.

The grin he gets as an answer over Sebastian’s shoulder reeks of amusement. “Well then, you all better catch up!”

They are intercepted at the ward line.

“And what—” their dad asks with a raised eyebrow, “—is this?”

Uhhh. Think, Harry! What would make you most likely to avoid any punishme—

“We brought you relatives that don’t suck,” Ron comments, indifferent to the long session of internal screaming he causes Harry with his words.

Their newly found supposed relatives wave, very much unhelpful.

Harry sighs. This is so not how he envisioned their day going. Farewell, brooms, for the next two weeks...

He watches with trepidation as Hermione shoulders her way to the top of the group and plants her feet in front of their dad.

“They speak Parseltongue,” she simply states, and then bypasses him without care, leaving them all frozen at the gate. She’s already halfway to the house when Tom awakens from his stupor, and thus escapes from his glare.

Their dad lets out a long-suffering sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh, for—” He looks at Nagini in a misguided attempt at asking for help. “What happened? You were gone for half a day at most.”

Nagini shrugs. “I think Ron summed it up pretty aptly.”

“He did not.”

“He did so.”

“He did n— you know what? Never mind.” He takes a long look at the Sallows. “...I’m going to allow you temporary access to the house. Please wait for a minute.”

It’s a long minute. Long enough for Harry to work himself up into a slightly panicky state, though he thinks he hides it well. Or not, based on the concerned look his dad sends him immediately after he finishes adjusting the wards.

“Harry? Come here.”

He goes without protest. It’s not like they hadn’t brought this onto themselves, they totally deserve whatever they g—

He’s plucked up and carried into the house.

Like... What? Shouldn’t he... Shouldn't their dad be, like, angry? Or annoyed at the least. But... But he’s being carried? In a hug?

Harry is so having a mental breakdown right now.

He doesn’t notice that they had already arrived in the living room until he feels fingers carding through his hair, the motions calming his rapidly beating heart after a while. A long while.

Tom pats his head and smiles at him reassuringly when he finally looks up. “There you are. Feeling better?”

Harry nods, not yet sure that his voice won’t tremble if he dared to speak up.

And he does feel better. He just isn’t used to... to not facing dire consequences over every little thing he commits, willingly or not. Sometimes he forgets that he isn’t at the Dursleys’ anymore. But he doesn’t have to be afraid here, right? His dad promised him that he won’t hurt them in any case. And Harry wants to believe him. It’s just hard sometimes.

He realises that he’s sitting on his dad’s lap like a baby, cheeks quickly bursting with colour out of embarrassment. Ron playfully pokes him in the side, stealing a yelp out of him.

He’s ticklish there!

Bastard.

Tom chuckles and lets him leave for the sofa with a last pat on the head.

“But where are my manners?” he asks as he holds out his hand towards the Sallows. “I’m Thomas Peverell. I trust that my children and their aunt have already introduced themselves?”

“They did, and were splendid company. Sebastian Sallow,” Sebastian says, the first to shake hands. He gestures towards his spouse and grandson. “This is my husband Ominis, hopefully your relative, and our grandson Matt. We’re babysitting him while his parents work on giving him a—”

“Sebastian,” his husband scolds him and also reaches out for a handshake. “Please forgive him, he has no manners. And Matthew also apologises for apparently tackling your grandson onto the ground out of enthusiasm. His parents had to travel out of the country this month and thus had reluctantly left him with us for a while.”

Tom smiles, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “No harm done. Would you like some tea?”

Tom escorts their guests to the floo after hours of detailed explanations he reluctantly provided, only noticing time going by by the quickly darkening sky visible through the windows.

“No, really, we’d be happy to entertain your kids tomorrow. Just send them through the floo,” Sebastian says with such vigour that he almost sweeps a vase of lilies to the floor. Good thing that Kreacher is nearby. “You have our address, yes? Or should I write it down? Where’s the parchment, I’ll—”

“I think he remembers, Sebastian,” his husband interrupts, herding him and the yawning little boy towards the floo.

Tom has to give it to them, it would be better if the kids had something to take their minds off the trial tomorrow. And after the slightly awkward moments of Ominis, his geat uncle apparently (he didn’t even know he had one, though apparently every other relative of theirs was an arsehole) shooting down all attempts at lies and half-truths, he gave up all pretence.

He was really starting to have enough of everyone seeing through him, but in his defense, so far the people that they had to come clean to knew him or Regulus well.

And now he has a shiny new, similarly lie-detecting relative, even if he’s officially disinherited.

...He should really do something about that.

He lets them leave with further assurances that yes, he will send the kids over, and yes, he will update them on the results of the trial. And come over for tea at a later date. And visit his other new relatives soon, because as it stands, little Matthew’s grandparents had been... Busy.

He never knew having actual, living relatives would make life this complicated, but c’est la vie, he supposes.

He turns around with a sigh of relief (because no matter how unexpectedly well the situation turned out, it was extremely stressful and he’s going to need a vacation very soon at the rate life keeps throwing curveballs at him) and comes face-to-face with Regulus, the man leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed and a calm smile on his face.

“Glad it’s over?” he asks, an understanding gleam in his eyes. By now they both had enough of being questioned over and over and over and over, and Tom isn’t exactly hopeful that this has been the last time. Though maybe the next instance is far into the future.

A man can dream.

“Quite so,” he answers, walking closer to the man. The moment he gets into arm’s reach, he draws Regulus into an embrace and buries his face into the crook of his neck. Regulus lets out a soft laugh as he hugs him back, making him feel better instantly, his developing headache seemingly disappearing in the matter of a moment. Regulus tends to have that effect on him, always a delight to be around and voice a pleasing melody to his ears. “It’s not like I’m not happy to finally have relatives I don’t have to curse in self-defence, but...”

Regulus hums. “But it’s a lot?”

Tom just holds onto him tighter.

They stay there like that for a while, cuddling in the doorway of the drawing room, Regulus’ fingers eventually starting to comb through Tom’s hair while he hums some tune Tom can’t quite grasp but sooths him anyway. He longs to stay like that forever, with the false hope that no problem from the outside can reach them there, because for a blissful moment the outside simply doesn’t exist. Eventually he has to let Regulus go though. They can’t just hide away from the word, heads stuck in the sand as the waves crash over them. They have things to do, plans to make, and obstacles to tackle. And they have children too, who need much attention. Which reminds him...

“Regulus? Where are the kids?”

The caressing fingers stop at his scalp as Tom lifts his head to look into his husband’s eyes, clear ponds of liquid mercury shaded by long, shadowy lashes. They crinkle at the edges.

“Already asleep,” Regulus says, the edges of his lips twitching upwards. “I guess the excitement of today took a lot out of them.”

Tom huffs. Not surprising in the least, though he would have preferred if Harry didn’t panic at the first sight of him. He thinks that he handled the whole situation well all things considered, but... There are so many issues in their past and present, and he can already see many more arising in the future.

...Maybe he should read some parenting books. And find a healer, because Merlin help him, possibly none of them had their required shots yet. Including him. And maybe Regulus. Tom doesn’t know Walburga’s views on vaccinations.

How he’ll do that is Future Him’s problem though. Now, he has his husband in his arms and no children in sight (just like the entire day, but they were both too preoccupied with preparing for tomorrow’s trial, so...).

Regulus must be thinking along the same lines, because with one single move he grabs Tom by his collar and pulls him into a kiss.

Tom likes kisses, he’s found out recently. And the subsequent make-out sessions. They hadn’t yet gone further though, content with the slow pace their relationship was progressing and unwilling to take the next step until... Well. Until now, it looks like, judging by the vehemence Regulus keeps kissing him with. The man clearly doesn’t want to stop, his hands clenching in the fabric of Tom’s shirt until he doubts even Kreacher will be able to get the wrinkles out of it.

Tom allows himself a chuckle as he separates their lips, drawing a whine out of his husband. Why, when he acts like this... But no. He still had questions yet, sadly. Questions that need to be asked and answered before they take things further.

“Darling?” he asks, only earning a discontent hum as an answer as Regulus’ eyes keep wondering back towards his mouth. He allows himself another chuckle. “Darling, please. Would you answer me just one question?”

Regulus’ lips twitch. “You’ve had it. Can we go back to kissing now?”

Little shit. “Not for a moment more.” Tom takes one of his husband’s hands off his collar and lifts it to his lips. The downturned eyes staring back at him seem to soften, though they don’t lose that hungry edge that made Tom hurriedly want to have this conversation in the first place. “I don’t want to ruin the mood, but I have to ask. Why are you so okay with everything?”

Regulus blinks, seemingly struggling to process Tom’s words. “Okay with what?”

“This whole situation. The false backstory, the adoption,” he gestures to the space between them, “Us. You happily consented to living a lie, and I still don’t know why. And I won’t go any further without knowing the reason.

There. He said it. Now it’s Regulus’ turn to—

His husband lets out a snort. “Somehow I don’t believe that your entire speech about how hard you’ve fallen for me was a fluke.”

“Wha— it wasn’t! I do—”

“I know, I know.” Regulus waves him off with his free hand, since Tom’s still clutching onto his other one. “And I thought I’ve already told you that I’m quite content with the way things turned out. Saved me the time of finding a tolerable partner the normal way and let me jump straight to children.”

That... The way he phrased it, it sounds so simple. Too simple. It can’t be...

Tom is never that lucky.

“But... Have you never wanted—”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “I wanted children and I needed someone to make them.” He pats Tom’s left cheek patronisingly. “Don’t worry though, you’re quite the welcome addition and performing extremely well in the romance department.”

Tom huffs. “Scars and all?”

“Darling, I told you. The only reason I don’t have any is that Mother Dearest didn’t want to damage the merchandise.” Regulus shrugs. “Not something my brother can say, but oh well.”

Tom frowns. Somehow Regulus gets him to hate Walburga more and more every time he opens his mouth. “You aren’t ‘merchandise’.”

Regulus lets out a laugh. “And that’s why I was willing to marry you.”

“Technically you blackmailed me into it.”

“Oh, I don’t know, you weren’t exactly objecting.”

“I absolutely—”

Regulus shuts him up with a kiss, and Tom forgets what he wanted to say. When the man separates their lips, he’s still lost.

“Come on, Tom. Don’t we have anything better to do? When my brother inevitably asks how my husband is in bed, I want to fry his brain and answer with an honest ‘wonderful’.”

...Alright. If things are really this simple, Tom isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He smiles. “Good. So no pressure then.”

Chapter Text

“That’s a really serious accusation you are making, my boy. But do you have any EvIdEnCe of it?” Tom mocks under his breath as they near the floo access point in the Ministry Atrium, mimicking the way Dumbledore had frowned down at him from his podium. “Why, it’s like you are trying to dupe us all, Mr. Dark Lord who after all this time still refuses to stick his head up my—”

Regulus stifles a snort as he herds him towards the iridescent green flames. “You’re fortunate that we managed to dodge the army of reporters stuck above our seats. That sentence would be quoted on the first page, straight under Sirius screaming ‘Told you so, arseholes’.”

Of course it would. Because yes, they won the trial. With Lucius and Arcturus working on the so-called ‘Dark faction’ beforehand, their lawyer (a former Hufflepuff, which might just have been the scariest of things to witness in action, seriously, why the hell doesn’t he remember having an overwhelming amount of them in his Alternate Version’s ranks) criticising everyone and their mothers, and with Sirius’ sob-story verified by Veritaserum (good thing he remembered to modify the man’s memories at the end of their little chat at Azkaban, else they would be in big trouble now), it’s only natural that the Minister was bending over backwards to right the previous administration’s wrongs (not like the current one wouldn’t have done the same thing, judging by the sour expression of the obnoxiously pink witch next to Fudge upon the announcement of the verdict). So Sirus now has a fully paid stay-over planned at Britain’s main healing facility and a large sum of money to look forward to ‘for a decade of suffering’. As if they could just sweep everything under the rug and turn around to shake Lord Black’s hand in the same breath.

Tom lets out a sigh. He doesn’t even want to think about what his three hell spawns are currently learning from his great-uncles. While Ominis seemed sensible yesterday, Sebastian... reminds him too much of Thaddeus. Which just spells trouble.

They exit the fireplace into the waiting room of Saint Mungos, all white walls and sparse greenery that makes Tom wonder what he even expected from a hospital. It looks like not even magic is exempt from stereotypes.

Regulus steps up to a greying nurse calmly talking to a woman with knives for hair for some reason.

“Excuse me,” he interrupts her politely. “My brother should have already been transported here. Could you tell me where I could find him?”

He doesn’t give her a name, but he doesn’t need to. The members of the Black family are all too recognisable without even any identifying factors such as the star-shaped silver collar pins Tom had given him in the morning (and volunteered to help put on him too).

“Oh, that would be Ward 49.” The nurse hands him a biscuit and pats his hand. If Tom squints, he can just make out the tiny, misshapen flowers painted on it with pink icing. Someone must have had some time on their hands. “Go to the fourth floor, deary. Lifts are to the right, straight across the stairs. You can ask a healer there for further instructions.”

After a quick thank-you, Regulus leaves her to go back to the casual safety hazard that her conversation partner turned herself into and they walk over to the lifts. There’s no way Tom is climbing to the Fourth Floor, and Regulus thankfully knows him well enough by now to guess that.

They arrive to the fourth floor with a ding. Thankfully this lift didn’t play any music, so Tom’s ears were spared from Celestina Warbeck’s tone-deaf shrieking. The corridor they step into looks the same as the waiting area, they just have to walk further along to reach Ward 49.

The Janus Thickey Ward.

...Oof.

Fortunately, Sirius’ room is hard to miss, what with the two aurors standing guard before it.

...Wait a minute. He knows these aurors.

“Good Day, Auror Sharp,” Tom says with a quick smile, startling the witch quite a bit. Her partner flashes them a grin. “Auror Brattleby.”

Sharp stomps on his foot, drawing a hiss of pain from Brattleby. “Lord Peverell. We didn’t expect you to remember us.”

He wouldn’t, usually. He doesn’t make a habit of taking note of every single person that he passes, but when he meets someone competent, he makes sure to file the person into the ‘Useful’ folder inside his mind. He keeps it in a locked drawer in his mind palace’s study.

“I have a good memory,” Tom answers, ignoring Regulus’ muffled chuckle. The fact that he misses two-thirds of his memories isn’t his fault. Technically. “Are we free to enter or do we need clearance from the head auror?”

Brattleby shrugs, his freckles standing out under the sharp lights of the corridor. “Family members are fine, according to our orders. No one else without their permission, though. Strictly.”

Good. So they won’t have to worry about a certain someone trying to alienate Sirius from them, futile it may be.

Tom has his brother and his godson. Sirius isn’t going anywhere.

“That’s simply wonderful to hear,” Regulus interjects, clapping his hands together. “My grandfather will arrive shortly. He was kind enough to deal with the reporters for us.” He tilts his head to the side, thinking for a moment. “...Have you erected some kind of Animagus Ward around the room?”

The two aurors share a look.

“I’ll look into it, you stay to guard the door,” Sharp states and turns around without a backwards glance, her long auburn ponytail almost hitting her partner in the face.

Tom relaxes the slightest bit. That ward is not only a necessity for Sirius’ safety and privacy, but it will also keep the man from casually sneaking out through the window and somehow parkouring his way down to the streets if he gets it into his head. Or gets influenced by someone to neglect his health and join the non-existent war effort.

Brattleby lets them enter the room with a last nod. Surprisingly, Sirius is the sole occupant, though Tom really should have expected it. After all, no normal witch or wizard would be okay after a decade of Dementor exposure, even less one that already has a predisposition towards madness. The staff couldn’t have known what kind of state he would be in. And anyway, this is the long-term care ward. It’s reasonable to assume that they would try to make the patients’ stay as comfortable as possible in a hospital.

Tom shoots a quick Privacy Charm at the door just in case.

Sirius squints at the colourful sparkles that appear for a moment, leaning forward in his seat on the bed and almost toppling to the ground while at it. Then he grins and swings back upright, nearly landing on the other side of the bed.

...Damn it. Did they give him too much anesthesia or what? Maybe he should hold off with restoring his memories then. It would do no good to scramble an already woozy mind.

“Heyyy, Reggie,” the man says, his grin taking on a demented edge. “You look reeeal young. Drop that skin care routine, would you?”

Memory modification is definitely tomorrow.

Regulus steps closer to the bed, close enough that he could easily touch his brother if he wanted to. In his eyes, Tom can see the same emotions he felt when he saw his friends the first time.

It’s not ideal, but... But Tom understands. Even if he doesn’t like to see him like this. Because no matter how he feels about it, Regulus has the right to feel sad. Or whatever amalgamation of feelings managed to get their claws into him.

“...Hey, Siri” Regulus says softly. “You look like shit.”

Yeah, no kidding.

Sirius throws his head back and laughs like he just heard the joke of the year, the sharp, somehow electric-looking lights only highlighting the sickly slimness of his body and the sunken face that supposedly used to make the Hogwarts population swoon a decade ago. In the matter of seconds, he leans forward and gently knocks their foreheads together. And then he throws his arms around Regulus and doesn’t let go, and now he is crying, and Tom is so not prepared for this, even standing as close to the door as he’s able to.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to be. Regulus repositions them so that they are both sitting on the hospital bed’s white linen blanket, and Sirius continues to cry into his neck. And then he’s laughing again.

Tom is seriously starting to get whiplash.

“Reggie? Reggie! ReggieReggieReggie.” Sirius giggles and pokes his brother in the arm. “I see that you’ve been introduced to,” his voice lowers into a comically fake whisper,” the sins of the flesh.”

Sirius actually falls off the bed from laughing.

Tom rolls his eyes and exchanges a long-suffering look with Regulus. He really hopes that when they come back tomorrow, the kids won’t be traumatized from... this.

“How do you think he—”

“The enchantments on the door got rid of the glamours on your neck.”

“...Ah.” Regulus pats his brother’s head on the floor. “When do you think grandfather—”

Arcturus enters the room with murder in his silver eyes, the force of his arrival making the door crash into the white wall and then back into auror Brattleby’s face who came to close it.

“I swear, if I see another reporter for the next month—” He notices Sirius on the floor and stops before the bed. “...Have at least some dignity, grandson.”

Sirius squints up at him with the slightest glint of recognition and notably doesn’t get off the floor.

“Can’t,” he says. “Hot Tom fucked my brother.”

Tom can practically feel the migraine coming as Arcturus hauls his grandson up and drops him onto the bed. At least Sirius has stopped giggling, so there’s that.

Arcturus releases a deep sigh and finally looks at Regulus and Tom. “We’ve had a long day; go home and rest. I’ll take over from here.”

“But Grandfather—” Regulus starts to disagree, but the man cuts him off.

“No, Regulus. I’ve already notified Melania; she’s on the way. Sirius isn’t going to get any more intelligent for the next couple of hours anyway.” He gives Regulus’ shoulder a pat. “Go home. The children should also hear the merry news.”

Regulus hesitates for a moment, but in the end stands up with a last glance at Sirius.

They leave the room in silence, and then Saint Mungos entirely. And then there they are, alone in the drawing room of their home, the crackling fire of the fireplace already back to a grounding reddish-orange.

And Regulus isn’t moving.

Tom goes around so he could see his face, but his husband just keeps staring at the wall, his expression blank like he’d never seen before, his fist clenched and shaking. He takes them into his own and pries them apart, healing the tiny crest-shaped wounds that formed on his palms with a feather-light kiss.

“Regulus?” Tom asks, trying to catch his eyes. He isn’t successful. “Darling?” he tries again, and finally Regulus looks at him, the first teardrops already sliding down his face.

...Damn. He’s so not cut out for this. Infatuated as he may be, emotions are hard.

And still, he draws Regulus into an embrace and lets him cry out his... grief? Frustration?

It doesn’t really matter. He just has to act as a warm, human-shaped pillow for the next while until his husband calms down and they can continue cuddling somewhere more comfortable. Maybe with the cookies Kreacher had implied he’d be making while they ‘cleared the name of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black’.

And honestly? Sirius may not be dead, but he’s in a terrible shape. According to the healer they met on their way out, he will need at least a month of intensive care at the hospital, and then maybe he will be well enough to continue his recovery in a more comfortable setting.

So. He stays there with Regulus in his arms until the tears dry up and Regulus’ fists slacken their grip on his shirt.

He doesn’t move for a few more moments, until Regulus lifts his head and looks him straight in the eye.

“Tell me your plan.”

Tom blinks. That’s... Well. He supposes he can’t blame Regulus for wanting a distraction.

“Hmm... let’s say I have a special little excursion planned for tonight,” he says, running his fingers through Regulus’ dark waves to try and disentangle them from whatever Sirius did to mess them up this bad. Hermione’s hair behaves better in the mornings, he swears.

Regulus lets a snort escape him as he leans closer, relaxing under Tom’s hands. “Plausible deniability, dear?”

“Amongst other things.” He owes Corvus this at least, though he already dreads how little sleep he’s going to catch before tomorrow’s festivities. It’s truly unfortunate that Ostara is considered one of the bigger events of the year and thus they simply can’t miss the afternoon tea party of... the Greengrasses if he remembers correctly, unlike the other invites they declined because they were ‘still acclimating’ to Britain. At least it will be a good opportunity to introduce themselves to upper-society. “Anyway, what do you think the chances are that Barty Crouch Sr keeps his son locked up at his own home? Looked quite the cosy basement the last time I checked.”

Regulus’ eyes widen. Tom grins as he practically sees his thoughts grind to a halt.

“But that would mean—”

“That if the aurors go and search it...”

Regulus mirrors his expression, his perfect teeth gaining an orange-y hue in the firelight. “They might just find that old Crouch has an Azkaban escapee secreted away in his cellar under a particular spell, which would just about be the final nail in his coffin. And if your suspicions about the Lestranges are true... You won’t even have to modify his memories!”

Merlin, Tom is so in love.

Tom is so fucked if anyone catches him.

The only things he has going for him are the Auror Department’s paperwork-overload now that they basically have to go through all the post-war trials again for accountability, the prison-guards’ lack of presence or care that he noticed on his last visit, and Harry’s invisibility cloak that he kindly requested for the duration of the night.

Because he’s breaking into Azkaban. Like the bloody idiot he is.

Tom lets out a silent sigh under the cloak as he takes the stairsteps by two. He hates the stairs, he hates the cold, he doesn’t usually hate the dark but he does in this particular situation due to not being able to cast a Patronus in fear of discovery, and he hates that this trip is even necessary.

Had he not been so stupid and desperate in Fifth Year, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

...Hopefully.

After only getting lost twice (damn all the identical corridors and his poor eyesight in the dark even with a spell that’s granting him bloody dark vision), he arrives to the right place.

And it’s creepy. Very creepy. Again, why did he think this would be a good idea?

Oh, right. He didn’t.

Tom sighs again. He surveys the cells full of Other Him’s minions, the ones who were stupid enough to get caught. There are... A lot of them.

Damn it.

The problem is, he might well need to legilimise everyone here. It wouldn’t do to have someone especially hostile get freed through a loophole or whatnot. Which means...

...

...

...

...So. Good news is, Legilimency works through a miniscule opening in the cloak well enough if he manages to catch the bleary inmate’s eyes. Bad news is, he’s going to need the strongest Headache Cure Regulus will be able to procure. He prays that they have some at home, else... Ugh, tomorrow will be hell.

He goes through the cells one by one, rousing the dozing prisoners awake with harmless spells and establishing eye contact as soon as he can (no need to chance a run-in with a dementor, after all), all the while ticking off the names from a mental list of known Death Eaters. Why his evil alter ego let them get that name, he’ll never know.

The thing is, it’s well known that the higher ranking members were doling out the Imperius Curse like candy back in the day, which does lend an easily believable explanation that he could lean into with some memory modification if he finds some amongst these who wouldn’t be much of a hazard set free. The results are pretty damning though. He’s already halfway down the corridor, and so far he’d let none of these people back into society. Like, even aside from his Other Him’s questionable influence, peeking through these paper-thin shields is comparable to being back at the orphanage.

He hates it with a burning passion.

It’s like the first time some upper years decided to show the ‘Little Mudblood Slytherin’ his place, or when the priest came and DON’T THINK ABOUT IT or when some of the other orphans decided he absolutely needed to check out that cave and then he was falling down into the water and deeper and deeper and deeper and—

...Damn it, a dementor must be near. He should be able to block these memories otherwise.

Tom shakes his head to get rid of the remains of the depressing thoughts and continues his task. He needs to hurry before the infernal beasts get here. He doesn’t know if the cloak works around them, and if it doesn’t... Let’s just say, he doesn’t want to know if he can conjure a Patronus under the influence of a dozen Dementors.

At this point, he’s arrived to the most well-known Death Eaters. He goes through their minds like he did with the other until now, not diving deep just to get a feel for the person trapped inside the cell... And he’s not impressed. Dolohov stays, Rockwood stays, both the Carrows stay, oh wow, Travers definitely stays...

Bloody hell, do none of these people have morals?! Even he had a line he wouldn’t cross! Before the horcruxes, that is. Though even after, he didn’t sink so low as some of them... He hopes. He doesn’t remember much after a while.

He goes through a few more minds that he dismisses before he gets to Rabastan Lestrange. And boy, does the guy look like shit. With a frame even more gaunt than Sirius sports nowadays and Corvus’ achingly familiar brown eyes staring into space with an emptiness Tom had never seen in his friend’s aside from when someone mentioned his parents... He doesn’t like his odds, but he dives into the man’s mind anyway.

Tom takes more care than with the rest of the inmates until now as he gently slips through Rabastan’s surprisingly intact mental shields, a first since he has arrived but even then no match for his skills, and truly enters the man’s mind. Which lands him in a long hallway filled with portraits, and after a bit of wandering a cosy library somehow. Standing in front of a much healthier version of Rabastan. Who is holding a very sharp-looking silver letter opener against Tom’s throat.

...Damn it.

He lifts his hands as a sign of peace, feeling an intense sense of déjà vu. “There’s no need for that. I assure you, I come in peace—”

“Who are you and how did you get in here?” Rabastan interrupts him, seemingly not touched by his sincerity as he stares back with an icy expression. Tom didn’t know brown eyes could look this cold.

He tries not to fidget with the sharp object against the delicate skin of his neck. While technically he wouldn’t be physically affected in the real world if the man were to, say, cut his neck open, it would still hurt like a bitch before he’d get thrown out of the man’s mind.

But anyway, fake it ‘til you make it, right? Deep breaths and don’t show fear. Deep breaths and don’t show fear. Deep breaths and—

“How did you notice me?” he can’t help but ask, mentally kicking himself in the shin. He just has to antagonize the mentally unstable prisoner, doesn’t he? This is exactly why things ended in war, he’s sure of it. Because of him and his big mouth.

“I asked first.”

“Well, I asked second.”

Rabastan lifts the letter opener closer, and Tom feels the sudden sting of it. “Answer me.”

Damn it. Damn this whole place to hell and back. Weren’t the convicts here supposed to be docile and depressed out of their minds?

“I’m a... friend?”

Droplets of blood drip down his throat as the letter opener cuts into his skin. “I don’t have friends. Try again.”

Fuck. You. “I’m telling Regulus you said that.”

“...Regulus is dead, mate. You really aren’t helping your case,” Rabastan says in a flat tone.

Tom leans back a bit from the bloody letter opener. This is getting seriously tiresome. “No, he isn’t. I just fished him out of a lake. How did you notice me?”

“Who are you?”

Tom lets out a sigh and reaches up to massage his temples. “Ugh, fine. I feel like my head is going to tear apart any minute, so let’s get this over with.” He takes a deep breath. Hopefully he won’t be ejected in the next few seconds. “My name is... Tom.”

Rabastan stills. Damn, if this is the moment he’s going to get stabbed, then he better gets a head start at running. But when he takes a step backwards, the man drops his chosen weapon.

“...Bloody hell, I must be truly desperate if I’ve summoned Hot Tom,” Rabastan says and facepalms. Which is just plain insulting.

“Excuse you, I’m quite real,” Tom hisses out, kicking the letter opener under an armchair. ‘Better safe than sorry’ will become his life motto at this rate. “But more importantly, how did you notice me?”

Rabastan shrugs. “Not much to do here. And...” his face darkens, “I don’t want anyone else in my mind anymore.”

...Oho. Ohohoho.

If that isn’t an incriminating implication he’s going to eat his nonexistent hat.

Tom shines a blinding smile at that, which for some reason makes Rabastan take a step back. “Care to elaborate on that?”

“...Why?”

Tom doesn’t understand the distrust he’s facing. He’s perfectly trustable! An old family friend to the rescue! Even though technically Rabastan doesn’t know that.

“Rabastan. I did not break into the world’s most horrible prison just to have you question me. So, spill. What will make the Wizengamot let you out in your upcoming trial?”

Rabastan stills. “You... you are kidding.”

“I’m really, truly not.”

“But why—,” he asks, confusion clear on his face, “Why now? It’s been— I don’t even know how long it’s been since—”

Tom’s had enough. “Rabastan. I don’t want to be rude, but so far I’ve gone through every prisoner’s mind in this corridor aside from yours, your brother’s, and your sister-in-law’s.” He steps closer and claps Rabastan on the shoulder. “It’s been a decade since you woke up in this cell with no memories about what had transpired at Longbottom Manor, according to your father. What can you tell me?”

Rabastan’s eyes are stuck to the floor for a long moment, his fists clenched tightly at his side. When he looks up, Tom realizes that his to-do list is about to get even longer.

Tom stumbles through the entrance with a terrible headache and promptly collapses onto Regulus, the man probably coming to greet him but instead being used as a last-ditch effort to keep himself upright.

Bloody hell, he wants to sleep for a month.

Regulus maneuvers him onto the drawing room settee with so much care that he’s going to cry. Period. He doesn’t deserve him.

...Damn, this must be the remaining effect of the Dementors. He had the misfortune to run across one when exiting that blasted corridor, but somehow the creature passed him by without notice, fortunately (Harry crying in the cupboard, boiling oil splashed on tiny hands, a hulking figure advancing on them STOP THINKING ABOUT IT).

So. The cloak turned out to be a godsent and he shudders to think what the three little gremlins will get up to at Ilvermorny with it. But that at least it won’t be his problem.

Regulus comes back with a vial full of some disgusting sludge, but Tom gulps it down like a shot, and it works wonders on his headache, so he doesn’t complain.

Or, well. Not about this, at least.

His husband kneels down in front of him and starts gently running his fingers through Tom’s hair, which just won’t do, so Tom grabs him by the waist and drags him onto the settee so they can properly cuddle. With his slowly lessening headache, he can’t quite conceive why Regulus laughs into his hair, but it’s not like he’s pulling away, so Tom just mushes his face deeper into the crook of his neck.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Regulus asks after going back to combing Tom’s no doubt messy hair. He did spend the last couple of hours under a cloak, after all.

Tom wrinkles his nose. “My brain is about to melt.” He squints up at Regulus and meets his silver eyes shining with mischief. Immediately, the room darkens a bit as some of the lights go out. Thanks, Castle. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, anyway?”

“And have you faint in the doorway? No chance.” A few waves fall in front of Tom’s face. Regulus tenderly brushes them away. “Now. Do you want to talk or go to bed?

Tom groans. All he wants is for someone to knock him out and wake him when all the trials are over and Dumbledore’s been assassinated.

...But he also wants to tell Regulus what he learned.

Ugh. Tomorrow’s going to be terrible.

“...Rab had the tea,” he says after he gathers his thoughts. There isn’t much of them.

“I didn’t know they gave the prisoners tea in Azkaban.”

“Not tea. The Tea.”

Regulus’ expression is kind of insulting, he just can’t quite put his finger onto the why.

“Of course, dear. What was it like?”

...What? “What was what like?”

“The tea, dear.”

...Ah. Right. Maybe he’s not on top of his game. At all.